On the other side of town six pods played dead.
The double-pulled hinged hatch of one these opened, and three small faces peered out. Explosions could still be heard off in the distance, but from the sound of it the fighting was sporadic and winding down. Thanks to Khyron, the Micronians had been able to snatch victory from the very jaws of defeat; their troops were mopping up what the Backstabber's timely escape from the fortress had left unfinished. But the micronized Zentraedi soldiers inside these undamaged spheres had no bones to pick with him. Quite the contrary: Thanks to Khyron! indeed.
Rico, Bron, and Konda rappeled to the street on ropes thrown from the cockpit, had they been aware of the Micronian custom, they would surely have kneeled down and offered a kiss. Other Zentraedi began to follow their lead, and soon the entire cult was reunited.
These six pods had managed to keep together since the assault; they had peeled away from the main strike force just before the destruction of the population center had begun. Consequently they had come through the battle relatively unscathed, but most of their fellow deserters had not been as fortunate. Several pods, only a few of them containing micronized Zentraedi, had been unlucky enough to cross paths with Commander Khyron. The diabolical lord of the Botoru Battalion had meted out punishment on the spot. There was no way of guessing just how many soldiers he had put to death; but as word had spread through the ranks, many had given up their hopes for resettlement among the Micronians and fled into space.
As the lucky ones now began to take a look around their dreamland there were mutterings of disappointment and regret. One of their number had found a foot-high Minmei doll on the sidewalk, its embroidered red robe stained and tattered. He was holding it in both hands cheerlessly.
"What's wrong with it?" one of his companions asked. "Why isn't it singing?"
"It seems we've damaged it."
"That doll's not the only thing we've damaged," said Karita, gesturing in general to their surroundings.
"You mean it's not supposed to look like this?"
Bron stepped in and took the doll. "Karita's right. This population center was once beautiful and peaceful."
"The Micronians know how to repair things," Konda added. "Then they'll rebuild all this?" Karita asked hopefully.
Rico nodded. "They know the secrets of Protoculture."
This brought surprised gasps all around, even from those micronized Zentraedi who had no understanding of the word but knew enough to recognize it as the shibboleth of the command elite.
"But what do we do now, Rico? If we're discovered by the Micronians, we'll be executed for our actions against the fortress."
"Yeah, now what?" others chimed in.
Rico thought for a moment. "There's a Micronian who was trying to convince everyone that the war had to be stopped-the one I pointed out to you during the battle record trans-vids we watched. He was talking about peace all the time."
"What's 'peace'?" asked one of the clones, but the others shushed him. "Go on, Rico."
"Well, I think we should turn ourselves over to the Micronian high command. We'll tell them that we've come in the name of peace."
CHAPTER TWELVE
I remember my parents telling me about a popular amusement center that existed before the [Global] War. The place was called EPCOT and it was located in the southeastern Panam, in what was then called the state of Florida. There you could walk or ride through any number of pavilions, each representative, architecturally and culturally, of its nation of origin. Pop was fascinated by the Mexican exhibit. Apparently, once inside the building, you felt as though you were really in Old Mexico-assuming of course that you were willing to surrender yourself to the imagineers' illusions. A marketplace, an ancient pryamid, even a smoldering volcano-all under a twilight dome full of redolent aromas. Pop was so taken with the pavilion that he went back to it over and over again, and one day he was allowed in before those illusions were in full swing. Much to his later disappointment. Because without that starry sky and that cool and gentle breeze, he was well aware of where he was: inside a human-made environment. The pavilion would never be the same for him again. And this is how the dimensional fortress civilians felt when they left the shelters after the Zentraedi attack. It was all too plain that they were inside an alien spaceship; Macross was changed forever.
The Collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter
Mayor Tommy Luan was one of the first to leave the shelters. He had set out immediately on an inspection tour of Macross that by day's end had left no proverbial stone unturned. But every step along the way proved to be an ordeal.
The fires had been extinguished and the thick smoke exhausted through the enormous exterior ports, but the air still reeked of molten metals and plastics. The hold windows and bays, the so-called starlights, were encrusted with the same resinous grime that seemed to have settled on every horizontal surface in the city. The streets were potholed, cratered, and torn up, running with water loosed from subsurface and overhead conduits.
Recyclable sewage from the devastated oubliette system had been heaped up here and there or blown into the air to adhere to street signs and buildings. There didn't appear to be an intact piece of glass anywhere; shards littered the sidewalks, the lobbies, the interiors of offices and homes. In the most unlikely places one was able to stumble upon pieces of mechanical debris, a car part here, the leg of a Destroid over there, a Battloid finger buried in a wall. Perhaps worst of all, there were those holes in the sky.
Residents were sorting through the mess like zombies, trying to locate fragments of their past lives, staring shell-shocked at standing walls that no longer embraced a home, walking eerily to and fro calling out names of the displaced, the lost, and the dead-of which there were miraculously few.
For the most part casualties had been confined to the area around the amphitheater, which had seen the worst fighting by far. The Star Bowl itself would not house a concert for a long while, and the surrounding buildings were damaged beyond repair. Here there was hard evidence of the battle: the silent husks of pods and Gladiators still locked together in war-memorial poses, undetonated missiles projecting from storefronts, craters that were in effect immeasurable.
The Macross amphitheater, however, wasn't the only landmark to have been hit. The Hotel Centinel had collapsed like a layer cake, and the neighboring skyway was in shambles. Numerous monorail line pylons had been felled; street and store signs were down. Much of Macross Central Park had burned-the only "living fire" the SDF-1 would ever witness. Electrical power was out in many sections.
Macross was a disaster area.
But Tommy Luan was already rolling up his shirtsleeves and putting things back in order. On the one hand there were several things to be thankful for, he told the populace from a makeshift podium set up on the boulevard not far from the Fortress Theater. The aliens had been beaten back. True, they had leveled quite a bit of the city, but they had not penetrated any of the command areas of the ship-astrogation, engineering,
or even the Robotech Defense Forces base. There was certainly an enormous amount of work ahead of them, but they had already rebuilt once before and they would be able to do it again. Luan called on them to think back to a time even earlier than the spacefold accident and recall their experiences during the Global Civil War, when scarcely a city on the planet had escaped devastation in one form or another. Robotechnicians would come to their aid and provide the know-how once again, Luan promised, and Macross would meet those technicians halfway supplying the strength and spirit required to implement their designs. "Rome wasn't built in a day," he reminded them. "Macross City was!"
It was a rousing address, and the city applauded its mayor and spokesperson as much for his determination as for his optimism. There were few among the resident population who doubted that renewal was possible, but an alternative to rebuilding had presented itself to some: Just open the air locks, they publicly maintained. Let space suck out the debris and the memories, and the
n simply start again from scratch.
For a small and select group of victims the disaster actually facilitated the procurement of much-needed supplies-a different sort of uniform for starters.
"Clothes!" Bron reiterated. "How many times do I have to tell you: Some of the Micronians are soldiers, and some are civilians. The soldiers wear uniforms; the civilians wear clothes. Now repeat it-clothes."
"Clothes," said the club members, hangdog expressions on their faces. "I don't know..." Rico said uncertainly. He turned to Konda and Bron
for reinforcement. "Can we get away with this?"
The Minmei cultists had abandoned their Battlepods and hiked crosstown-a troop of curious-looking scouts in sackcloth dresses. It had been decided that Rico, Bron, and Konda would surrender themselves to the SDF-1 high command and explain the reasons for their desertion from the Zentraedi forces. Since the others had little command of the Micronian language, Rico thought it best that they go into hiding for a while. He was
actually more concerned about their over-eagerness to partake in the Micronian way of life, although he didn't tell them this. All along he'd been proclaiming to have sampled widely of the population center's offerings, and now his followers were beginning to press him for answers he simply didn't have. "When we do get to meet Minmei?" "Can we begin to kiss her immediately?" "How long are we supposed to keep our lips pressed together?" Rico felt like he needed to run off somewhere and hide, but it would probably work out better for everyone if he hid them instead.
A hideout would be easy enough to come by, but at some point the micronized soldiers were going to need food. Which meant that one of them was going to have to go out unescorted into the streets. Which meant that clothes were essential. Rico shuddered when he recalled how the Micronians had laughed at Bron when he stepped out in female clothing. Rico shuddered again at the thought of Karita or one of the others stepping out into Micronian society. But something had to be done-and fast!
Konda, who had the best sense of direction among them, led them through a maze of ruined streets and ultimately into a relatively undamaged department store he remembered from the surveillance visit. The Micronians were just beginning to emerge from their battle shelters as they entered the well-stocked store. Rico turned the group loose and regretted it almost immediately. Karita and the rest scattered and started stuffing all sorts of objects into their sackcloth gowns-toys, small appliances, hairbrushes, entertainment discs, time devices, earlobe ornaments...whatever they could lay their hands on. It took well over an hour for Rico, Konda, and Bron to round them up; Karita and a second cultist had to be forcibly restrained from lip-pressing every fabricated female form they passed.
"Clothes!" Bron shouted angrily when they were all regrouped. "We're here for clothes and nothing else. Is that understood?"
Sheepishly they promised to behave and followed Konda up a stairway (which under normal circumstances would have been mechanized) and into an area of the store set apart exclusively for apparel.
"Now, pick what you want and be quick about it!" Rico yelled as they ran off, their eyes lit up by the display.
Konda was the first to see them return from their foray: Rico and Bron caught his slack jawed look and followed his gaze. Down to the last, they had picked out female attire-long thin-strapped gowns cut low in front and back; A-lines and pleated skirts; high-waisted sleeveless frocks; sweater and skirt ensembles; ruffled blouses; lingerie, hosiery, and high-heeled shoes.
It took another hour to get everyone properly outfitted, but by the time they left the store there was no reason to doubt they could pass for Micronians. Except, that is, for the three leaders. Their next move was to get themselves identified as Zentraedi, and they reasoned that the original sackcloth uniforms might help that along.
The sidewalks and streets were filled with Micronians now, most of whom were busy clearing rubble or sorting through debris. Food and drink booths had been opened for the needy. Armed soldiers and battle mecha patrolled while huge Robotech vehicles hauled away the remains of pods and multigunned civil defense units. The population center was already mobilizing, breaking up into teams and relief groups to deal with the damage. Not fifty paces out of the department store, Rico and the others were assigned to one of these work crews.
At first it looked as though involvement in the detail was going to spell disaster, but Rico's concerns were shortly laid to rest. To the Zentraedi, "repair" was not only a foreign notion but a magical process. Karita and the others had been handed digging devices called shovels and pickaxes and after a few moments of familiarization were completely absorbed in their tasks. They were joyfully swinging and shoveling, shoulder to shoulder with Micronians, even joining them in song! It was too perfect, Rico told himself: They would be fed and cared for and looked after. Now, as long as none of them had to speak...
With Konda and Bron in tow, Rico managed to weasel out of the area. The three former operatives had far more important things to concern themselves with than clearing debris from the walkways. It was time to turn
themselves in.
Expecting nothing less than complete acceptance and full cooperation, Rico and his cohorts brazenly approached one of the nearby patrol posts and confessed to being Zentraedi agents. But something was wrong; Rico wasn't being taken at his word. The soldier was actually laughing at them. So he grew more insistent.
"I'm telling you, we're Zentraedi. We came into the fortress inside one of our battle mecha-"
"You're a little short to be a Zentraedi, aren't you, buddy?" the soldier interrupted.
"We've been through the reduction converter," Bron attempted to explain. "We're micronized."
The soldier exchanged winks with one of his companions. "'Micronized,' huh? Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" He
put his hand on Rico's shoulder and spun him gently left. "You want that place, right over there. You see, where it says 'medical assistance."'
"'Medical assistance,"' Rico repeated. "All right, thanks." He turned to Bron and Konda and said, "Come on."
"Shell shock," the lieutenant said to his corporal as the three sackclothed men walked away. "Some kind of martyr thing by the look of it." At the first-aid station they went through an almost word-for-word repeat performance. But eventually a female wearing a white uniform with a red-cross emblem escorted them into the office of a man who introduced
himself as Dr. Zeitgeist.
The room was large and spacious and lined floor to ceiling with archaic document displays. The "doctor" himself was a portly Micronian with an abundance of facial hair but very little on his cranium. He spoke with an accent that made his curious utterances and phrases even more difficult to comprehend. But undaunted, Rico proceeded to recount the details of their desertion from the Zentraedi.
Zeitgeist gave a long "I seeeee..." when Rico finished, and leaned back in his swivel chair. He regarded the three couched men in sackcloths for a
moment, then began to review what they'd told him.
"So you three think you're Zentraedi soldiers," said Zeitgeist. (What he actually said was closer to: "Zo you zree zink you're Zentraedi zoldiers." "You were first sent here as spies, but you grew to so love our..." he consulted his notes, " 'Micronian' society that you decided to desert your armed forces and live with us."
"Yes, that's it," the three said in unison. "I seeeee..." said Zeitgeist.
It was the most richly detailed case of guilt-induced Type-Seven behavior that it had been his pleasure to come across in many a day. Certainly a step up from the space phobias, null-g sickness, and separation anxieties he'd been nursing along for the past two years. And so thorough and laden with symbolism-from the flagellants' robes to the talk of espionage and "micronization"-that wonderful word which really captured the human sense of displacement one felt inside the alien dimensional fortress. Why he could almost see the journal paper writing itself: "Micronization: The Phobia of Containment."
"And you would ez-timate you
r actual height," the doctor continued, "to be approx-zimately fifty 'Micronian' feet?"
Rico turned a sober face to Bron and Konda. "He doesn't believe us."
Bron got to his feet. "We can prove it," he told Zeitgeist. "Bring us to one of your commanders. We'll tell him things about our battle mecha that will convince him.
Over the course of the next few hours the good doctor saw his hopes for a journal paper dashed, but he did begin to think about opening up a counseling clinic for disaffected extraterrestrials. Meanwhile the three Zentraedi were prodded, poked, searched, examined, analyzed, interviewed, tested, scoped, scanned, evaluated, appraised, and assessed. They were moved from office to office, city to cell, and barracks to base. They saw more different types of uniforms than they would have believed existed in the Fourth Quadrant of the known universe. And finally, they were brought
before the fortress's commander in chief, Captain Henry Gloval.
Gloval had done little more than browse through the foot-high stack of reports on the debriefing room desk-psychiatric evaluations, intelligence test reports, military and medical examinations, interview transcripts-but he had seen enough to convince him that the aliens' claims were true. What they knew about the workings of the Battlepods alone would have been sufficient evidence. And their very existence in "micronized" size had fully substantiated Lisa's aftermission reports regarding some sort of reduction device aboard the enemy flagship. The clone issue would have to await the results of the medical tests. That these three had actually been in the fortress previously was as amazing as it was discomforting; it was no wonder that Dr. Lang was dying to get his hands on them. First, however, it was up to Gloval and the high command to decide exactly what to do with them. What, in fact, did they want? And how many others like them might be aboard the SDF-1 at this very moment?
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