"On my command, Exedore..." said the commander.
Skull One's lateral thrusters edged the Veritech out of the arena-momentarily. There were still half a dozen Battlepods on his tail crosshatching space with angry bolts of cannon fire, and these guys were on his side! The nonallied pods were of course a concern, but the crazed random firing of Breetai's troops was life-threatening! From the sound of the shrieks and comments coming through the net, Rick knew that he wasn't alone in his fear.
Now, with no advance warning from the bridge, the warship's main cannon had been armed. Pinpoints of dazzling light had erupted across the blunt nose of the battlewagon; in a moment, Rick knew from previous battles, a lethal slice of orange death would streak from each of these, holing their targets with an immeasurable force.
Breetai's ship was within point-blank range of Reno's, taking aim at the bow of the smaller ship where the bridge and astrogational section were located. Rick went on the tac net, warning his fellow pilots to steer clear, and voiced a prayer that Max and Miriya had escaped safely.
The Robotech factory satellite, its secondary modules like small moons, spun slowly on its axis-a small world unto itself, barely visible now in the blinding light of a thousand small novas.
Miriya held Dana in her lap, her right hand gripping the Veritech's
Hotas. Flashes of stroboscopic light threw flaming reds and blazing yellows into the cockpit. In no other battle (and there had been many) had she been possessed by such fury. Even that on-and-off dogfight she had waged against Max couldn't measure up to the intensity and need she now felt. It was as though her entire body was rallying to the cause; as though the small life she held in her arms was a treasure more precious than any the universe could offer, a life worth preserving at all costs...
She and Max had blasted free of Reno's ship, but they were far from
safe.
"Enemy projectiles bearing 977L!" Claudia told her through the com
net, the alarm in her voice unmasked. "Two triple-fins attempting interception!"
"Watch it, Max!" said Miriya, as concerned for his safety as she was for Dana's. "I've got them!"
She thumbed the trigger button on the Hotas, releasing four white-tipped heat-seekers, which tore from the Veritech's missile tubes. They found one of the trithrusters, blowing it to pieces, while the second craft disappeared beneath Miriya's own. She engaged the underside lasers as the enemy made its pass, the intensified light searing open the cockpit of the triple-fin, decommissioning it.
Miriya heard Max breathe a sigh of relief and thank her.
She returned the sigh and clutched Dana more tightly to herself, the infant waving her arms joyously at the fiery spectacle.
"Fire!" said Breetai.
A rain of supercharged energy ripped from the nose of the warship, converging on Reno's ship, individual bolts tearing through it as if it wasn't there. And in scarcely a second, it wasn't-its superstructure flayed and bow blown open beyond self-repair.
Like a whale swallowing a stick of dynamite, Rick decided. He imagined Reno's swift death: energy brilliant as blizzard snow wiping him from life...
"Dead ahead!" one of his wingmen said through the net.
Rick looked forward into a swarm of Officer's Pods, triple-fins, and tactical Battlepods.
"Fire all proton missiles on my command," he told his squad. "Now!" Hundreds of missiles dropped from their pylons and fuselage tubes,
blowtorching into the midst of the enemy cloud, taking out fighter after fighter.
Meanwhile, Breetai's dreadnought had loosed followup fusillades against two more warships in what had once been Reno's fleet. Explosions lit local space like a brief birth of suns, Robotech husks drifting derelict in the perpetual darkness. On the observation balcony, Breetai stood rigid with his hands behind his back, impassively watching projecbeam views of the battle. Victory was assured: one more blow struck against the Masters. But he was aware that this was a minor triumph in the war that would someday rage at Earth's gateway; and as bright as this moment might seem, he would be powerless when that day arrived-
"Squadron leader requesting assistance in the Third Quadrant," one of his officers interrupted.
"Is the neutron cannon ready?" Breetai asked. "Eighty percent," Claudia reported sharply.
"We have positive lock and focus on photon particle tracking beam," Lisa added, her monitor schematic resembling a star map overlaid with doodles. "All Veritechs and pods have cleared the field of fire."
"Neutron exchange complete," Claudia updated. Breetai's lips became a thin line.
"Sanitize the area," he ordered.
Rick led his squad-Max and Miriya among them now-to the safe coordinates Lisa had supplied him. Hearing the go signal for the neutron cannon given, he glanced back at Breetai's ship, expecting to witness an outpouring of energy to make all previous discharges pale by comparison. But he saw no sign of fire, only the invisible particle beam's awesome and
horrific effect: Nearly every mecha in the cannon's line of fire was disintegrated. Some exploded, others came apart, while still others simply vanished without a trace.
The number of dead was beyond his ability to calculate. And he found himself thinking about the Zentraedi on Earth-the micronized ones who were struggling to adapt to a new culture, the malcontents who wandered the wastes in search of new wars. With Reno's defeat (according to Exedore), the race would be close to extinction.
It was as if they knew somehow that their time had come. They had honored their imperative; they had chased Zor's fortress for their Masters and done their best to reclaim it. But in truth, they had traveled clear across the galaxy to fulfill a greater imperative: They had come to Earth to die.
"Lord Breetai," said Exedore. "The remaining troops have agreed to surrender." His voice gave no hint of sadness at the nearly total annihilation of Reno's forces; if anything, it carried a suggestion of relief. His commander's reign was now supreme-as it was always meant to be, with or without the Protoculture matrix.
Breetai was seated in the command chair. Regally, he stated, "Let the prisoners know that we will gladly accept all who wish to join us."
Exedore spoke into the mike at his duty station. "Lord Breetai extends his greetings to all Zentraedi prisoners. Furthermore, it is his pleasure to extend a full pardon to those who wish to join the United Forces under his command."
Standing now, Breetai announced: "Our victory may very well mark the dawn of a new era in galactic relations."
His ship was already closing on the Robotech factory satellite, a biluminescent mollusk in the blackness of space, strings of lights girdling it like some Christmas ornament. The prize had been won. And if those defeated troops on bended knee weren't testament enough to the win, one had simply to look out on that seemingly limitless field of mecha and cruiser debris through which his ship moved, the remnants of the last remaining
Zentraedi fleet.
CHAPTER NINE
The transport of the Robotech factory satellite to Earlhspace was another one of the malign miracles visited upon us. Certainly Gloval and Breetai had only our best interests in mind, but shouldn't it have occurred to them that if the Robotech Masters had been able to track Zor's dimensional fortress here, they could surely do the same with the satellite? Like Zor before him, Breetai thought he was doing Earth a favor...This renders his comment (upon manifesting in Earthspace with the factory) doubly ironic: "We've made it," he is quoted as saying. "It is good to be back home."
Dr. Lazlo Zand,
On Earth As It Is in Hell: Recollections of the Robotech War
Armageddon played in full color on an oval-shaped viewing screen in Tirol's central ministry, an organic room like those in the Masters' space fortresses, cathedraled by columns that might have been living ligaments and sheathed neurons. Representatives from the Council of Elders, the Robotech Masters, the Young Lords, and the Scientists were in attendance-the Elders and the Masters in unvarying groups of three at their Pro
toculture caps. The Young Lords, a bearded trio, balding in spite of their relative youth, were intermediaries between the Masters themselves and the Empire clones. Three was sacred, three was eternal, the irreligious trinity ruling what remained of Tirol's social structure-what remained of a race long past decadence. Such had been the influence of the tripartite Invid flower, the Flower of Life...
One of the Masters had the floor now: With Reno's defeat at the hands of the traitor, Breetai, their hopes for reclaiming Zor's fortress had been dashed.
-I think that the best plan is to completely educate another deprivation tank tissue, so that by the time we get to Earth, it will appear human.
One of the Scientists risked a question, approaching the Masters'
station arrogantly, leaving his partners in the Triumvirate to labor at the spacetime calculations.
-What makes you think this clone will be different from the others that have been generated and failed?
-Mmmm?!
A second Master took up the challenge, regarding the Scientist with distaste. An exotic-looking, blue-lipped, and scarlet-haired androgynous clone. What had they accomplished, the Master asked himself before replying, in creating this young generation of long-haired, toga-clad beings who walked a thin line between life and death?
-Such insolence! Have you forgotten that these previous efforts have been undertaken without proper attention to the basic matrix generation process? This clone will have ample time to mature, but we must begin programming the tissue immediately. Of the fourteen remaining in the tank, one will, surely take on the full psychic likeness of Zor.
-One more thing, Master: Why don't we check the matrix figures on the remaining Protoculture? Perhaps such a journey is unnecessary.
The figures have been checked and rechecked. We don't even have enough to make the hyperspace-fold to the Earth system.
The female member of the Triumvirate turned from her calculations.
-I understand, Master.
-So! We will begin the trip under reflex power and rely on the remaining clone matrix cell tissue to complete our mission.
-Twenty long years by their reckoning....And how many of us will survive such a journey?
-If only three of us survive, it will be enough. This is our only chance to regain control of the Protoculture.
One of the Masters gestured to the oval screen-a view of deep space captured by their surveillance vessel: the mecha debris and litter that was once Reno's fleet.
-After all, look what is left of their culture; observe and survey the remnants of their once-great armada. We must have that Protoculture
matrix! Even if it takes twenty years and the last developing clone from our tank! We have no choice but to proceed. I can see no other solution. So! If there is nothing further...
A member of the Elder Triumvirate spoke through lips as cracked as baked clay, a face as wrinkled as history itself.
"Elder Council is with you."
The central speaker of the Masters inclined his head in a bow.
"We acknowledge your wisdom and appreciate the generosity of your support, Elder. It is out of loyalty to you and our forefathers that we have decided thus."
"We understand the importance of this mission, not only for our race but for all intelligent life in the quadrant."
A second Elder bestowed his blessings on the voyage.
"Proceed with your plan, then; but know that there can be no margin for error without grave consequences."
"The future of all cultures is in your hands."
A twenty-year journey through the universe, the Masters thought in unison. Twenty years to regain a prize stolen from them by a renegade scientist. Would they prevail? Was there not one loyal Zentraedi left?...Yes, there was. But could even he succeed where so many had failed?
Khyron!
Khyron was their last hope!
Human and Zentraedi teams labored long and hard to ready the factory for a hyperspace jump. In less than a week's time it defolded in lunar orbit, winking into real time without incident, Breetai's dreadnought, his Human and Zentraedi crew, and thousands of converted warriors inside the satellite's womb. The commander's prime concern had been the removal of the factory from the Robotech Masters' realm; their reach, however, was to prove greater than even he had anticipated.
The Veritech Team, as well as Lisa and Claudia, returned to New Macross, and in their place arrived scores of Lang's Robotechnicians, who
dispersed themselves through the factory like kids on a scavenger hunt. Finally, Admiral Gloval himself was shuttled up to Earth's new satellite; well aware that the factory was now Earth's only hope against a potential follow-up attack by the Robotech Masters, he traveled with his fingers crossed. Claudia Grant was his escort.
Dr. Lang and several of his techs were on hand to greet them. Pleasantries were dispensed with, and Gloval was led immediately to one of the factory's automated assembly lines, where alien devices, still only half-understood by Lang, turned out Battlepod carapaces and ordnance muzzles.
Gloval marveled at the sight of these machines at work: Pods were being fabricated as though they were chocolate candy shells. From a basic sludge vat of raw metals to finished product in minutes; servos, arc welders, presses, and shapers doing the work of thousands of men. Unpiloted pods, controlled by computers even Lang refused to tamper with, marched in rows, one above the other, along powered transport belts, pausing at each work station for yet another automated miracle. All the while a synthesized Zentraedi voice actually spoke to the devices, directing them in their tasks. Exedore had substituted a translation, which was playing as Gloval stood transfixed.
"Make ready units one fifty-two to one fifty-eight for protobolt adjustments and laser-bond processes. Units one fifty-nine to one sixty-five are on-line for radiokrypto equipment encoding..."
"But what does it mean?" Gloval asked Lang.
The scientist shook his head, marblelike eyes penetrating Gloval's own. "We don't know, Admiral. But do not be deceived by what you see. This entire complex is but a ghost of its former self-nothing is running to completion." Lang made a sweeping gesture. "Whatever fuels this place-and I see no reason to suppose that it is any different than that which runs the SDF-1-has lost its original potency."
"Protoculture," Gloval said flatly.
Lang gave a tight-lipped nod and pointed to the line of half-finished
pods along the conveyor belt. "Observe..."
Gloval narrowed his eyes, not sure what he was supposed to be looking at. But shortly the Doctor's meaning became obvious.
"Warning! Shut down! Warning! Damage!..." the synthesized voice began to repeat. Suddenly one of the pods on the belt was encased in a spider web of angry electrical energy. Servowelders and grappling arms flailed about in the fire, falling limp as the pod split apart and the great machines ground to a halt.
"Status report on the way," one of Lang's techs said to Gloval. The admiral rubbed his chin and hid a look of disappointment.
No one spoke for a moment, save for a human voice from the PA calling maintenance personnel to the process center. Then Exedore arrived on the scene. Gloval had not seen him since the evening the satellite mission was first discussed.
"How are you, sir?" Exedore asked, concerned but having already guessed Gloval's response.
"Not as well as I was hoping," Gloval confessed. "When can you start operating again?"
"I'm afraid the situation is worse than first thought." Never one to mince words, Exedore added: "We may be down permanently."
"Are you certain?"
The Zentraedi adviser nodded, grimly.
Claudia gasped. "But our defense depends on continued operation!"
Gloval clasped his hands behind his back, refusing to accept the prognosis. "Carry on," he told-Exedore. "Do what you can to get things running again. Do something-anything!"
"Veritech team leader," said the female voice over Rick's corn net. "We have a disturbance in New Detroit City
. Can you respond?"
Rick accessed the relevant chart as he went on the net. "Roger, control." He glanced at the monitor: His team was over the southern tip of Lake Michigan, close to what was once the city of Chicago. "We are
approximately three minutes ETA of New Detroit City. What's up?" "Zentraedi workers have broken into Fort Breetai. They've taken over
the sizing chamber and are attempting to transport it from the city."
Rick gritted his teeth and exhaled sharply. "Listen up," he told his wingmen. "We're on alert. Hit your afterburners and follow my lead."
New Detroit had risen up around a Zentraedi warship that had crashed there during Dolza's apocalyptic attack; its mile-high hulk still dominated the city and the surrounding cratered wastes like some leaning tower of malice. The population of the city was predominantly Zentraedi, many micronized by order of the New Council and hundreds more who were full-size workers in the nearby steel factories. In addition, though, there was a sizable contingent of civil defense forces stationed there to guard a sizing chamber that had been removed from the derelict ship but had yet to be transported to New Macross, where similar ones were being stored.
Rick caught sight of the chamber on his first pass over the high-tech fort. A convoy of vehicles was tearing along the rampart that led to the underground storage facilities. Updated reports from control indicated that at least twelve Humans and three Zentraedi giants lay dead inside.
The clear-blue nose-cone-like device had been placed on an enormous flatbed, hauled by a powerful tug with tires like massive rollers; two micronized aliens were in the drivers' seats, three more up top, along with three blue-uniformed giants, two of whom were attempting to stabilize the hastily guy-wired and turnbuckled chamber. Behind the flatbed were two more enormous eightwheeled transports, each bearing malcontents armed with autocannons. Rick saw them open fire on the laser-sentry posts. At street level, they turned their cannons on everything that moved, scattering workers and pedestrians alike.
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