“Paradise is like Earth used to be before the Invid, or the Robotech Masters, or the Zentraedi! People are free there, and safe.”
Annie felt faint. A place where people were safe and free and happy! But what was Eddie saying?
“—the place for me. It’s taken us a long time, but that’s where my family’s going. I—I wish the whole world could be like Paradise.”
Annie launched herself straight up, throwing her arms around his neck, clinging there, swinging her feet. “Oh, Eddie! That’s so beautiful! I love you! Please take me with you? Pleasepleaseplease?”
The mayor of Deguello’s mansion was as grand as a small palace. The place had fallen into extreme disrepair in the latter twentieth century, especially with the privations of the Global Civil War, and the First and Second Robotech Wars. But now there were signs of a revivification. The reflecting pool and formal gardens had regained much of their glory; the mansion shone with light and elegance.
The mayor, son of the previous mayor and descendent of many, sat in the ballroom, holding the hand of a beautiful woman who in turn owned his heart. Donald Maxwell, so used to commanding the obedience of others, of navigating his way through the treacherous political waters of Deguello and the post-invasion world, thought there was a cosmic symmetry to it: everyone had their Achilles’ heel, and his was love.
Under the ballroom’s chandeliers, brilliant even in daytime, and the paintings as big as barn doors, portraits of a score of ancestors, he sat in his Louis XIV chair and she in hers. In its time the ballroom had been the most splendid and celebrated in a hundred mile radius. Now, though, its decor was stranger than anything its original builders could ever have envisioned.
“But we must talk about our wedding, Carla,” he was saying. “It’s long past time.
“Have you tired of my lovetalk? Then think about what you have to gain if you marry me! I’ve always given you everything, anything you wanted. But this I need from you! And when you’re my wife, my only thought will be to make you happy!”
Maxwell’s Northern European and North American bloodlines were evident in his blond hair, pale skin, and Anglo features. His meticulously tailored three-piece pinstripe suit—a traditional costume, as he regarded it—only served to set them off.
Caria, too, was fair-skinned. She was slim and willowy, a brown-haired, angel-faced young woman with a permanent air of sadness and a far-away look in her green eyes. She seemed about to speak, but then hesitant.
A servant entered and spoke softly. “Your pardon, sir, but your visitor has arrived.”
Maxwell’s hold on Carla’s hand loosened a bit. Without turning he commanded, “Show her in.” The servant bowed and left. To Carla he whispered, “Please! I need you so!”
She steeled herself. “Why? Donald, why do you insist on possessing me? Why can’t you just accept what I’m willing to give?”
He rose, hearing the door open again, releasing her hand. “Because you can be much more than that,” he whispered again, more harshly.
Then he turned away, and his fine, handmade shoes clicked on the polished dance floor. “Ah! The famous Miss Yellow Dancer! You honor us! Please do come in; I’m Donald Maxwell, Mayor of Deguello, very pleased to make your acquaintance!”
“You are so very kind,” said Yellow Dancer with a shy lowering of her chin, her voice melodious and soft. She looked out at the ballroom in some wonder, through thick lashes.
Parked there were three fighter planes of Global Civil War vintage: a red Vampire jumpjet; a needle-nose Vandal all-weather fighter-bomber; and a Peregrine interceptor wearing the famous skull-and-crossbones insignia of the American VF-84 Squadron—the Jolly Rogers.
Maxwell had caught the look, was expecting it. “You find my old relics interesting? Maintaining them is something of an extravagance, of course, but—it’s something of a matter of family pride, you see.”
No visitor had failed to be astounded at the sight. Maxwell drew a certain sensual pleasure from seeing the sculpted brows of the renowned Yellow Dancer raised high. “Mr. Mayor—these planes still fly, then?”
He basked in the impact his collection had made. “They haven’t in many, many years, but—of course, or what would be the point of having them?”
He indicated the way with a slight bow; Yellow fell in, walking between the gleaming, sleek-lined sky hunters while he went on. “I’m no aviator, you see; they were refitted to fly by auto-pilot, the very last word in Human guidance systemry, before Robotechnology changed all that forever.”
They had walked beneath the open landing gear bays, the poised wings. Yellow could see that the external hard-points and pylons were loaded with what seemed to be real, functioning ordnance, and that the jets looked fully operational.
“The planes basically flew themselves,” Maxwell was saying. “These were my father’s prized possessions; they’re dear to me as he was dear to me. They’re all I really have left of him, really.”
They had come to two easy chairs over by the high windows, some distance from where Carla sat. Maxwell pointedly made no introductions. “Please sit down. Your note said that you’re seeking employment?”
Yellow Dancer nodded, a purple wisp of hair falling across her cheek. “Yes, and I hear you are the owner of a fabulous nightspot here in town, correct?”
Maxwell nodded, his eyes searching Yellow’s, drinking her in. Lancer had heard through resistance sources that Maxwell was a collector of Yellow Dancer’s performance tapes and sound recordings. In fact, the mayor had made tentative inquiries with an eye to getting the legendary Yellow Dancer to perform in his mountain domain.
“I am indeed. And if the magnificent Yellow Dancer were to perform there, it would help my people by boosting the town’s economy—and my own, of course.”
Yellow Dancer chuckled slyly. Unnoticed, Carla suddenly broke her sad reverie, her head snapping up, eyes going toward where the two sat. “I’d be thrilled to, Mayor Maxwell,” beamed Yellow Dancer. Carla’s breath caught in her throat, and she put one hand on the arm of her chair, feeling faint.
It can’t be! But—I’ve got to be sure! She forced herself to her feet.
The mayor was saying, “A bravura performance by Yellow Dancer will lift people’s spirits. Certainly it will help in my reelection campaign.” It didn’t look or sound like Maxwell was very worried about being unseated, though.
Yellow Dancer looked up amiably, ready to greet the mayor’s fiancée. A sudden astonishment came across the fine-boned, androgynous face.
Carla could only stare down at Yellow. It is Lancer!
Maxwell hadn’t noticed Yellow’s expression, because he was reaching up to take Carla’s hand. He made the introductions and added, “I have a splendid idea! We’ll have ourselves a deal, Yellow, if you promise to sing a ballad for our wedding! And I’ll move the date up to tomorrow afternoon. Now how’s that?”
Yellow barely heard what the mayor was saying. Like Carla, Yellow had the feeling that the gold of the sunset had engulfed the whole room, whisking them to some other time and place.
Maxwell’s Club Inca was the finest spot in the region, but it was still a sad place, more of an echo of a bygone era than an evocation of it.
Carla sat watching Yellow Dancer move across the stage, dedicating the first number to the bride and groom. The groom was off somewhere attending to more of his seemingly endless business, and the bride was trying to hold back her tears.
The noontime wedding, at Maxwell’s mansion, had been a joyless affair attended mostly by his attendants and a few local notables. Carla had refused an elaborate wedding gown, insisting on wearing a simple blue frock. She had gone through the motions like a zombie, barely aware of what she was doing, knowing only that Lancer hadn’t come to her.
She had thought he would seek her out, and save her from the wedding. And then in time she realized that, for some reason, that wasn’t going to happen.
But now, alone at her table at the Club Inca, she watched Yellow Dan
cer’s every move. She couldn’t be wrong! Lancer must have come back for her at last!
Yellow wore one of her most stylish outfits, a feminized version of the Cabaret MC’s costume, complete with vest, bowtie, derby hat, and spats. Very Marlene Dietrich.
As promised, the song was an old Minmei number, sung for the mayor and the new Mrs. Maxwell. The alluring chanteuse broke into song, accompanied by recorded music because the house band just wasn’t up to her level of performance.
How could it all have turned out this way! Carla wondered, staring into her champagne glass as though the answer were there.
Her memory strayed again, back to a time just after the Invid destroyed the planet Earth.
The brunt of the conquest was over in hours. Striking with beam weapons and energy effects that humanity still could not comprehend, the Invid exterminated over eighty per cent of the Human race. Many more died as the Invid mecha descended to ravage and slay.
The remnants of the Army of the Southern Cross rose to fight, were thrown back in defeat, regrouped, tried again against any sane hope, and were shattered beyond repair.
Still there were those who refused to surrender, as the aliens established themselves and began their pacification of the planet. One of these was a young aviator reservist named Lancer who had just begun to explore his love with a woman named Carla when the hordes from the stars struck.
Even as the Invid established their network of quislings, informers, and assassination squads, Lancer and a few others were plotting for a final attempt to strike at the heart of the Invid beachhead.
But the raid was a final disaster. Wounded, attempting to get back to her, Lancer had crash-landed his Veritech less than a mile from her door. Somehow, Carla had gotten him to what was left of her home.
By then, most of the people still alive were those willing to submit to the Invid. Some even served them—hunted down their enemies and offered them up to the triumphant invaders.
Lancer had barely come to in Carla’s bed when the sounds of the hue and cry drifted up from the streets. Rifle butts were bashing at doors; hounds bayed.
In time, the manhunt came to Carla’s house.
CHAPTER
TEN
If you hold it against me that I was a little theatrical in what I did, and you don’t care to consider The Scarlet Pimpernel or Zorro, be kind enough to keep in mind what I accomplished, and let the record speak for itself.
Of if not, either walk on by or step out back.
Remark attributed to Lancer
That time seemed so remote, Carla thought, and yet it remained so crystal-clear in her mind.
Lancer had a fine record as a military officer, but he had left the Southern Cross sometime before the Invid attack because he had been unable to fight the urge he felt to be a performer. His soft, intimate way with some songs, his brassy, crowd-pleasing style with others, made him a natural; but there was another side to his art.
An interest in theater had led him to investigate the Japanese traditions of No, Bunraku, Bugaku, and especially Kabuki. He found that he loved to perform clownish Saruwaka antics more than he liked any Aragoto swaggering heroic lead, and in somewhat the same way, the martial juggling/acrobatics of the Hoka possessed him.
And he came, in time, almost against his will, to a fascination with the revered craft of the Onna-gata—the tradition of female roles portrayed by specializing male actors—and the gentle Wagoto style of acting.
Lancer found a strange understanding of himself through the Musume, the ingenue role, and dramatic masters encouraged him to study the art. In the West there was still, in many quarters, a horror at the blurring of gender lines. But in the Kabuki his talent was applauded, by men and women both, for its triumph of art over stereotype, and for its submersion of self in role.
Lancer returned to the Americas with new thoughts in his head. He began to revive the type of gender-blending pop music figure that had disappeared with the outbreak of the Global Civil War.
When he met Carla, she seemed immediately to understand everything. Carla became his co-conspirator, his lover, his confidant, his fiancée. She became a mainstay of his life, showing her affection for his Musume persona, joining him in a world where conventions and Western narrowness had no hold.
Everything was fine until the Invid came. While Earth passed into the flames, a young reserve aviator named Lancer lay listening to the tread of Shock Trooper mecha and the sound of rifle butts and hobnailed boots breaking down doors in the alley outside.
Carla was already nearly as adept at some parts of his craft as he. “There’s only one way you can survive, and that’s as Yellow Dancer,” she said, even as she was setting out makeup.
When the Invid manhunters came in they found only two frightened women. Their insistent search turned up nothing—Lancer’s VT armor having been left behind—and they went away grumbling, the Shock Trooper’s optical sensor indicating nothing as the hulking war machine turned to go.
Carla leaned to kiss her lover longingly. ‘You’re Yellow Dancer now. You must be, every moment, or we’re dead.”
In retrospect, it seemed a happy time but sitting at the table in the Club Inca, Carla knew that it had been filled with fear and travail. By foot and ox cart and stolen bike and a half-dozen other means that they took as the occasion arose, she and Yellow Dancer moved toward some hoped-for safety. Yellow even began singing for their supper, when the opportunity came up. Not only did Yellow Dancer’s persona submerge Lancer’s; Yellow and Carla came to meld, in a way.
Then there came a day in a huge rail terminal, both of them clutching forged documents from the Resistance that would get them to a possible place of safety. The region they were in was somewhat neutral, and Carla’s lover was Lancer once more. Dark thoughts seemed to have overtaken him once his male persona reasserted itself; the halcyon days of the escape were over, and aliens strode the Earth, exterminating Human beings at will.
And as the bullet train began moving, Lancer leapt from it. The doors shut and secured automatically behind him. He crouched, staring at the surface of the train platform so that he wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. Lancer had to let the train take Carla to safety so that he could join the Resistance in the fight against the Invid.
Carla was gone from the sad little bridal party table by the time Yellow Dancer finished her encore set. Yellow went downstairs to her makeshift dressing room. What point would there have been in seeing Carla alone? The Invid kept the two apart, no less today than on that day in the rail station.
When Yellow Dancer opened the door, Carla sat waiting.
Yellow Dancer and Lancer surged and vied in a single mind. Carla seemed small and frail, sitting with her hands in her lap, facing the door, waiting only for Yellow’s return. “After three years,” she whispered. “You’ve come back for me at last!”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she watched Yellow sit down. “Time stopped having any meaning for me, do you know what that feels like? What happened to you? I’ve felt—my life has been so empty!”
What Yellow might have said will never be known; at that moment the door slammed open and Annie rushed in. “Lancer! Oops, didn’t mean to interrupt, but—I’m in love!”
“That’s all right, Annie,” Lancer replied, but his eyes were on Carla.
In love, Carla thought. Lancer was looking at her now, not Yellow Dancer. “I-I was in love with someone once,” Carla told Annie haltingly, wondering if she sounded deranged.
Annie appeared not to notice Carla’s despair. “Fall in love again, okay? Then you’ll be just as happy as I am!”
Annie gripped Lancer’s hand. “Eddie and his folks are getting a map, an honest one, that’ll tell them how to get through the mountains to Paradise. And they’re taking me along! They’re gonna be my family!”
It dawned on her that neither Yellow Dancer nor Carla seemed very happy for her. She jumped off the couch and resettled her E.T. cap. “I just couldn’t leave without saying good-bye
. Um, well, my dreamboat’s waiting—g’bye!” She skipped out the door, tra-la-la-ing.
“Good-bye, Annie,” Yellow Dancer said softly.
“Love,” Carla mused, realizing what it was that she had seen in Lancer’s eyes. “And ours is gone forever, isn’t that what you were going to say?”
Annie caught up with Eddie where he was waiting for his father at the Central Deguello Bank. Mr. Truman came down the steps of the bank with a briefcase under one arm, looking up as he heard his son call out to him.
Eddie’s father had been away for a few days, so Eddie said, “I’d like you to meet a very special friend of mine.”
“Hi, Mr. Truman! My name’s Annie LaBelle!”
Truman, a lean, stoop-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, had a careworn face and wore much-repaired wire-rim glasses. He looked weary but friendly. “Well, Annie LaBelle, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He thought he knew why Eddie had taken a liking to Annie; she was so much like Eddie’s little sister, Aly—Aly, dead these eighteen months since the White Virus cut its swath through the region.
To his son, Truman said, “Eddie, we’ll be leaving soon—just as soon as I wrap up a few things. I found a buyer who wants the shop, and Mrs. Perio upped her offer for the house. Make sure everything’s packed, and as soon as I get home, we’ll be on our way.”
Eddie shifted from foot to foot, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Um, Dad, I told Annie she could come with us.”
Truman let show a faint smile. “Why, of course you did, Son. Don’t leave anything behind, Annie; we’re getting out of here for good.”
As Mr. Truman walked off, Eddie whooped and did a little war dance; Annie pirouetted, giggling deliriously. “Paradise, we’re on our way!”
The ten-ounce gold bars, flat and wide as candy bars but much smaller, looked so insignificant there on the desk, Mr. Truman thought. And yet they had taken so much time and sacrifice and work to accumulate. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows made them so bright that they made him squint.
Invid Invasion: The New Generation Page 26