The Zentraedi Rebellion

by Jack McKinney

  “I liked it very much.”

  “That’s good, because next time you’ll have to pay to hear me sing.”

  The techs laughed as Lang’s smile collapsed; then Lang began to laugh with them. He approached the android and stood facing it. “JANICE,” he said, “retinal scan.” And the android’s eyes immediately became lifeless.

  “Yes, Doctor Lang. Your request?”

  A dermal plug in the back of JANICE’s neck concealed an access port for high-speed data transfer. Lang inserted a remote transmitter into the port and studied the readout on a nearby screen.

  “I see that someone has added a batch of new coding,” Lang said to the cybertechs.

  “Lui just wanted to try out his snappy-response program,” a young woman supplied sheepishly.

  Lang swung to her, smiling. “I like it.” He removed the remote from the android’s neck port, then dug into his pocket for some NuYen and handed it to JANICE. “I’d like to hear you finish the song.”

  JANICE bowed from the waist, Japanese fashion, and picked up “A Day in the Life” at the up-tempo bridge.

  As Lang listened, he began to recall a conversation he and Zand had had years earlier, concerning the prospect of inserting an operative into the Milburn-Moran clique to gather covert intelligence. Zand had suggested using Lynn-Minmei, and Lang had countered that Minmei was too guileless; that a spy of the sort they had in mind would have to be created.

  Lang continued to watch the android sing for a moment more, then moved to one side of the room and commanded his lapel communicator to page his research secretary.

  A minute later, Haruke’s voice issued from the communicator speaker. “Yes, Doctor Lang?”

  “Haruke, I want you to do two things for me. First, I need someone to compile a complete software précis on Lynn-Minmei—and I mean complete. Cull from every available source—including my journals, beginning with January 2010. Then, see if you can locate the telefax or cyberbox number for a Sharky—no, make that Samson O’Toole.” Lang spelled out the name. “He’s a talent agent, so I’m certain he has an agency listing in either Monument City or Denver.”

  “I’ll attend to it immediately, Doctor Lang.”

  “One last thing, Haruke: If you find O’Toole’s number, contact him and say that I’d like to extend an invitation to him and Minmei to visit our Tokyo installation. I’ll call to give him the details. But say for now that there’s someone here I think Minmei should meet.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  There is some speculation that the sting that netted the RDF’s Neela Saam and Brian Cassidy actually involved the procurement of the nuclear bomb detonated by the Iron Ravens. However, Obstat’s Special Operations Group was so fixated on arresting Saam and Cassidy and obtaining information about the Scavengers that it ignored early leads which could have prevented the tragedy in Oasis. The nuclear device inflicted more death and destruction in five minutes than all the Malcontent groups combined would inflict in five years of marauding.

  Weverka T’su, Aftermath: Geopolitical and Religious Movements in the Southlands

  Despite its having incurred the moral opprobrium of the RDF and any number of Zentraedi advocacy groups, Anatole Leonard’s preemptive strike against the attendees of the Cairo summit had been secretly praised for neutralizing the malcontent threat in Africa. As a result of the Southern Cross’s action, Clozan and the sixty members of the Quandolma were dead and all but one of the continent’s lesser-known groups had disbanded. The exception was the Iron Ravens, forty-four strong, under the leadership of a former infantry commander named Jinas Treng. Made up of Zentraedi crash survivors from throughout sub-Saharan Africa, the Ravens were nomadic and rarely a problem to anyone but farmers and ranchers, most of whom had opted to provide the Ravens with whatever food or livestock they needed rather than take them on.

  The band was armed, but not nearly as well as its counterparts in the American Southlands. In lieu of Battlepods and Stingers, it made do with turn-of-the-century gasoline-guzzling trucks and buses, which, while certainly as ingeniously modified as anything in a post-apocalyptic film fantasy, were short on firepower. Consequently, Jinas Treng’s threats to destroy Oasis—a city from which the Ravens had been repeatedly repulsed—went largely ignored. Treng’s threats had become so routine, in fact, that the commander of Oasis’s small garrison of Destroids had stopped reporting them to RDF headquarters in Monument City.

  The former Lualaba River port of Kisangani, Oasis was a city of approximately 65,000, renamed in 2012 after emerging as the only city south of Cairo to have escaped the Rain. Located in the heart of Africa, more than one thousand miles from either coast, it had become a mecca for displaced peoples from more than a dozen neighboring nations—the continent’s one radiation- and AIDS-free city where water and food were in relatively good supply.

  The 1-megaton nuclear device detonated by the Iron Ravens on March 15, 2017, killed 53,431, and put an abrupt end to thoughts of Africa rejoining the modern world anytime soon. The source of the device would never be known, though evidence pointed to a band of mercenary Humans once linked to the regime of Daddy Omaa of the Central African Union, a notorious distributor of Chinese-made atomics and biological warfare weapons during the Global Civil War.

  Treng’s justification for committing the most heinous act since Khyron’s destruction of Macross was that, on learning of Anatole Leonard’s raid on the Scavengers’ camp, he had felt compelled to demonstrate to the world his meaning of retaliation. Captured less than a week after the bombing, Treng was overheard to snicker to the first reporter that got close enough to him, “The Imperative made me do it.”

  “Oasis will remain hot for ten years,” Max Sterling was telling his guest, Rolf Emerson, a week after the capture of Jinas Treng. “That’s why the Twenty-third was assigned the Ravens to begin with. Defense Force Command couldn’t risk subjecting Human pilots to such intense radiation. It’s bad enough that two members of the Nuclear Emergency Search Team died.” He shook his head in disgust. “Of course, the Twenty-third would have insisted on going, even if they hadn’t drawn the mission.”

  “You’ve trained them well, Max,” Emerson said. “Their sense of dedication is inspiring.”

  “They’re not so much dedicated to the RDF as they are to a Zentraedi ethic.” Max looked at Miriya for confirmation.

  Miriya nodded without saying anything. The three of them were in the small living room of the Sterlings’ high-rise apartment. Dana was playing at Emerson’s feet, tying his shoelaces into knots.

  “What’s going to happen to Treng?” Emerson asked.

  “He’ll stand trial for war crimes.”

  “A waste of time,” Miriya said suddenly. “Treng has already admitted his guilt. The thing to do now is to let him run.” She used the Zentraedi term Kara-Thun, which referred to a trial-by-combat ritual, wherein a traitor to the Imperative could be absolved of a wrongdoing by defeating an appointed opponent. “I’d gladly volunteer as the chase.”

  Max looked at her askance. “Not exactly a fitting role for the model of acculturation.”

  “What does that mean, anymore? The factory satellite is supposed to be acculturation headquarters, and it was from among the Zentraedi there that Breetai and Exedore chose the members of the Twenty-third. Besides, Max, since the RDF has turned the policing over to the Zentraedi, why not the punishment as well? It was the Twenty-third that captured the Iron Ravens, so it should be the Twenty-third that is granted the honor of dispatching them.”

  Emerson cut his soulful eyes to Max. “I think Ilan would have agreed with Miriya.”

  “I was sorry to hear about Ilan, Rolf.”

  Emerson took a long breath. “It’s strange. She never visited Zagerstown until the day of the Paranka’s Stinger attack.” He studied his hands. “But after the attack, she called to say that she’d seen the light, and had to take part in the uprising.”

  “And Ilan Tinari would have understood the need
to let Treng run,” Miriya told him. “Unlike Humans, we Zentraedi do not distinguish between friendly and unfriendly fire. Death comes wherever one finds it. So much the better when it comes in battle.”

  “Do you miss Buenos Aires?” Max asked, hoping to change the conversation.

  “I sure miss the food.”

  Max made a gesture of dismissal. “Montana’s beef is every bit as good as the Argentine’s.”

  Emerson shrugged noncommittally. “There are some people I miss, too. But I’ll be going back and forth for a while—until the base is fully phased.”

  “What are your duties in Monument, Rolf?” Miriya asked.

  “Same as my old duties, only more so. If Senator Moran is elected president of a unified Southlands, his resignation from the UEG will open the door for establishing a Southlands embassy here in Monument.”

  “Makes the Southlands seem like a separate nation,” Max said, disgruntled.

  “It is a separate nation. Let’s face it, we’ve blown our chance at becoming one world by allowing politics to take precedence over the needs of the people. With Moran and Leonard ruling the Southlands, and comparable separatist movements going on in Europe and Asia, we’re returning to turn-of-the-century factionalism.”

  “There’s a pleasant thought,” Max said, then smiled lightly. “But I’ll confess, Rolf, I’m glad to have you up here.”

  “And Rolf’s lucky to have arrived just in time for the thaw,” Miriya said sarcastically. “I want to hear what you have to say about Monument when you’re up to your knees in mud.”

  “Mud-dah,” Dana mimicked.

  Emerson looked down at her and grinned. “Do you like to play in the mud, Dana?”

  Dana glanced briefly at Miriya. “Mommie yells at me. But I do it anyway.”

  Max laughed. Rolf and Dana had really hit it off. That he had the energy for a three-year-old was commendable; but that he had the patience for a three-year-old like Dana was exemplary. Not even Dana’s Zentraedi godfathers were as tolerant of her shenanigans. Not even Professor Zand—though his patience with her seemed more a product of scientific interest than anything else.

  “Too bad Admiral Hunter had to cancel,” Emerson said. “I was looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Rick’s not as available as he used to be,” Max told him. “Although he did find the time to get engaged.”

  Miriya adopted a dubious look. “Now let’s see if he can find the time to get married.”

  Only Emerson laughed. Max asked about Anatole Leonard’s reaction to Oasis.

  “For a change, he’s leaving it to the media to point out that Oasis was the RDF’s responsibility, and that such an act could never have occurred in the Southlands. The Army of the Southern Cross grows stronger without having to retaliate this time.”

  Miriya’s green eyes narrowed. “In five years there won’t be an RDF. The REF will return from Tirol to an Earth governed by Anatole Leonard.”

  Rolf regarded her for a long moment. “Will you be among them—the REF, I mean?”

  Miriya looked at Dana. “I don’t think so. No matter what happens between the RDF and the Southern Cross, I think Dana’s better off on Earth than she would be locked inside that horrible factory for her entire childhood.”

  Lynn-Kyle and Theofre Elmikk met openly in the factory’s level-six cafeteria. Kyle wore his service-personnel whites, a bar-code identity-information badge woven into the fabric of the unisuit’s shirt collar and left sleeve. Elmikk wore his typical look of misanthropy.

  “If I could have a minute of your time, T’sen Elmikk,” Kyle said. “I have a few questions about food allocations for your work crews.”

  “We have nothing to discuss,” Elmikk said, with a wary glance around the cafeteria. “My work crews have all they need just now.”

  “I’m talking about the crews operating downside, T’sen Elmikk.”

  The Zentraedi’s expression hardened. “Those crews are no longer my concern.”

  “As long as the upside crews are well fed, is that the idea?”

  Elmikk lowered his voice. “As I explained, I’m responsible to those directly in my command. The others should understand how difficult it has become to meet everyone’s needs just now.”

  “I’m sure they do understand. Nevertheless, without adequate supplies they could starve. It’s been six months since they received anything from you. As it is, they’ve been harassed by hostile forces in their environment. And now that the pressure on you has eased some—”

  “They deserve harassment for the sloppiness of their work,” Elmikk sneered. “That sloppiness reflects on all of us.”

  “Then I should inform them not to rely on you for further aid?”

  “Tell them whatever you like.”

  Kyle laughed shortly. “Perhaps Jevna Parl would be more interested in the plight of those lower down in the food chain.”

  Elmikk met Kyle’s openly hostile gaze. “Parl cares only about his relationship to Breetai. He would never jeopardize that by reaching out to others.”

  “I think you misjudge Jevna Parl’s loyalty to the overall cause, T’sen Elmikk. He believes, as most of us do, that everyone should be equally provided for so that none go hungry.”

  The Zentraedi mulled it over for a long moment. “Listen to me, Cheng, or whatever your real name is—”

  “Jeng Chiang,” Kyle said calmly.

  “Of course,” Elmikk said. “My advice to you is that you begin to think of your own future, rather than expend your energies on lost causes. If and when the hungry realize their goal, where do you imagine you’ll be? I’ll tell you, Chiang: you’ll be dead. They will have no further use for you, just as I have no use for you. So why not simply go down the well and find something better to do with the time that remains?”

  Kyle stared at Elmikk’s back as the brawny alien lumbered off. Their plan few hijacking the SDF-3 had to be nearing completion, he told himself, or Elmikk wouldn’t have been so brazenly confident. He looked up at the cafeteria’s forty-foot-high ceiling and contemplated the two heavily secured levels that separated him from Lisa Hayes and Breetai. They might as well be on the dark side of the moon.

  Routinely, every evening, Breetai watched Little White Dragon in the privacy of his quarters aboard the transformed flagship he had once commanded. He would sit crosslegged on the deck, sometimes with several pounds of Human food, and the video—transmitted from an entertainment center on level three of the satellite—would run on the twenty-by-thirty-five-foot screen affixed to the bulkhead. Occasionally he would fall asleep before the video finished, or his attention would be distracted by thoughts of the refurbishing of the ship or the mission to Tirol and what it might hold for all of them. There were so many variables: an attack by the Invid, an attack by some other race the Zentraedi had crushed, an attack by Zentraedi ships that had somehow escaped the final disgrace of the War. How, in any event, might the Masters react to the Earthers’ sudden appearance in Fantomaspace? Would they befriend them, or seek to enslave them as they had so many other races? And what, then, would be the fate of the Zentraedi? Not repatriation but execution, Breetai imagined. Swift and expedient, without prelude.

  Lately, his thoughts had centered on the injustices Zor and the Zentraedi had conspired to deliver to Earth. Now, as if the Rain hadn’t been enough, the survivors had to contend with scattered bands of programmed killers. The so-called malcontents had to be eradicated because they were a threat, just as Khyron had been, to the greater mission.

  With Exedore’s help, Breetai had come to understand the malcontents’ hunger for vengeance, the loss of lives, the reprisals, the escalating violence. Most Zentraedi had instigated and lived through much worse. But he could neither condone the actions of his comrades nor demonstrate much respect for the RDF’s attempt to find solutions to the malcontent dilemma. There were no solutions. It wasn’t a matter of awarding them half the planet, or of supplying them with food, jobs, or civil rights. The Zentraedi rage cam
e from a place no Human could visit—except perhaps those unfortunate few Breetai had encountered whose upbringing had instilled in them the equivalent of an Imperative, a pervasive lust to destroy. Though they were loath to admit it, Humans did have masters; they took the form of “parents,” or sometimes the conditions of the Human society itself, with its complex laws meant to safeguard Humans from reverting to the violent ways of their ancestors in the animal kingdom.

  What Breetai couldn’t understand was how he had allowed himself to become so distanced from the concerns of his Earthbound comrades. In reference to some Human legend, Exedore often called the factory satellite their “ivory tower.” And if Breetai didn’t grasp the full meaning of the reference, he at least grasped the implication.

  Little White Dragon was onscreen just now, at the point in the plot where the long-haired hero, played by Minmei’s cousin, Lynn-Kyle, was dodging arrows loosed by a bearded giant wearing a black eye-patch and a plumed helmet. As often as Breetai had watched the film, he was forever discovering new things in each scene: background details, foreshadowings, or what were called “nuances” of characterization.

  All at once, however, he knew that he was watching a scene he’d never seen before. Had the techs in the factory satellite sent him the “director’s cut” or some such thing as a surprise? Onscreen, in any case, was the Lynn-Kyle character, in his standard belted robe and black slippers, in the midst of a monologue.

  “The giant doesn’t understand that I need not so much as strike out with fist or foot to defeat him; that I could simply stand aside and allow him to be undermined by his own troops,” the character was saying.

  The added scene had a different visual quality from the rest of the film—an almost live quality—and must have been shot long before or long after the major action, because Kyle’s black hair, while long, was not as long as it should have been, nor did the strangely unfamiliar robe fit as well as it should. More, the backdrop was nothing more than the bare bulkhead of a starship—the SDF-1, certainly—awaiting special effects.