Dark Powers

by Jack McKinney

  Ahmed Rashona, That Pass in the Night: The SDF-3 and the Mission to Tirol

  A fleet of Invid warships emerged from their trans-temporal journey through hyperspace into the cool radiance of Fantoma’s primary, like so many shells left revealed on a black-sand beach by a receding tide. The mollusklike carriers positioned themselves a respectful distance from the moon they had captured then lost; only the fleet’s molet-shaped flagship continued its approach, menacing in its sealed silence.

  At the edge of the ringed giant’s shadow Tirol’s guardian, the SDF-3, swung round to face off with the Regent’s vessel, the crimson lobes of its maingun brilliantly outlined in starlight.

  Aboard the Earth fortress, in the ship’s Tactical Information Center, Major General T. R. Edwards watched as a transport shuttle emerged from the tip of one of the flagship’s armored tentacles. Edwards trusted that the Regent was aboard the small craft, accompanied certainly by a retinue of guards and scientists. The presence of the Invid fleet made it clear that any acts of aggression or duplicity would spell mutual annihilation for Invid and Humans alike.

  Admiral Forsythe, who commanded the SDF-3’s bridge in the wake of Lisa Hayes’s departure with the Sentinels, was now in constant communication with the Invid flagship. It was the Regent who had taken the initiative in suggesting this extraordinary visit, but Forsythe had insisted that the fortress remain at high alert status at least until the Regent was aboard. Disillusioned by decades of war and betrayal, and hardened by the grim realities of recent reversals, it was the Human race that had grown wary of summits, distrustful of those who would sue for peace.

  Scanners and camera remotes monitored the approach of the Regent’s shuttlecraft and relayed relevant data to screens in the fortress’s cavernous Tactical Center, where techs and staff officers were keeping a close watch on the situation. Edwards moved to the railing of the command balcony for an overview of the room’s enormous horizontal situation screen. Studying the positions of the Invid troop carriers in relation to the SDF-3, it occurred to him how easy it would be to fire at them right now, perhaps take half of them out along with the Regent himself before the Invid retaliated. And even then there was a good chance the fortress would survive the return fire, which was bound to be confused. Numerous though they might be, the Invid seemed to lack any real knowledge of strategy. Edwards was convinced that their successful strike against the SDF-3 almost six months ago had been the result of surprise and old fashioned blind luck. More to the point, he felt that he had an intuitive understanding of this enemy—a second sense birthed during his brief exposure to the brainlike device his own Ghost Squadron had captured on Tirol.

  Edwards reminded himself of the several good reasons for exercising restraint. Apart from the fact that the actual size of the Invid fleet remained unknown, there was this Regess being to wonder about; her whereabouts and motivations had yet to be determined. Besides, he sensed that the Regent had something more than peace negotiations in mind. In any case, the data Edwards had furnished the Invid regarding the Sentinels’ ship had already linked the two of them in a separate peace. But Edwards was willing to play out the charade—even if it amounted to nothing more than an opportunity to appraise his potential partner.

  He dismissed his musings shortly and returned to the balcony console, where he received an update on the shuttlecraft’s ETA in the fortress docking bay. Then, giving a final moment of attention to the room’s numerous screens and displays, he hurried out, adjusting his alloy faceplate as one would a hat, and tugging his dress blues into shape.

  The docking bay had been transformed into a kind of parade grounds for the occasion, with everyone present as decked out as they had been at the Hunters’ wedding extravaganza. There had been no advance notice of what if any protocols were to be observed, but a brass band was on hand nonetheless. The impression the Plenipotentiary Council wished to convey was that of a highly-organized group, strong and decisive, but warlike only as a last resort. The twelve members of the Council had a viewstand all to themselves at the edge of a broad magenta circle, concentric to the shuttle’s touchdown zone. A majority of the Council had ruled against the show of force Edwards had pushed for, but as a concession, he had been allowed to crowd the bay with rank after rank of spit-shined mecha—Battloids, Logans, Hovertanks, Excalibers, Spartans, and the like.

  The shuttle docked while Edwards was making his way to a pre-assigned place near the Council’s raised platform; since he had been the Council’s spokesperson in arranging the talks, it had been decided that he represent them now in the introductory proceedings. Edwards had of course both seen and fought against the enemy’s troops, and he had met face-to-face with the scientists Obsim and Tesla; but neither of these examples had prepared him for his first sight of the Invid Regent, nor had the Royal Hall’s communicator sphere given him any sense of the XT’s size. Like the lesser beings of the Invid race, the Regent was something of an evolutionary pastiche—a greenish, slug-headed, bipedal creature whose ontogeny and native habitat was impossible to imagine—but he stood a good twenty feet high and was crowned by an organic cowl or hood, adorned, so it seemed, with a median ridge of eyeball-like tubercles. Dr. Lang had talked about self-generated transformations and reshapings that had little to do with evolution as it had come to be accepted (and expected!) on earth. But all the Protoculture pataphysics in the galaxy couldn’t keep Edwards from gaping.

  A dozen armed and armored troopers preceded the Regent down the shuttle ramp (a ribbed saucer similar in design to the troop carriers), and split into two ranks, genuflecting on either side of what would be the Regent’s carpeted path toward the Council platform. Recovered, Edwards stepped forward to greet the alien in Tiresian, then repeated the words in English. The Invid threw back the folds of his cerulean robes, revealing four-fingered hands, and glared down at him.

  “I learned your language—yesterday,” the Regent announced in a voice that carried its own echo. “I find your concepts most … amusing.”

  Edwards looked up into the Regent’s black eyes and offered a grin. “And rest assured we’ll do our best to keep you amused, your Highness.” He was pleased to see the alien’s bulbous snout sensors begin to pulsate.

  Edwards’s one-eyed gaze held the Regent’s own for an instant, and that was all he needed to realize that something was wrong—that this being was not the one he had spoken to via the communications sphere. But he kept this to himself, falling aside theatrically to usher the Regent forward to the Council platform.

  The Plenipotentiary members introduced themselves one by one, and after further formalities the Regent and his retinue were directed to the amphitheater that had been designated for the talks. The Regent’s size had necessitated a specific route, along which Edwards had made certain to place as many varieties of mecha as he could muster. Each hold the summit principals passed through found combat-ready Veritechs and Alphas; each corridor turn another squad of RDF troops or a contingent of towering Destroids. While onboard, the Regent’s every word and step would be monitored by the extensive security system Edwards had made operational as part of his Code Pyramid project—a system that had also managed to find its way into the Council’s public and private chambers, and into many of the fortress’s Robotechnological labs and inner sanctums.

  There was a smorgasbord of food and drink awaiting everyone in the amphitheater’s antechambers; the Regent nourished himself on applelike fruits his servants brought forth. Edwards noticed that Lang was doing his best to attach himself to the Invid leader, but the Regent seemed unimpressed, refusing to discuss any of the topics the Earth scientist broached. In fact, only Minmei succeeded in getting a rise out of the Regent. Edwards noted that the Invid could barely take his eyes off the singer after she had completed her songs, and he retained a slightly spellbound look long after the introductory addresses had commenced.

  Terms for a truce were slated for follow-up discussions, so civilians and members of the press were permitted to enter
the amphitheater itself. Edwards saw to it that Minmei was seated beside him in the front row, where the Regent could get a good look at the two of them.

  The alien’s initial remarks put to rest any doubts that may have lingered in Edwards’s mind concerning the ongoing impersonation. The Regent spoke of misunderstandings on both sides, of a desire to bring peace and order to a section of the galaxy that had known non-stop warfare for centuries. He claimed to understand now just what had prompted the Human forces to undertake their desperate journey, and he sympathized with their present plight, hinting that it might be possible to accelerate the timetable for the Human’s return trip to their homeworld—providing, of course, that certain terms could be agreed upon.

  “It’s a pity there has been so much loss of life,” the Invid continued in the same imperious tone. “Both in Tirolspace and during the so-called ‘liberation’ of Karbarra. But while we may have no cause for further quarrel with your forces here, it must be understood that no leniency could be expected for those of your number who chose to join the Sentinels. And despite what you may have been told by the Tiresians, those worlds—Praxis, Garuda, and the rest—belong to me. The reasons for this are complex and at present irrelevant to the nature of these negotiations, but again we wish to stress that the Sentinels’ cause was a misguided one from the start. It was inevitable that they fail sooner or later.”

  A charged silence fell over the auditorium, and Edwards had to restrain himself from laughing. The Sentinels had not been heard from for four months now. Official word had it that the Farrago was maintaining radio silence for strategic reasons. Then, recently, there was open speculation that the ship had been badly damaged during the battle for Praxis. But Edwards knew better. He felt Minmei’s trembling grasp on his upper arm. Colonel Adams, also seated in the front row, leaned forward to throw him a knowing look.

  “We have only recently lost contact with the Farrago,” Professor Lang was saying. “But I’m certain that once communications are re-established and an accord of some sort is enacted, Admiral Hunter and the others will abide by its terms and return to Tirol.”

  The Invid crossed his massive arms. “Yes, I’m sure they would have honored it, Dr. Lang. But I’m afraid it’s too late. Four months ago the Sentinels’ ship was destroyed—with all hands aboard.”

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and Edwards heard Minmei begin to sob. “Rick … Jonathan,” she said, struggling to her feet, only to collapse across Edwards’s lap.

  Someone nearby screamed. Lang and the rest of the Council were standing, their words swallowed up in the noise of dozens of separate conversations. News personnel and members of the general staff were rushing from the room. Edwards snapped an order to his aide to summon a doctor. Adams, meanwhile, was shoving onlookers aside.

  Edwards held Minmei protectively. Once again he sought out the Invid’s lustrous eyes; and in that glance a pact was affirmed.

  But on Praxis the dead walked—those Sentinels who had escaped the destruction of the Farrago, and, unknown to them, a deadly host of archaic creatures returned to life in the bowels of the planet’s abandoned Genesis Pits …

  “Take a look for yourself,” Vince Grant suggested, stepping back from the scanner’s monitor screen. Rick Hunter and Jonathan Wolfe leaned in to regard the image centered there: an intact drive module that had been blown clear of the ship and fallen into low orbit around Praxis. Vince was reasonably certain the module’s Protoculture-peat engines were undamaged.

  “And there’s no way to call it down?” Rick asked. “A hundred miles or so and an Alpha could reach the thing.” Normally, one could fly a Veritech to the moon and back, but not one of the Sentinels’ all-but-depleted Alphas was capable of attaining escape velocity.

  Vince shook his head, his brown face grim. “We barely have enough power to keep the nets alive.”

  “Then it might as well be a million miles away,” Wolfe thought to add.

  Vince switched off the screen and the three men sat down to steaming mugs of tea one of the Praxians had brewed up from some indigenous grass. After four months it had come down to this: the GMU’s stores were nearly empty and foraging had become one of the group’s primary activities. And in all those months they had yet to come up with an explanation for the disappearance of the planet’s native population. What was left of the central city and all the surrounding villages was deserted. But whether what Bela called “the Praxian Sisterhood” had chosen to leave had not been ascertained.

  Puzzling, too, were the tectonic anomalies and quakes that were continuing to plague the planet, as often as three times a day now. The quakes had convinced the Sentinels’ Praxian contingent that Arla-Non—Bela’s “mother” and the leader of the Sisterhood—had struck a deal with the Invid to move the planet’s population to some other world. Rick wasn’t sure if he bought the explanation, but it certainly served a therapeutic need if nothing else.

  “Look,” Rick said, breaking the silence, “they’re probably already searching for us. Lang’s not about to write us off. And even if the mining operation is close to on-schedule, they’ll have at least one ship readied with the capability for a local jump. We just have to hope the Invid have lost interest in this place.”

  The horde’s absence these months bordered on the conspicuous; and what with the quakes and deserted villages, Cabell had speculated that it was possible the Invid knew something the Sentinels didn’t.

  Rick’s optimism in the face of all this had Vince smiling to himself. Rick would always be a commander whether he liked it or not. “It’s not Lang we’re worried about,” he said, speaking for himself and Wolfe.

  Rick caught his meaning. “Edwards has to answer to the Council.” There was an edge to his voice he didn’t mean to put there. Lang had warned Rick about Edwards during one of the last links the Farrago had had with Base-Tirol, and it was difficult to keep the memory of that brief deepspace commo from surfacing.

  “Don’t underestimate the man’s ambitions, Rick,” Wolfe cautioned. “I’m sure they’re going to come looking, but I’m willing to bet that Edwards will have the Council eating out of his hand by then. Maybe one of us should have—”

  “I don’t want to go over old ground,” Rick cut him off. “The only thing that interests me right now is a way to reach that drive module.”

  Grant and Wolfe exchanged looks and studied their cups of tea. Rick was right, of course: there was no use dwelling on the choices they had made, individually and collectively. Wolfe liked to think that at least Vince had Jean by his side and the precious GMU under his feet. But Rick had all but resigned his commission, and Wolfe himself had left his heart behind.

  A rumbling sound broke the silence now, causing the mugs to skitter across the tabletop. The tremor built in intensity, rattling the command center’s consoles and screens, then subsided, rolling away beneath them like contained thunder.

  No one spoke for a moment. Wolfe wore a wary look as he loosened his grip on the edge of the table and sat back to exhale a whistle. “Course Praxis could do us in long before the Invid or Edwards.”

  “Pleasant thought,” Vince told him.

  Rick gave them both an angry look. “We’re going to get to that module if we have to pole vault there.”

  Tactical concerns (and personal preference) had kept Vince Grant and Rick somewhat anchored to the GMU (which had been moved inland from its original seaside landing zone); but the rest of the substantially reduced Robotech contingent, along with the XT Sentinels, had opted for Praxis’s wooded valleys, the planet’s often glorious skies, and rolling hills. Max and Miriya’s Skull Squadron had spent most of the past months reconning remote areas, hoping to come upon some trace of the vanished Sisterhood; but they had only succeeded in further depleting already critical reserves of Protoculture fuel. Consequently, the Wolfe Pack stuck close to base, Hovertanks shut down. Bela and Gnea and the other Praxians had voluntarily detailed themselves to serve the group’s logistical needs, and wer
e assisted in this by the bearlike Karbarrans and vulpine Garudans. Cabell had all but isolated himself, disappearing for long walks from which he would return with samples of native rock or flora. Still a bit uncomfortable with the Humans and not yet fully accepted by the XTs, the Tiresian was often found in the company of Rem, Baldan, Teal, and the limbless Haydonites, Veidt and Sarna. Janice, too, had become an unofficial member of Cabell’s eldritch clique, much to Rick and Lisa’s puzzlement.

  Presently, Cabell and Janice were off together on a long walk; they were on a forested slope about fifteen miles from the mobile base when the tremor that had shaken the GMU struck. The minor quake did little more than knock them off-balance and loosen some gravel and shale from nearby heights; but it was the morning’s second shakeup and it brought a severe look to Cabell’s face.

  Janice had thought to take hold of the old man’s arm and utter a short panicked sound as the ground began to tremble. It was a performance worthy of Minmei’s best, although Janice could hardly appreciate it as such—any more than she could fully understand just what had compelled her to seek out Rem and Cabell’s company in the first place. That this should somehow please Dr. Lang was a thought as baffling to her as it was discomforting.

  “There, there, child,” Cabell was saying, patting her hand. “It will be over in a moment.”

  They recommenced their climb when the tremor passed. Janice disengaged herself and urged Cabell to go on with what they had been discussing.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, running a hand over his bald pate, “the trees.”

  Janice listened like a student eager for As.

  “As you can see, they’re nothing like the scrub growth we found on Karbarra—far healthier, much closer to the unmutated form.” He motioned with his hand and went up on tiptoes to touch the spherical “canopy” of a healthy-looking specimen. The tendrils that encased the solid-looking sphere and rigid, near-transluscent trunk seemed to pulse with life. Gingerly, Cabell plucked one of the verdigris-colored, applelike fruits, burnished it against his robe, and began to turn it about in his wrinkled hand.