Zor watched her as she deliberated, certain that no matter what she decided to wear she would look beautiful. He tried to sort out the conflicting emotions and veiled impulses that kept him in a state of confusion much of the time. Zor wondered if these feelings for his lieutenant were what the Human beings called love.
In a geostationary orbit some 23,000 miles above the Earth hung six stupendous mother ships-the invasion fleet of the Robotech Masters.
In the huge flagship, which still bore the scars of battles with the Human race both in space and on the surface of the planet, stood the Triumvirate of Masters. They looked down from the vantage point of their floating Protoculture cap-the enormous, humplike instrument that gave them total control of superhuman mind powers and abilities.
Like virtually all members of their race, the Triumvirate of Masters functioned as a triad, each standing upon a small platform attached to the hovering cap. They were males, with hawklike faces that wore perpetual scowls. The severity of their faces was emphasized by scarlike V's of tissue under each cheek. All of them were bald-or shave-pated; their long, fine hair fell below their shoulders. They wore monkish robes, their wide, floppy collars suggesting the tripartite blossom of the Invid Flower of Life.
The Masters usually mindspoke through direct tactile contact with their Protoculture cap, but they chose now to say their words out loud. Shaizan, who was often the spokesman for the Triumvirate, said, "So, you're saying our Bioroid clones are limited in their effectiveness?"
Looking up at him was a triad of Clonemasters, two males and a female, standing under their own, smaller Protoculture cap. All were tall, pale, and slender. They wore tight-fitting clothes vaguely suggestive of the early Renaissance.
Both males wore full blond-brown mustaches and mutton chops, and one of them had a beard; the androgynouslooking female wore her long
blond hair in a simple style. The minor differences between them only served to emphasize their sameness of body and features.
The leader of the Clonemaster triumvirate nodded. "Precisely. Their current cerebral composition makes them undependable. They perform adequately as shock troops, but in order to deal with an Invid attack, we'll need clones much more tightly mindlinked to our triumvirate."
And they all knew that the need to deal with the savage, relentless Invid might come soon. The Flower of Life had bloomed on Earth, and where the Flower bloomed, the Robotech Masters' mortal enemies, the Invid, were bound to appear in short order.
It was all so frustrating to the Masters, even though they didn't reveal any emotion. They had traveled for nearly fifteen years-across the galaxy-in search of the last Protoculture Matrix in existence. There were determined to find that source of power that could return them to their rightful place as lords of all creation. And yet, although they were near their prize, they were unable to claim it because of the stubbornness of the primitive Humans below. Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of Earth, the Matrix, sealed under one of three mounds on the outskirts of Monument City, was going to seed.
The Masters' calculations showed that the Protoculture would soon shift from a contained mass, kept in the prefertilized state in which it exuded its incredible and unique forces, and convert into the Flowers of Life that the Invid ingested to sustain themselves.
But the Humans weren't the Masters' only opposition; they weren't the most formidable enemies. The mounds were guarded by invisible Protoculture entities-three strange, mysterious, and sinister wraiths.
The wraiths had manifested themselves once-or rather, they had permitted the Masters to perceive them. They were cloaked and cowled fire-eyed specters-ghosts whose power stymied the Masters' efforts to find out exactly where the Matrix lay. Without that information, it was impossible for the Masters to use simple brute force to rip the Matrix from the mounds; that would risk damaging the thing they had come so far to retrieve. The Masters weren't sure yet what other powers or designs the
wraiths might have.
And now, to complicate matters further, local perturbations were hampering the performance of the Masters' cloned slave populace. "Yes, that might be our problem with Zor Prime," Shaizan was saying. "We've had some trouble with him, almost from the first moment when he was set down among the Humans. His neuro-sensor has been malfunctioning."
Not that Zor Prime, cloned from tissue samples of the slain original Zor, greatest genius of his race and discoverer of Protoculture, hadn't been of some use. Divested of his memories, the clone had been dispatched among the Terrans as an unwitting spy, so that the Masters could see through his eyes and hear through his ears.
The Masters were also hoping that the trauma of being among the local primitives, and being on the planet to which the original Zor had dispatched the Protoculture Matrix so long ago, would spur Zor's memory. Perhaps they could get Zor Prime to tell them why the Matrix had been sent, precisely where it was, and how to get it back from both the Humans and the invisible wraithlike Protoculture entities who guarded the mounds that hid it.
Dag, second among the Masters, had a slightly more prognathous jaw than the others. He said, "It seems the Human behavioral dysfunction known as emotions may be responsible for this malfunction."
Bowkaz, third of the Masters, nodded, his brows nearly meeting as his frown deepened. "Yes. These emotions destabilize the proper functioning of the healthy brain and the rational mind."
"What is your will then, Masters?" asked Jeddar, leader of the Clonemaster triumvirate-their chief slaves-bowing humbly before them.
"Hmm," Shaizan said, gazing down on him. "You would like our permission to carry out this plan of yours, no doubt."
The Clonemaster kowtowed. "Yes, my lord. We believe it will be our key to a quick, decisive victory. We only need your approval."
The Masters touched hands to their Protoculture cap. Wherever one of the nailless, spiderlike hands touched a mottled area of the
mushroom-shaped cap, the mottled area came alight with the power of Protoculture. The Masters swiftly and silently came to a consensus.
The barracks housing the 15th squad, Alpha Tactical Armored Corps-ATAC-was a truncated cone a dozen stories high, of smoky blue glass and gleaming blue tile (the most modern of polymers) set on a framework of blued alloy. It was a large complex even though it only served as housing and operational facility to a few people; much of the aboveground area was filled with parts and equipment storage and repair areas, armory, kitchen and dining and lavatory space, and so on. In many ways it was a self-contained world.
At the ground and basement levels were the mecha servicing and repair stations, and the motor stables filled with parked Hovercycles and other conventional vehicles, along with the giant Hovertanks-the 15th's primary mecha.
Up in her quarters, Dana wasn't thinking about any kind of machinery just then. Agonizing over what to wear for her date with Zor, she flung every skirt, dress, and blouse in her closet in different directions, draping them with lingerie.
There was, no doubt, something in the regs about officers dating privates, but Zor was a different case. He had been placed with the 15th in the hope that military service would help him recover his missing memory, and that exposure to Earth-style social interaction and bonding would sway him against his former Masters.
When it came to social interaction, Dana was more than ready. It wasn't just that Zor was dreamy looking and a little disoriented. There was also the fact that he was alien, as was Dana's mother. She sometimes wondered if it was blood calling to blood.
Long before she had actually seen him, Dana had felt inexplicable emotions and experienced strange Visions bearing on the red Bioroid Zor piloted. Something within drew her to Zor.
Now, as she hurried into the unit ready-room, which doubled as a rec
room during off-duty hours, she tried to set all that aside and concentrate on having a good time.
Decked out in a frilly skirt and silk blouse, she was all set to yell Hi Zor!
I'm here! Only-it wasn't
Zor she found there.
Squad Sergeant Angelo Dante stepped away from the autobar (it was after duty hours, and the cybernetic mixologist would dispense alcohol to troopers who were certified offduty) and strolled over toward her. "Well, well! Aren't we looking awfully chic tonight?"
She tried to act nonchalant; she wanted to enjoy herself with Zor and not start off the evening with another row with Angelo. "Have you seen Zor around?"
In the days before the First Robotech War (after which an almost medieval cluster of city-states had banded in a loose hegemony to fill the vacuum of world rule and form the United Earth Government-the UEG) soldiers had had less autonomy and more discipline, so the old salts liked to say. If so, she would have welcomed a reversion to those old days.
If she kicked Angelo's feet out from under him and mashed a coffee table over his head, Southern Cross Command might not consider the act a necessary disciplinary measure and it could cause sociodynamic strains. Besides, Angelo was awfully tough.
Dana restrained herself, but resolved to command his loyalty-even if it meant inviting the very big, very strong, and quick NCO to step downstairs to the motor stables and have it out-before another day passed. There was no way two people could run a Hovertank squad, or any other unit.
Angelo smiled spitefully. "Yeah. I bet if he had seen you in your prom queen rig, he would have never asked Nova out tonight."
"Nova? Nova Satori?"
Angelo buffed his nails on his torso harness. Dana considered decking him; he was large, but she was used to fighting for everything she had ever gotten, and if she could get in the first shot...
"Uh-huh," he said. "Let's see now: something about dinner, and the theater afterwards."
He backed away suddenly as she came at him with clenched fists, ready to spit brimstone and, he could see from the way she held herself, do some damage.
She was raving. "That no-good two-timer! That sneaking alien! He's getting more Human every day!"
Angelo was fending her off. "Well now, ma'am, maybe all he needs is a bit of compassion, remember?" That was what she had said to him, back when Angelo was about to take Zor's face off.
"You're enjoying this, huh?" she seethed at him. Then she had an image of suitable revenge. She held up the two movie tickets. "Well, I guess you'll just have to escort me, big boy!"
Angelo's face fell and he made some odd sounds before he found the words. "Uh, ah, thanks, Lieutenant, but I'll pass-"
"You ain't reading me, Sergeant! It's an order!"
The Clonemasters' update was even more bleak than had been anticipated.
"My lord, our reservoirs of Protoculture power are running dry. The effects of this are being felt throughout the fleet. Our new clonelings are lethargic and unresponsive; the effectiveness of our weapons is limited; and our defensive shields cannot be maintained full-time. If we do not secure a large infusion of Protoculture, we are doomed."
As Jeddar spoke, the humpish Protoculture cap of the Masters showed them, by mind-image, the deteriorating situation in all six of the enormous mother ships. Where the Protoculture energies had once coursed through them like highways of incandescence or arterial systems of pure, godlike force, those flows were now reduced to unsteady rivulets. It was like looking into one huge, dying organism.
Elsewhere in the colossal flagship, six clones-two triumvirates-faced off, five against one.
On the one side was Musica, ethereal weaver of song, Mistress of the
Cosmic Harp, whose melodies gave shape and effect to the mental force with which the Clonemasters controlled their subjects. She was pale and delicate looking, slender, with long, deep green hair.
To one side were her two clone sisters, Octavia and Allegra, both of them subdued and frightened by the very idea of discord. And across from Musica was the triumvirate of Guard leaders: tall, fit, limber military males who were now unified in their anger as much as in their plasm.
Lieutenant Karno spoke for them. His long hair was a fiery red; he spoke with uncharacteristic anger, for a slave of the Masters. "Musica, it is not your place to decide how things shall be!"
Another, Darsis, looking like Karno's duplicate, agreed, "It has been decided for us and you have no say in the matter!"
Sookol, the third, added, "That is our way, as it has been since the beginning of time!"
Musica, eyes lowered to the carpeted deck, trembled at the heresy she was committing. And yet she said, "Yes, I know that. We've been chosen for each other as mates, and we must resign ourselves to it. But-that doesn't change the fact that we are strangers, we Muses and you Guards."
Karno's brows knit, as if she were speaking in some language he had never heard before. "But...what does that matter?"
Musica gave him a pleading look, then averted her eyes again. "I want so much to accept the Masters' decision and believe that it is right, but something very strange within me keeps saying that the Masters cannot be right if their decision makes me feel this way."
"'Feel'?" Karno repeated. Could she have contracted some awful plague from the Humans when the primitives from Earth managed to board the flagship for that brief foray?
Darsis and Sookol had gasped, as had Allegra and Octavia. "It's madness!" Sookol burst out.
Musica nodded miserably. "Yes, feelings! Even though we've always been told that we're immune to them, I'm guilty of emotions."
Madness, indeed.
She saw the repulsed looks on their faces as they realized, she was polluted, debased. But somehow it didn't change her determination not to surrender these new sensations-not to be cleansed of them, even if she could.
"I know I should be punished for it," she declared. "I know I'm guilty!
But-I cannot deny my feelings!" She broke down into tears. "What's-what's that you're doing?" Darsis asked, baffled.
"I think I know," Karno answered tonelessly. "It's a sickness of the Earthlings called 'crying.'"
If it was a sickness, Musica knew, there was no question about who had infected her with it. It was Bowie Grant, the handsome young ATAC trooper who she had met when his unit staged a recon on board the flagship.
Instead of a mindless primitive in armor, he had turned out to be a sensitive creature. Bowie was a musician and he sat down at her Cosmic Harp and played tunes of his own devising-beautiful, heart-rending compositions that bound her feelings to him. New songs-songs that wouldn't be found in the approved songlore of the Masters. He had shown an inexplicable warmth toward her from the very start, and he quickly drew the same from her.
Now Musica found herself sitting at her Harp, playing those same airs, as the other five looked on in shock.
Bowie, do you feel this way about me? How I wish we could be together again!
CHAPTER THREE
There was never any other child born on Earth from a union of Zentraedi and Human. I made sure of that, with the powers at my command. Because, of course, I immediately knew that Dana was the One; Dana was all that was needed. And the plan went forward.
Dr. Lazlo Zand, notes for Event Horizon: Perspectives on Dana Sterling and the Second Robotech War
Lieutenant Nova Satori took a precise sip of wine, then consulted the heavy chronometer on her wrist. "Zero hour."
Across from her, Zor gave her a puzzled look. "Something important?"
Although he was good at fighting, there were still so many things he simply didn't understand. Was he, in the terms of this "date," behind schedule somehow? Was he late in initiating the curious physical interchanges the barracks braggarts always talked about? Was there some accepted procedure for abbreviating the preliminaries? Perhaps he should begin removing garments-but whose?
Nova stared at him. "Well...don't tell Dana or anyone else, but the relief force is just lifting off for the moon."
Nova couldn't for the life of her figure out why she was telling him, except that she liked one-upping Dana. She couldn't really put a finger on why she had come along with him to the restaurant either, except that she
felt drawn to him-almost against her will.
When Zor was first captured, Nova was responsible for his interrogation. She had felt that he was an enemy then and was suspicious that that still might be the case. But there was something singularly attractive about him. He had an agelessness about him even though he looked young, a serenity even though he was tormented by his missing memory, as though he were a part of her. It was as if he, as the expression went, had a very old soul.
Zor was thinking along quite different lines. Nova's mention of Dana reminded him that he was supposed to have gone to the movie with her. It had completely slipped his mind; he wondered if bit by bit he was losing all memory functions.
Some curiosity-more of a compulsion, actually-had made him ask Nova to dinner. He hoped that she could tell him more about himself; he might even be able to recover a part of his lost self. But there was more to it than that, motivations Zor Prime couldn't fathom.
He studied Nova, an attractive young woman with a mantle of blue-black hair so long that she had to sweep it aside when she sat down. Like Dana, she wore a techno-hairband that suggested a headphone. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes dark and intense, lips mobile, bright, expressive.
"Earth calling Zor." She chuckled, breaking his reverie. "Eh?"
"Promise not to mention it, I said. Dana's got an awful temper; she's going to split a seam when her precious 15th squad gets left out of another major operation!"
"Don't worry. I won't tell her."
Nova shrugged to indicate that it really wouldn't be so bad if Dana found out from him and learned that he had found out from Nova.
She said, "No one's supposed to know the relief force is on its way until tomorrow. I really shouldn't have told you about it."
The vague compulsions in Zor suddenly coalesced, and he found himself asking, "How many ships are going? How are they planning to get past the enemy?"
The Final Nightmare Page 2