Doomsday: The Macross Saga

by Jack McKinney

  “Rick—”

  “—and it isn’t likely that the Zentraedi are going to call off their attacks.”

  She let him get it all out and let silence act as a buffer.

  “The Council will rescind their order, Rick. The captain says he’ll keep the ship right there until they do.”

  Rick smirked. “Good. And the sooner it happens, the better. I know we’re all anxious to get back into battle.”

  Rick’s eyes burned into hers until she could no longer stand it and looked away. Was he blaming her somehow for Roy’s death? Had she suddenly been reduced to some malevolent symbol in his eyes? First Lynn-Kyle and his remarks about the military, and now this … Below she watched the traffic move along the grid of city streets; she looked long and hard at the Sierra foothills, as if to remind herself that she was indeed back on Earth, back among the living. But even if the Council had a change of heart, even if her father came to his senses and allowed the civilian detainees to disembark, what would become of the SDF-1 and her crew?

  Where and when would they find safe haven?

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  LAPSTEIN: In light of the, well, “psychological” problems which beset the Zentraedi after the SDF-1’s successful return to Earth, isn’t there some justification for suggesting that Khyron should have taken over command of the Imperial Fleet?

  EXEDORE: (Laughs shortly) We would not be having this interview, of this I can assure you.

  LAPSTEIN: Of course … But in terms of strategic impact?

  EXEDORE: (After a moment) It could be said that Khyron was more aware of the dangers of cultural contagion than many of us, but he was no longer thinking as a strategist. The SDF-1 was not his main concern; that the ship contained a Protoculture matrix was of little importance. He had by now come to believe that by destroying it he would put an end to what he regarded as a psychic threat to his race. I will leave it to your “psychologists” to examine his underlying motives. But I will add this: He was responding in pure Zentraedi fashion—he recognized potential danger and moved to eliminate it. My hope is that this will rescue his image from what many of your writers have termed “humanness.”

  Lapstein, Interviews

  Khyron was possessed by the Invid Flower of Life; without being aware of it, he was by now working against the Zentraedi imperative.

  Rawlins, Zentraedi Triumvirate: Dolza, Breetai, Khyron

  Well within striking distance of Earth, two Zentraedi cruisers moved through space, silently, side by side, Gargantuas from an unholy realm. A day would come when the commanders of these ships would stand together at the gates of an even blacker void, released from an artificial past and feverish with exhilaration for a present in the making, hands and hearts linked, an evil pact made good, laughing into the face of death … But today there were harsh words and recriminations, a taste of what was to come for the rest.

  Khyron slammed his fist down on the command post console, his right hand pointed accusingly at the projecbeam image of Azonia, her arms folded across her chest, as much in defiance as in defense.

  “It can’t be!” the so-called Backstabber shouted. “Why are they ordering us to fall back?”

  His lowered head and narrowed eyes peering from beneath bangs of sky blue gave him a demonic look.

  Azonia addressed the projecbeam image on the bridge of her cruiser.

  “I’m not at liberty to explain, but our orders are clear, Khyron: Until this new operation is terminated, you will do nothing but stand fast and wait. Is that clear?”

  She tried to sound calm but knew that he would see through it. Khyron glared at her.

  “Don’t play games with me, Azonia. That ship grows stronger day by day, while we sit and do nothing.”

  “Khyron—”

  “Your meddling in my plans allowed the Micronians to reach their homeworld. But it is not too late to undo the damage you’ve done: Destroy them now!”

  “Enough!” she screamed at the screen. But he paid her little heed. An angry sweep of dismissal with his arm, bared teeth, and he was gone. The projecbeam compressed to a single horizontal line and vanished, but Azonia tried to raise him nevertheless.

  “Khyron, come in, Khyron! Come in at once!”

  Too late. She leaned forward to steady herself on stiffened arms, palms still flattened against the com buttons. She knew him well enough to fear him, but it wasn’t fear that was threatening to overcome her. These were darker feelings, utterly devoid of light, far worse than fear. And suddenly she recognized what it must be: Commander in Chief Dolza had relieved Breetai of his command, had entrusted her with the mission to retrieve Zor’s ship, and she had failed him.

  Failed him!

  Just then Miriya was admitted to the bridge, and Azonia felt a glimmer of hope. If anyone could help her deal with Khyron, it would be Miriya, the Zentraedi’s most skilled pilot. But Azonia was soon to learn that Khyron had already undermined these plans also.

  “I’m glad that you’re here,” Azonia welcomed the female ace. “Commander Khyron is jeopardizing our mission. I’m going to need your help to keep him in line.”

  Miriya lowered her gaze. “Commander, I …”

  Azonia approached her with concern. “Miriya, what’s wrong? Out with it.”

  “I have come to request your permission to enter the dimensional fortress … as a spy.”

  Azonia was shocked. “Micronized?!”

  “Yes. I have been studying the enemy’s language, and I am confident that my presence will profit our cause.”

  “But why? Why would our finest pilot want to become a Micronian? You’re not making sense!”

  “Please, Commander, I have no choice.”

  “Nonsense! Tell me. I order you.”

  Miriya’s deep green eyes flashed; she tossed back her mane of thick hair and locked gazes with Azonia.

  “I have been defeated in battle … bested by a Micronian, an insignificant bug! I must find and destroy that pilot. Until then I’m of use to no one. You must permit me, Commander, for the glory of the Zentraedi.”

  Defeat! thought Azonia. Failure! What was to become of their once glorious race?

  Khyron wasted no time putting his attack plan into effect. Moments after breaking contact with Azonia he was on his way to the cruiser’s Battlepod hangar, where his lieutenants and squadron leaders would receive their briefing. Every minute lost brought the Zentraedi that much closer to defeat; of this he was certain. The Micronians were making repairs, taking on stores, readying themselves for another round …

  Defeat … There was a time not long ago when the very word found no place in his thinking, let alone the idea. But recent events had reshaped his world view; dangerous possibilities were now entertained where none had existed before. This operation directed against the Micronians of “Earth” was beginning to assume portentous dimensions. Left in the dark to puzzle out the intricacies of this war that was not a war, Khyron had been forced to rely on instinct and rumor; he had implicit faith in the former but little use for the latter unless, as in the present case, he found corroborating evidence of his own. And at the center of the complexities was Zor’s ship, the Super Dimensional Fortress. That the fortress, with its Protoculture matrix, was a trophy worthy enough to justify the expenditures of the operation was beyond dispute. And that it had to be kept from the Invid, equally so. But surely the Robotech Masters would concede that at this point the fortress was expendable; the Micronians, having already unlocked some of its secrets, posed a threat greater than loss of the ship itself. And threats were best dealt with directly. But what should have been a straightforward eradication and mop-up exercise, no different from scores of similar operations effected throughout the quadrant, had become a hazardous hunt—an attempt to recapture the fortress intact at any cost. Had the Commander in Chief forgotten the Imperative?

  The Zentraedi were a race of warriors, not gamesters.

  Just what were Dolza and Breetai up to? Over and over agai
n Khyron had put the question to himself. Were they serving the Robotech Masters or some rebellious design of their own? His suspicions had been temporarily laid to rest when Breetai had been relieved of his command, but now he was beginning to consider that this, too, was part of their plan. That Azonia had been chosen to head up the operation was disturbing—maybe a sign that the Old One was in fact losing his grip—but beside the point in any case. Azonia’s time had run out; once under way, the present attack plan would accomplish a secondary purpose in seeing to that. But Dolza’s next move remained to be seen; should Breetai be returned to command, Khyron would have no choice but to accept his rebellion theory as truth. But he also understood that a schism now would only add to an already perilous course. That was why the present situation had to be defused.

  In the cavernous lower chambers of the Zentraedi cruiser, the assault group was assembled. In addition to the usual complement of Botoru tri-thruster assault ships, carapace fighters, and scout recons, there were scores of specialized mecha outfitted with ECM and radar jamming devices. Khyron laid out his simple plan: The dimensional fortress was to be destroyed.

  As Khyron prepared to strap into his Officer’s Pod assault ship, he exchanged some final words with Grel, who would man the helm in Khyron’s absence. The square-jawed face of the First Officer was on the overhead screen in the central hold.

  “Wait until I approach the fortress and activate ECM before you follow and land your fleet, Grel.”

  “Although Earth’s atmosphere makes it difficult to maneuver, we will obey.”

  “See that you do. Intelligence reports indicate that the Micronians care a great deal about their miserable world, so if we bring the fight there, the fortress and the planet will be ours for the taking.” Khyron noticed Grel’s eyes shift back and forth. “Questions, Grel?”

  “No, sir … But we are going against Azonia’s orders again, aren’t we?”

  Khyron laughed maliciously. “Just carry out your orders. I’ll take care of her after we return.”

  Khyron lowered the canopy of the Battlepod. He ingested two dried leaves from the Flower of Life and brought his mecha to the edge of the cruiser port.

  The first controlled firing of the main gun, the Daedalus Maneuver, the return to Earth: three “whoopees” in two long years of warfare …

  But now there was cause for genuine celebration on the bridge of the dimensional fortress: Gloval’s ploy had worked. The North American Ontario Quadrant, one of a growing number of separatist states seeking autonomy from the Council’s stranglehold, had agreed to accept the civilians. Ontario had its own reasons for doing so, but the captain wasn’t about to ask questions. Gloval felt as though an enormous weight was about to be lifted from his shoulders—he could practically feel the worry lines on his face beginning to fade. Now, if Dr. Lang could only figure some way to transfer Macross City as well, lock, stock, and barrel.

  News of the recently received crypto-communication spread like wildfire through the ship. Spontaneous parties were already under way in the streets of the city, and Gloval would have been given a ticker-tape parade if there had been any ticker tape available. Residents were hastily packing and making preparations to leave, embracing one another, sobbing good-byes, taking last looks around. As expected, there were more than a few who wished to remain onboard, but there were to be no exceptions to the captain’s orders: All civilians had to go. Perhaps when the war was over, like some “city in flight” the SDF-1 would be taking Earth’s children to their destiny …

  But most of that was for starry-eyed dreamers and science-fantasy buffs; most of Macross wanted out. The tour was finished; it was time to get back into the real world, reconnect with family left behind, tear up the premature obituaries, and start living again. No more alert sirens waking you up in the middle of a false night, no more military scrip or play money, no asteroid showers, no more—thank heavens!—modular transformations. Many of the residents forgot that these same hopes had been clashed only short weeks before.

  The Defense Force was never polled as to its feelings, though the results no doubt would have proved interesting. To some, Macross was the ship’s heart, and they had fought hard on Earth and in deep space to protect that transplanted center. To be appointed guardian of their homeworld would have been a fair enough trade-off, but that was not to be the case. The Council had already made this clear: Their orders were to lead the aliens away from Earth, to bring the war back into deep space where it belonged, to act as a decoy until such time as the Earth was suitably prepared to deal with invasion. In other words, they had been singled out for sacrifice. If there was supposed to be some sort of grandiose nobility attached to this, it was not readily apparent. But fortunately for the Council, the Earth, and the dimensional fortress commanders themselves, there were few members of the Defense Force in possession of all the facts.

  Rick was belowdecks in the Prometheus when Max and Ben brought him the news from the bridge. He was in uniform, number-two torx driver in hand, standing alongside Skull One—Roy Fokker’s Veritech. An opened access panel in the nacelle below the cockpit broke the unity of the fighting kite insignia, but Rick missed the symbolism. Nevertheless, he stared into the exposed circuitry, even tinkered a bit, as if searching for memories of his lost friend. The fighter had been fully repaired and serviced; there were no signs of damage, no evidence of the fatal rounds sustained, but that didn’t mean the exorcism had been complete. Roy’s presence lingered palpably.

  Rick closed the panel as the two corporals approached.

  “Just doing some maintenance,” Rick said by way of explanation. Yeah, self-maintenance.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Max. “Lisa Hayes told us you were down here.”

  Ben eyed the fuselage numerals. “Hey, this is Commander Fokker’s Skull One, isn’t it? I didn’t know you were going to be flying it.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Rick answered distantly. “Guess I was lucky to get it as my aircraft assignment.”

  He turned away from them and put his right hand against the mecha almost reverently. “Nice touch of irony, don’t you think? Commander Fokker was always so proud of the fact that he’d never gone down. Now he’s … gone, and I get his plane. Me … the guy who’s always being shot down—even by our own ordnance. Just kind of ironic, that’s all.”

  Rick’s friends exchanged concerned looks, but Max broke out of it and into a smile. He told Rick about the civilians, and the lieutenant said, “Terrific.” Undaunted, Max continued.

  “Apparently the North American Ontario Quadrant will be accepting them, and the official announcement will be given tomorrow by Captain Gloval.”

  “So how’s about we get a jump on the celebration?” Ben said, full of good humor. “We could hit Macross for some food, drink, whatever else comes along.”

  “You could use the recreation, Lieutenant,” Max hastened to add.

  Rick’s slow smile was a signal that he’d already made up his mind. He had to climb out of his funk somehow, and he didn’t see how low spirits could stand a chance in Macross just now.

  “It sounds good, guys. In fact, it’ll be my treat.”

  Ben beamed. “Well how about that, Max?” He moved between his friends, a head taller than both, draping his arms over their shoulders and leading them away from the Veritech. “Doesn’t that sound like something the new pilot of the Skull One would do? C’mon, let’s get going before he changes his mind.”

  Rick glanced over his shoulder at the silent mecha; then he surrendered himself to Ben’s lead.

  Khyron’s assault unit launched from the cruiser and plunged into Earth’s atmosphere, triple-thrusters brilliant orange against a peaceful field of cloud-studded blue.

  The dimensional fortress, still configured like an upright winged techno-knight, was over the city of Toronto when radar alerted the bridge of the impending attack.

  Vanessa leaned over her console and entered a series of commands. She leaned back in her chair as “paint�
� and directional symbols began to fill the large screen.

  “Multiple radar contacts in five, six, and seven. A squadron of alien spacecraft.” Her words came in a rush. “Pods, recons. Small ships, mostly. Coming in from an altitude of twenty miles, north-northwest.”

  Gloval didn’t want to believe it. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered emphatically.

  Sammie moaned, “Oh, no!” as both Lisa and Claudia turned from their forward stations to regard the threat board.

  “Just as we were entering the Ontario Quadrant.”

  “Exactly,” said Claudia in a way that meant: typical!

  Gloval had not moved from the command chair; his hands were tightened on the arms, as much to prevent himself from rising as to get a grip on the situation.

  “We cannot afford to come under attack here,” he announced. “Commander Hayes, order all pilots to red alert immediately!”

  “Here you are, mister, one giant top sirloin, medium rare,” the chef said as he placed cutting board and cut in front of Ben.

  He, Max, and Rick were in the Kindest Cut, one of Macross City’s finest steak houses. They had elected to sit along the circular counter which ringed the central grills—“close to the action,” as Ben put it. Exhaust fans and an enormous copper hood overhead took care of most of the smoke, but you had to be a real red-meat lover to deal with the odors, the sizzle and pop that were inescapable up front.

  “Thanks a lot, pal,” Ben said, pulling the platter-shaped cutting board toward him.

  His friends were staring at the steak in disbelief.

  “Does this smell great or what?” He had knife and fork poised, ready to dig in.

  “Looks like a lot to eat,” Max said tentatively.

  A massive hunk of meat was impaled on Ben’s fork. “I’m so hungry, I might order another one!” He laughed loudly, then opened his mouth widely, the forkful a scant inch from his mouth when an announcement blared over the citywide PA.