The Zentraedi Rebellion

by Jack McKinney

  Minmei pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “Do you think the network will help to limit the spread of malcontentism?”

  Tom glanced at her and cracked a genuine smile. “Minmei, if Lorelei lives up to expectations, I think it will put an end to malcontentism.”

  In Tokyo, Lazlo Zand’s experiment in autoevolution was momentarily foiled by the uncontrollable shaking of his hands. He stared at them in mounting anger and disappointment as the palms broke a stinging sweat. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the mental anguish of having his body choose that moment to rebel. Reckoning from T. R. Edwards’s visit in May, tonight was the culmination of three months of intense research; but really, the moment was a lifetime in the making.

  It was the middle of the night and Zand had the lower levels of the Robotech Research Center to himself, save for a dozen or so maintenance robots busy at their tasks—emptying wastebaskets, cleaning windows, vacuuming floors. He was not in his office, but in the biochemistry lab at the northeast corner of subbasement one, where he’d spent the past few weeks analyzing blood samples he’d coaxed from a host of Zentraedi subjects over the years, including Breetai, Exedore, Jevna Parl, Konda, and others. Analyzing the samples in an effort to determine which, if any, were safely miscible with Human blood.

  Alien blood did show typing comparable to that of Human blood, but all attempts at mingling the two had resulted, to varying degrees, in the formation of spontaneous clots—no matter what anticoagulants had been introduced to the mix. Just the same, Zand knew that it was possible on some level, since the mating of a Human and a Zentraedi had generated at least one child. He had, of course, used samples of his own blood in the matching process.

  The findings notwithstanding, he had a liter of diluted alien blood hung on an IV rack, with the feed needle already inserted into a vein in his left forearm. Into a vein in the other forearm ran a feed tube from a similarly suspended plastic bag, containing a liter of Ringer’s lactate solution to which had been added 50 ccs of what had first been classified as “unknown mecha lubricant,” drained from the Invid battle suit Breetai had discovered aboard Khyron’s cruiser. Zand’s analysis of the fluid had revealed that it was not lubricant, but nutrient of a kind, whose chemical makeup was remarkably similar to that of certain serum constituents of Zentraedi blood. The Protoculture constituents, to be exact.

  There was no way to predict the effect the mix of blood and nutrient would have on his body, but he was long past concerning himself with the predictable. Edwards had put his finger on the truth: the only thing that separated Lang from the pack of scientists that had made Robotechnology a life study was Lang’s artificially induced understanding of Protoculture—or what he called “the Shapings.”

  For a time following Edwards’s revelatory visit, Zand had concentrated his research on the mother computer removed from the SDF-1, theorizing that its complex neural circuitry might be able to supply a mind-boost equal to the one Lang had received while seated at the comp console in Zor’s cabin. But the excised computer was impermeable. Should the Pluto mission ever return with the modules Lang had had removed from the Visitor to Macross Island’s Robotech Research Center, perhaps the machine would prove accessible; but until then it was simply a fickle databank that could sometimes be accessed, sometimes not.

  Much as the Zentraedi lacked an understanding of the fold or weapons systems they activated aboard their ships, the center’s cybertechnicians were largely ignorant about the inner workings of the mother computer. Using receptor-studded helmets comparable to the “thinking caps” worn by mecha pilots, the cybertechs had done experiments in virtual interfacing, but the computer had proved uncooperative; the difference being that VTs and such had been engineered by Humans for Humans, whereas the mother computer had been created by Zor or the Masters for who knew what manner of being or overall design. And since Lang had forbidden anyone to so much as pry open one of the machine’s access panels—in the same way he had restrained himself from probing the SDF-1’s Reflex furnaces—Zand had ultimately abandoned hopes for a cyber-supplied mind-boost and focused instead on the search for a biochemical booster.

  From the start it should have been obvious where the experiment was leading him, but he had somehow missed it—even after recognizing that the Zentraedi blood samples varied slightly in composition. Breetai’s blood contained ingredients that were missing in Konda’s or Rico’s, while Exedore’s and Jevna Parl’s contained ingredients missing in Breetai’s. All samples seemed to pose equal risk to Human beings, except for one—Dana Sterling’s.

  Regardless of Miriya Parina’s contribution of Protoculture-engineered warrior genes, father Maxwell Sterling had bequeathed her his own type O-negative, which made her the perfect donor.

  It had come time to move beyond the theoretical to the experiential.

  The shaking in his hands was finally subsiding. He inhaled deeply; exhaled slowly through pursed lips. With his right hand he adjusted the flow valve on the blood-drip tube; then, with his left, he did the same to the tube draining the ur-Protoculture/lactate solution. Gravity fed the fluids into him.

  At first he felt only an increase in his pulse rate, no more than might be attributable to the byproducts of his anxiety.

  But then it was if someone had drawn a translucent veil over his eyes. His consciousness underwent a sudden and frightening shift. Colors intensified; the slightest sounds were amplified. He glanced at the digital display of the clock on the workstation countertop.

  “Three-eleven, forty-six,” he directed to a voice-activated disk recorder. “Onset of effects, somewhat like those of a psychotropic or hallucinogen, but accompanied by a sense of deep-seated dread.” He cut his eyes to the monitor, whose leads were attached to his chest and wrists. “Pulse, ninety-eight; blood pressure, one-sixty over ninety-two and climbing … Tightness in chest and top of head, as though someone was tightening a wide band around my temples—”

  Zand paused.

  “Three-thirteen: almost lost consciousness. Synesthesia occurring. Parade of geometric shapes in front of my eyes. Hearing colors, seeing sounds. Bitter taste in my mouth, tongue feels swollen to twice its normal size. Difficulty talking and breathing. Fear. Terror. Have I killed myself?”

  No sooner had he asked the question then he felt a searing heat inside his skull. Only the tape would tell if he had screamed before the darkness overtook him.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  The Zentraedi were designed with Micronization in mind. Activation of their Protoculture-encoded proportional system requires anywhere from one to three hours of exposure to specifically directed protonucleaic radiation in a “sizing chamber” (T’sentr Nuvinz Uamtam). Micronization can be reversed through a more complex, lengthy, and physically taxing process. Few report experiencing pain, but lassitude and nausea are not uncommon. Frequent transformations performed within a short time (i.e., two within twenty-four Earth-standard hours) can result in severe metabolic disturbances, respiratory failure, and coma. Hastily performed procedures have been known to cause death.

  Ziembeda, as quoted in Zeitgeist’s Alien Psychology

  Bagzent had dug a hole for himself—literally and figuratively. The literal hole, measuring some 26-by-50 feet, was just large enough to conceal a Tactical Battlepod, from foot thrusters to top-mounted AA lasers. Roofed with cuttings from broad-leafed shrubs, the hole was situated on the eastern slope of a narrow valley, along whose rivered floor ran the Manaus–Cavern City Highway. The mine-sweepers that now rode point for most Southlands convoys were capable of detecting buried metal objects, but only when their scanners had been specifically tasked and when those buried objects lay within a quarter-mile of either side of their paths. Bagzent was confident that the sweeper winding its way through the valley was unaware of his presence. The RDF soldiers at the controls—indeed, everyone in the 134-vehicle northbound convoy—were no doubt relying on their escort of Veritechs to root out trouble before it appeared.
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  Four of the five holes dug into the opposing, steeper slope of the valley also housed Tactical Battlepods—pods of the newly formed Shroud and Fist contingent, each crewed by a pilot and a copilot/gunner. As on the Grand Cannon raid, Bagzent’s second was Narumi, the Amazonian. The western face’s fifth and somewhat grander hole contained a Stinger. Technically superior to the prototype Bagzent had flown in the attack on the Cuiabá convoy, this one was unmanned and answered only to the prompts of a computer program.

  Imperatived, it was truly a Zentraedi machine.

  The dimensions and purpose of the figurative hole were less clear, though Bagzent could trace the onset of its excavation to feelings stirred by the arduous hike into the Senburu camp and the surprises that awaited him there. He had been profoundly moved by the sight of the Stinger in flight; not because a powerful weapon had been added to the Zentraedi arsenal, but because Seloy Deparra and her comrades had actually created something. The excitement he’d experienced sprang from hopes for a new beginning, perhaps a new direction for the Zentraedi race, Deparra, though, must have read those hopes in his eyes and seen them as a threat to the rebel cause. Her method of invalidating them had been to award him the honor of being the first to fly a Stinger in combat. But for Bagzent, still in the throes of a kind of rebirth, the assignment had seemed a chastisement. Even worse, the initial stage of the Senburu’s terror campaign had called for an attack on civilian targets.

  Narumi, for all his jungle lore and unrestricted access to Wondrous Spirit, had had no reservations about killing civilians. The Amazonian had recounted tales of vengeful, bloodthirsty raids on rival villages, and tribal warfare in which innocent families were routinely slaughtered. But even now, weeks after the Cuiabá massacre, Bagzent was filled with self-loathing, resulting from the 200 murders he had carried out in the name of insurrection. And for once his remorse and confusion had nothing whatever to do with the sound of Minmei’s voice or the sight of two Humans in a loving embrace.

  News of the RDF’s invasion of the defenseless Arkansas Protectorate had alleviated his guilt, but only for a short time. The RDF was only answering terror with terror, just as the Invid had after the defoliation of Optera. Animals didn’t seek to avenge themselves on a predator for the loss of one of their flock. It was true that living beings fed on one another, but not out of cruelty. Bagzent could find no counterpart in the natural world to the vicious cycle of Zentraedi- and Human-made violence.

  And yet, there he was, concealed in a hole, lending his support to that perpetuating cycle of terror and counterterror. If only there was someone he could talk to about his feelings, someone who would at least hear him out without incarcerating him—as any Human would do—or executing him outright—as any Zentraedi would. But no friendly ear existed in either camp. So, principally out of fear of being tried for war crimes or treason, he would continue to participate in the Senburu’s campaign. Until such time as he could discover some way out of the hole.

  “Appearing from the ground” was a commonplace Zentraedi terror tactic—one they had employed on countless worlds, though never on Earth. The goal in using it against the convoy was simply to make it appear that the Zentraedi were everywhere: omnipresent in the blue skies, the blue-green seas and lush forests, beneath the very ground the convoys traversed. And just now the tactic was reinforced by a weapon that could deliver unassisted on the commitment to terror.

  It was possible, in fact, that Bagzent wouldn’t even have to fire a round.

  A reconnaissance pod concealed ten miles to the south had reported that the convoy was escorted by six Veritechs—three times the usual number, which in itself was confirmation of the effectiveness of the terror campaign. The present plan called for the pods to maintain radio silence until the VTs were well within range; then, one by one, to emerge from their pits and draw fire, leaving the Stinger free to execute its commands.

  Static crackled from the radio in Bagzent’s pod, followed by a raspy voice. “Five, report.” The voice belonged to Rudai, coleader of the Shroud and Fist.

  “Five, online,” Bagzent said.

  “Four targets have entered the valley. One, Two, Three, and Four pods will launch to engage. Stand fast, Five, until the Stinger is away, then throw yourself at any VTs guarding the convoy.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And remember, Five: this time leave us something to loot for supplies.”

  “Copy, One,” Bagzent answered. “Five, standing fast.”

  “Kill or be killed, T’sen Bagzent.”

  “Kill or be killed, T’sen Rudai. Five, out.”

  Bagzent hit the radio kill switch and glanced at Narumi, who occupied the pod’s lower seat. “Periscope video. Wide field.”

  A wide-angle view of the valley appeared onscreen a moment later. One and Two pods were already in the air and Three was halfway out of its hole, limbs and leaves lodged in every body seam and joint. The minesweeper and lead vehicles of the convoy were just nosing into view on the right-hand side of the screen. In pursuit of the four Battlepods, three Veritechs streaked into view, all in fighter mode and flying nap-of-the-earth.

  Atmospheric engagement between Zentraedi and RDF crafts was still a relatively new game. At the start of the War, Breetai’s troops had engaged in limited air and ground fighting on Macross Island, and again, two years into the War, when the SDF-1 had returned to Earth. Then, much later, members of Khyron’s Seventh Mechanized Division had skirmished with the RDF in the Northlands. But for the most part, pilots on both sides were still feeling each other out. It had been Bagzent’s experience that most Veritech pilots played a cautious game, jinking and juking, always angling for the leg shot that could instantly cripple a pod. Very few braved in-close combat, or had faith enough in their skills with the autocannon to mechamorphize in-flight to Guardian or Battloid mode. Aggressive technique was, in fact, what had made Max Sterling a legend.

  And from the look of things, Sterling himself had to have trained the pilots of the escort team. Before the Zentraedi of the Shroud and Fist had even had time to position themselves on the steep slope, the VTs were swarming all over them, reconfiguring from fighter to Guardian to Battloid for near-point-blank exchanges of autocannon fire. In an instant, Three had its legs blown out from under it and Two was holed and on fire. Steps ahead of missile explosions, One and Four were making desperate hops for higher ground, firing blindly at their pursuers. Even when the Stinger finally launched from its pit, spewing plasma bolts and heat-seekers, it was quickly set upon from all sides. Two fighter-configured Veritechs sustained direct hits and came apart in midair. Elsewhere, however, two dauntless Battloids were raining armor-piercing rounds into the Stinger’s shoulders and torso.

  Flames and thick black smoke were pouring from gaps in the convoy where missiles had found their targets. But far more of the Stinger’s projectiles had missed and done little more than crater the slopes.

  “Five! Five!” Rudai yelled over the radio. “Laun—”

  Onscreen, directed energy loosed from the undercarriages of two VTs obliterated Rudai’s pod. A second later, Four—almost at the ridgeline—lost a leg and tumbled down the slope, uprooting trees and gouging the soft earth. Then the Stinger itself was spun around by autocannon fire, and, billowing smoke, began to plummet.

  “Bagzent,” Narumi said from below. “Launch?”

  Bagzent stared at him for a long moment without responding. “Closeup of one of the Veritechs,” he said at last.

  Narumi narrowed the field of the video camera and tracked one of the mecha.

  “Lock on the taileron insignia,” Bagzent said, eyes riveted to the instrument panel’s display screen.

  Slowly the insignia came into focus: the standard RDF fighting kite. Save that centered inside it was the Cizion—the V-like sigil of the Zentraedi.

  A Zentraedi squadron? Bagzent thought in disbelief.

  “Launch?” Narumi asked.

  Bagzent shook his head. “Hide.”

  Fu
ll-size, their bodies required substantial portions of nutrient, taken in conjunction with daily doses of Protoculture-based supplements. Micronized, however, the need for sustenance was greatly diminished, which made it all the easier to refuse the foul-tasting gruel their captors had the audacity to call food.

  In what had become the training facility’s “dining hall”—a workspace that had once accommodated a mere one hundred full-size and could now house the entire population of the Protectorate—Ranoc Nomarre pushed his meal away and drew his hands down his face in a gesture of acute distress. A month of fasting had weakened his body, but he worried less about weight loss than the loss of his sanity.

  Three months to the day had passed since the occupation of the Protectorate. Initially there had been no explanation from the UEG or the RDF; then the Zentraedi were informed that the Protectorate had been identified as the source of mecha parts that were ending up in the hands of dissident bands. The Gladiators and Excalibers that encircled the facility were there to prevent any additional supplies from reaching the Southlands.

  Once the sizing chambers were erected, however, the official explanation changed: While there was no proof to support the charge of complicity, the Army of the Southern Cross was convinced of the Protectorate’s guilt and had threatened to invade unless the UEG and the RDF agreed to shut down the giants’ construction facility. To minimize any chance of going to war with its analog in the Southern Hemisphere, the RDF had further agreed to oversee the immediate downsizing of all Protectorate residents.

  General Maistroff, head of the occupying forces, had given his word that everyone would be returned to full size once the Protectorate’s innocence was established. But until then all full-size were expected to comply with the RDF by submitting to voluntary Micronization.

  Protests would not be tolerated.

  But there were protests, regardless. Why was a news blackout in effect in the Protectorate? the Zentraedi had wanted to know. And why were civilians and the media being kept from entering and reporting on the proceedings?