Breetai became agitated. "That must not be allowed to happen, Exedore. My orders have been most specific: I want the fortress captured intact and undamaged. The ship is our primary concern, not the people in it."
"Sir, I fear that Khyron understands destruction only. 'Capture' is too subtle a strategy for him to comprehend."
Breetai shot his adviser a look. "Khyron is a Zentraedi. He'll do as he's ordered or face the consequences."
Exedore bowed slightly. "Certainly, my lord."
Would that it were so, he thought. And did the Micronian commander in charge of Zor's ship have similar issues to deal with, or were orders carried out without question at all times? Like the Zentraedi, the Micronians were a warlike race; but had they too arrived at that evolutionary point where individual initiative was willingly relinquished for
the greater glory of the whole? The data documents were not clear on this point.
Exedore stared at the fortress, as if attempting to project himself onboard. What were the Micronians planning? he wondered. What would any one member of that race be thinking at this very moment?
She loves clothes. Her favorite colors are shades of pink and purple. She lacquers each fingernail with a different color polish. She likes to wear dangling, outrageous earrings, shoes that give her more height and match her mood, bright belts with large buckles..."It's no use!" Rick said out loud. He got up off the bed and began to pace the scant distance it took to cover his new quarters wall to wall.
The invitation to Minmei's birthday party lay unopened on his bed, the envelope sealed with a paste-on red velvet heart. Cute. There was no need to read it-half of his division had received invitations, and everyone was flashing them in front of his face with knowing smiles. He wasn't sure that he was even interested in going to the party under the circumstances. When it was just the two of them, everything was fine. But in a large group, Minmei wanted center stage and Rick often felt like just another nobody in the audience. Just another faceless member of Minmei's adoring public. Neglected. Yeah, that was how he felt. And jealous, he had to admit it. Angry, confused, depressed...the list went on and on. It was almost as long as the list of possible gifts he'd formulated. But none of the items seemed quite right, not one of them was perfect, and that was what he was shooting for. Something that would say what he couldn't confess.
And just what was that? he asked himself. He wanted to tell her how special she was-how beautiful, and sexy, and charming. How flirtatious and conceited and spoiled and-
All this was getting him nowhere-fast. He collapsed onto the bed, put his hands under his head, and stared at the ceiling. When he closed his eyes and tried to think things through once more, something unexpected happened: The face of Lisa Hayes filled his mind. This wasn't something
new, but it continued to take him by surprise. The truth was, it had been happening a lot since Sara Base.
Was he really such an idiot that he was going to invite yet another woman to run roughshod over him? An older woman at that, a superior officer who gave every indication of despising him in spite of his rescue efforts on her behalf? A cold and distant plain-looking woman who seemed more a part of the SDF-1 than a part of the crew? So why was he suddenly feeling that she too needed protection and affection?-his protection, his affection. But Lisa occupied a different place in his heart than Minmei, someplace he couldn't reach with thoughts alone.
Rick was rescued from this by a call announced through the intrabarracks comm system.
"Attention the following personnel: report to headquarters: third lieutenants Justin Black and James Ralton; second lieutenants Xian Lu, Carroll James, and Marcus Miller; first lieutenants Thomas Lawson and Adam Olsen..."
Rick listened for a moment, lost interest, and was about to rehash his dilemma, when he heard his own name called.
He made himself presentable and left the barracks, walking listlessly toward headquarters and wondering just what he might have done to get himself called on the carpet this time. He ran through a mental list of the possibilities as he rode the elevator to the command level of the ship.
It was a day for lists, that was for sure.
A female lieutenant led him into a briefing room where the others whose names had been called were already gathered. Rick fell into an end position and looked down the line: Black, Ralton, Olsen...these guys were all square shooters. No one needed to read them the riot act, and not one of them seemed the slightest bit concerned; just the opposite, in fact: confidence and pride radiated from each face.
When a captain called attention, Rick squared his shoulders and feigned unconcern. Colonel Maistroff and some of the top brass entered the room. The colonel seated himself at a long table and glanced through the
files piled in front of him; then he cleared his throat and addressed the line. "Since the battle for Sara Base on Mars, the men assembled here have
established for themselves records of bravery under fire. Therefore, I am pleased to award them the titanium Medal of Valor for their distinguished service. Gentlemen: We proudly acknowledge your achievements!"
The female lieutenant had carried over a flat unlidded box, and from this Maistroff lifted out the medals, pinning one to each breast in the line and offering his hand in congratulations. Rick wanted to pinch himself to make certain he wasn't dreaming. He craned his neck to try to get a good look at the medal after Maistroff had decorated him.
When the brief ceremony ended, Rick left the room. He found Roy Fokker waiting for him, all smiles and beaming like a proud older brother.
"Nice going, Rick."
They shook hands and embraced. Rick said, "I still can't believe it." "Amateur civilian ace for eight years running and you're not used to
awards by now?" Roy laughed. "Come on down to my office for a minute."
They caught up on the events of the past few days as they walked. At the office, Roy motioned Rick to a chair and positioned himself behind the desk opposite him. He opened a drawer, retrieved something, and tossed it to Rick.
It was a small, flat leather case. Rick hefted it and asked, "What is it?" Roy's smile was enigmatic. "Go on, open it."
Rick snapped open the lid: Lieutenant's bars rested on green velvet beds.
"You've been promoted, Rick." Lieutenant Rick Hunter.
Rick asked Roy to say it so he could get used to the sound of it. "Lieutenant Rick Hunter."
Rick signaled his approval with a nod. It sounded fine. Next he turned his attention to the information contained in the dossiers Roy had given him.
I'm assigning two subordinates to your command.
Some of the dossier material flashed across the monitor screen on Roy's desk: CORPORAL BEN DIXON; 378 HOURS IN FLIGHT SIMULATION AND 66 ACTUAL HOURS. CLASS A. MAXIMILLIAN STERLING; 320 HOURS IN FLIGHT SIMULATION AND SO ACTUAL HOURS. CLASS A.
While he listened, Rick absently fingered the medal of valor pinned to his jacket.
"These guys are novices, Roy."
Roy stuck out his jaw. "You're the old veteran now?" "Well, I've flown more missions than these two."
"To me you're not a lot different from them, Little Brother. You've flown more than some but a lot less than most of us. It's too early for you to get cocky."
Rick considered this sullenly. He removed the medal and regarded it. What is it really? Just something to make me feel better about going out as cannon fodder again.
Roy had gotten up to answer a knock at the door, and when Rick looked up, he found his two new subordinates stepping forward in formal salute to introduce themselves.
Dixon, the larger of the two by almost a foot, was muscular and aggressive. He had a crop of undisciplined brown hair that rose from his head like flames caught in freeze frame. There was a note of arrogance about him, but this was softened somewhat by his husky self-mocking laughter. Sterling, in contrast, was mild-mannered and soft of voice. And yet there was something almost false about his humility. He wore his hair long, with uneven bangs that kept falling
in front of his aviator glasses. It was unusual to meet a pilot with impaired vision, and Rick reasoned that Sterling's talents had to outweigh the disadvantages presented by less-than-perfect eyesight.
Rick acknowledged their salutes, and Roy made the informal introductions. But after a few minutes of pleasantries, Rick was beginning to feel uncomfortable with his two new dependents and took advantage of a
lapse in the conversation to excuse himself. Minmei's party would be kicking off soon, and he wanted to catch her alone for at least a few minutes. However, when Ben and Max suddenly expressed an interest in accompanying him, Rick reconsidered his options: Showing up at Minmei's with new lieutenant's bars and two subordinates in tow would surely gain him some points. At least it would show her that his superiors viewed him as responsible and serious, even if she chose not to.
So the three of them left Fokker's together, already exchanging- stories and searching out common ground. They tubed into Macross City, hitting a few spots on the way, and it wasn't long before they were fast friends.
Macross was a different experience each time Rick visited it. Resident old-timers-people born back in the 'forties and 'fifties-claimed that it would have taken generations to construct what Robotech engineers and crews managed in a week. All of this was due to technological advances brought about with the arrival of the SDF-1. Some of the city had been "created" through the use of Enhanced Video Emulation-the people were fed illusions as in some turn-of-the century film-but most of it was a real, pulsing metropolis now. Certainly no city on Earth could boast of a park with views to match those from Macross Central. You were not just staring up at the stars from the benches there; you were among them.
The three VT pilots were a few blocks from the White Dragon, when several "death-beds" rumbled by-huge flatbed vehicles carting off the battle-damaged remains of Veritech fighters to recycling. Without raw material, the SDF-1 techs had to reuse everything.
Rick looked over at his new comrades and studied their reaction to the passing wrecks. His jubilant mood had vanished. Fighter pilots were similarly recycled, he told himself.
"There's the whole truth about war," Rick said, gesturing to the death-beds.
"I don't want to end up like that," said Max.
Ben bellowed his laugh. "While I'm around you've got nothing to worry about."
Lieutenant Rick had an impromptu speech on the tip of his tongue, but he decided to let Dixon's remark slide. Ben would find out for himself soon enough.
The war machine would chew them up and spit them out. You could only give it your best shot and hope the odds were in your favor.
"Luck" was a term the Zentraedi were unfamiliar with; their language contained no words for it, and their psychological makeup embraced no such concept.
Khyron had suffered a setback. It had nothing to do with chance or odds. He had failed because he had listened to Breetai and disregarded his own instincts. This would not happen again. This enemy was unpredictable. Where it would be advantageous to press an attack, they would retreat; where it would have been wise to use the massive firepower of Zor's ship, they instead relied on small fighters. And the worst of it was that they seemed to value life above all else. Sooner or later Khyron would have to play on that fear of death they carried around.
He had appointed a new second-in-command to replace Gerao, who was now in solitary confinement for having failed to detect the Micronians' countermeasures at the abandoned base. The blank faceplated visage of this second was currently on the monitor screen in Kyron's quarters.
"But, my lord," the second was saying, "what about Commander Breetai's reaction to our continued attacks? He has made it clear-"
"Forget about him! Do you dare question my authority?" "My lord!" The second saluted.
"We'll deal with that ship in our own way. Now pay close attention: Breetai has prescribed war games for us. This is his way of humiliating me for our failures. But we're going to turn this opportunity to our advantage. We're going to take that ship, if it takes every last piece of mecha in the Zentraedi armada!"
Things were quiet on the bridge of the SDF-1, a little too quiet to suit
Claudia Grant. The ship had been in a deep-space orbit around Mars for scarcely a week, but that week felt like an eternity. And it had been that long since Lisa had exchanged more than three words with Claudia or any of the others on the bridge. Something had happened to Lisa down there, but even Claudia couldn't pry any of the details from her. To be sure, it had something to do with Karl Riber. Claudia figured that he must have been quite a man to keep Lisa in limbo for eight years. For most of the ship's crew and the population of Macross City the red planet afforded some sense of stability and center, but for Lisa it was a constant reminder of loss, an orbit of pain.
The enemy had been hammering away at them for the past week, determined to keep them from making any progress toward Earth. But the launch window for a return to Earth was still two weeks away, so they would have remained here regardless. Conserving fuel, making repairs, and using Mars's gravity to throw them toward Earth when the right moment came. Nevertheless, they had attempted to keep the planet between themselves and the enemy; until yesterday, when long-range recon units had reported that a sizable contingent of enemy ships had dropped to an inner orbit near the Martian moon Phobos. The enemy was sandwiching the fortress between their forces. Claudia was worried, and Lisa's continued silence and sulking were not helping at all.
Claudia held something in her hand she thought might break her friend's distracted mood: It was a dispatch from Maistroff's office listing the new field promotions. Rick Hunter's name was on the list. Claudia tapped the dispatch against the palm of her left hand. Maybe anger was just what the doctor ordered.
She sidled over to Lisa, suppressing a grin as she handed over the dispatch.
Lisa accepted it disinterestedly and scanned the short column. Claudia watched her expression change as the name registered. Lisa crumpled up the paper and slammed both her palms down on the radar indicator board.
"I can't believe it! I just...I can't believe this! It's unbelievable!"
"What is it, Lisa?" Claudia was still playing dumb, and not very effectively.
"Don't be coy with me, Claudia. You've seen this list. How does Hunter rate a promotion to group leader?"
Claudia stroked her chin. "Uh, let's see, I think he was involved in some sort of rescue operation-"
"That's a matter of opinion, Claudia. Oh oh..."
Lisa was staring at the radar screen and fiddling with the control knobs.
Claudia went over to her. "What's up?"
She was working the dials, trying to tune something in. "I guess I shouldn't have slapped this thing so hard-it's all static."
"Try switching over to the backup overrides," Claudia suggested. She did, but the static remained.
"I'm going to run this through computer analysis," said Lisa.
The two women waited for the system to display its diagnosis. They sucked in their breath when it appeared: It was a jamming pattern.
"Put us on yellow alert," Lisa said with newfound enthusiasm. "Notify all VT teams to report to their fighters and stand by."
Things at Minmei's party had gone from bad to worse, and for Rick, the yellow alert siren blaring in the streets of Macross City felt like a reprieve.
By the time he and his new cohorts had arrived at the party, the restaurant was already packed. In addition to scores of Veritech defenders and a few of Minmei's show business friends, the mayor and his cronies were circulating around, pressing the flesh. At times it seemed to Rick that Mayor Luan harbored some secret plan for Minmei, as if she was some pet project or secret weapon he was going to unleash on the world. Minmei, dressed to kill in her purple mandarin tunic was at her butterfly best flitting from table to table, center stage no matter where she was in the room. She was hard on Rick for arriving late. Moreover, he had forgotten to pick up a present. She was duly impressed with the new lieutenant's bar
s but an
instant later had taken an immediate shine to shy Max and was at that very moment singing harmony with him to guitar accompaniment. And the mayor hadn't helped matters any when he came over to Rick and in a conspiratorial whisper warned him about letting Minmei get too far out of sight-"She seems quite taken with your new corporal, Rick"-as if Rick could influence what she did and where she went.
Rick had quickly become withdrawn and moody, non-communicative even when Minmei's orbit took her past his table or her wink from across the room was meant to single him out as some sort of accomplice in her performance. Rick stayed close to the mildly intoxicating punch and kept his eyes down for most of the afternoon.
But then the alert had been sounded.
And now all the flyboys were gulping down their drinks and racing for the door, leaving Minmei standing alone, her song left unfinished, center stage stolen from her by the war. And even though Rick couldn't approve of her petulance and spoiled behavior, he couldn't help being moved by her innocence and naivet? He wanted to run to her and promise her that this war would go away soon and that all her dreams would come true. But the best he could promise was his return later with the gift he had for her. He gave her his kerchief to wipe the tears from her face, and she put her arms around his neck and thanked him with a hug.
"What would I do without you, Rick?"
He pulled away from her embrace; Max and Ben were calling to him from the hexagonal doorway, motioning for him to get himself in gear-after all, there was a battle to be fought, a war to be waged!
"Come on, Lieutenant, we don't want to keep the enemy waiting, do
we?"
Rick looked at Ben and felt a sudden urge to strangle him. No, he
thought, we mustn't keep them waiting.
CHAPTER EIGHT
One must now address the reasons for Khyron's failures. Was he defeated on each occasion by the Earth forces, or was he in fact defeated by his own commanders? So often recalled from the very brink of success; so often within reach of victory. Why wasn't he allowed full rein? Again, there is wide disagreement among the commentators we have been discussing throughout. Gordon (along with several of his psychohistorian disciples) wants to convince us that Dolza and Breetai had so misread Gloval's tactics as to believe that he would have destroyed the ship rather than allow it to fall into Zentraedi hands. And yet, Exedore himself has stated that: "...rivalry had completely splintered the Zentraedi high command. Continued contact with Human self-initiative had by this time fostered unrecognized and certainly incomprehensible competitive drives in the commanders themselves. Dolza, Breetai, and even Azonia (who had reasons of her own to behave otherwise) were unconsciously mimicking an emotion they had never experienced. 'For the greater glory of the Zentraedi' had already become an archaic phrase."
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