Doomsday: The Macross Saga

by Jack McKinney

  The captain quickly ordered her to switch to subsystem power.

  Meanwhile three of the nine screens at Kim’s station and two at Sammie’s had blacked out; two others were flashing a field of orange static.

  “We have an overload situation in the outer field circuits …”

  “Number seven converter has exceeded its limit …”

  “Emergency backup crew, report to your service areas.”

  Lisa brought her hands to her ears and went on the aircom net. “Skull Leader, keep your comline open for emergency orders.”

  The threat board showed the Zentraedi warships continuing their advance. “They’ve just entered the red zone, Captain!” Vanessa shouted.

  Then, suddenly, there was a blood-curdling scream through the patch lines from the shield control room and primary lighting failed. The bridge crew looked like the living dead under the eerie glow of console lights. Klaxons and warning sirens were blaring from remote areas of the fortress. Sammie’s station screen had gone fully to orange.

  “It’s reaching critical mass,” she yelled. “It’s going to explode!”

  Rick heard the panic in Lisa’s voice. “Skull Leader, evacuate your team at once—the barrier system is about to chain-react. Evacuate—”

  Rick, Max, and Ben thought their Battloids through an about-face. Beyond the rim of the Zentraedi warship they could see the barrier transubstantiate: What appeared as the selfsame shield was in fact shot through and through with submolecular death.

  Rick watched as radiation detector gauges came to life in the cockpit. He raised his teammates on the tac net and told them to clear out on the double.

  Behind them the shield expanded, its internal colors shifting from green through yellow and orange to deadly red; then, after a blinding flash of silent white light, the shield was gone. In its place a hot pink hemisphere began to form, an umbrella of horror fifty miles wide.

  The three pilots ran their Battloids along the armored hull, past turrets and singed bristle sensors already slagging in the infernal heat; they reconfigured to Guardian mode and launched themselves, the spreading shock wave threatening to overtake them.

  Rick glimpsed one of the warships rise from the pack and accelerate to safety. But the rest were annihilated, atomized along with every standing structure and living thing on the ground.

  Skull One was tearing through fuchsia skies, fire nipping at the fighter’s tail. Inside, Rick searched desperately right and left for a sign of his wingmen. Max’s ship came into view to port, but Ben was nowhere in sight.

  “Ben, Ben!” Rick cried.

  “Behind you, Lieutenant!”

  Rick found Dixon’s radar blip on the screen; Ben was converting to Guardian for added thrust.

  “Hit your afterburner—now! Do you copy?”

  Ben’s voice was terror-filled: “It’s too late, Rick! I can’t make … Aaarrrggghhh!…”

  Rick shook his head wildly, as much to deny the truth as to keep the sound of death from his ears.

  He crossed himself as Ben’s radar image began to fade.

  A second friend lost … color gone out of the world …

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  All of a sudden it seemed everything was out of control. Here we were back on Earth, feeling more displaced than we’d felt in deep space. The Council refused to hear us out. The Zentraedi attacks continued unabated, we’d lost Roy Fokker and Ben Dixon, and thousands of innocents had been killed. I wasn’t alone in feeling this sense of hopelessness. But it was something we weren’t supposed to discuss, as though we had all agreed to some unspoken rule: By not talking about it we could make it go away … Day by day it was becoming more difficult for us to find any sense of comfort or acceptance in Macross, and here was Lynn-Kyle adding fuel to the fire, spearheading a peace movement which could only further undermine our attempts to defeat the aliens. Not that there wasn’t ample justification for civil unrest. But we were one ship, one cause—no thanks to Russo’s Council—an independent nation at war with the Zentraedi! I had personal reasons for disliking [Kyle], but I now found reasons to distrust him as well. That he had turned Minmei against me, I accepted as given. But I couldn’t stand still and allow him to threaten the ship, that military/civilian integrity essential for our survival.

  The Collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter

  The enemy energy poured into and absorbed by the barrier cloud had chain-reacted; at the center of the ensuing explosion the SDF-1 was left relatively untouched, but on the ground countless thousands were dead. Within a twenty-five-mile radius from the fortress the Earth’s surface was scorched and flayed beyond recognition.

  As a consequence, the Ontario Quadrant subcommand had refused to allow the SDF-1 civilians to disembark; those onboard who had heard the rumors early on ceased their premature celebrations and faced the heartbreak.

  Eight of the twenty-one techs who manned the barrier system controls had been killed, and the rest were listed in critical condition. The air corps had suffered heavy casualties.

  Ben Dixon had tuned out …

  But the really big news in Macross City focused on Lynn-Minmei: She had been hospitalized for exhaustion.

  Reporters caught up with Lynn-Kyle on the steps of Macross General. The long-haired star was angry enough to create a scene, but he thought better of it and decided to use the news coverage to his advantage. He left their rapid questions unanswered until they got the hint and backed off to let him speak.

  “What does Minmei’s doctor say?”

  “What is the prognosis?”

  “Kyle, how long will she be hospitalized?”

  “Come on, give us something—you’re her closest friend.”

  “How is this going to affect the shooting schedule for the movie the two of you are doing?”

  “All right, listen up,” Kyle said at last. “I want to make a statement concerning the war. In the midst of all that’s going on, all this continual destruction and loss of life, you people want to ask me about Minmei’s health. Are you all blind to the realities of this situation or what?”

  One of the reporters smirked. “I get it, we should be focusing on your needs, huh?”

  Kyle shot him a baleful look. “Have you ever stopped to consider the priorities? You’re prisoners aboard this ship, we’re still under attack, the Council has written you all off, you’re being lied to left and right, and you spend your time chasing after a celebrity who’s fainted from overwork! Forget this nonsense. We’ve got to find a way to put an end to this war.”

  “What would you have everyone do, Kyle?”

  “Are you planning to head up a new peace movement?”

  “Open rebellion, passive resistance, letters to Command—what are you advocating?”

  Kyle held up his hands, then pointed toward one of the group as he responded. “It’s your responsibility to expose these cover-ups. Point out the lies and contradictions. Show the people of this city the military leaders as they really are. We’ve got to begin pressuring them. We’re fifty thousand strong, and we can put a stop to this.

  “Right now all we’ve got is devastation and destruction—no winners, only losers. This is an inhumane, no-win situation. The only conquest that should concern us is the conquest of our warring nature.”

  Kyle V-ed the fingers of his right hand and held it aloft. “Peace must conquer all!”

  While Lynn-Kyle was urging the press to smoke out enemies of peace from Senator Russo’s Council and the SDF-1’s leadership command, Earth’s fate was under discussion several billion miles away. Khyron’s cruiser, the lone survivor of the barrier shield chain-reaction explosion, had refolded to Dolza’s command fortress with trans-vids of the catastrophic event. The Zentraedi Commander in Chief was viewing these now, shock and deep concern on his ancient stone face. Breetai, on the other hand, wore a self-satisfied, knowing grin.

  Wide-eyed, Dolza ordered a replay of the video—a second look at that enormous canopy of destru
ction, that hemispheric rain of death, a hapless Micronian city atomized, a verdant land utterly denuded.

  “These Micronians are more ruthless than I first believed,” the Old One was willing to admit. “They were prepared to sacrifice an entire population center simply to defeat four small divisions of attacking mecha!” Without turning to Breetai, he added, “I suppose their determination comes as no surprise to you, Commander.”

  Breetai swung around to face Dolza, his grin of self-vindication still in place. He placed one arm on the table and said simply, “No, sir.”

  “Commander Azonia’s inexperience with these beings has proved to be an obvious liability. I am therefore sending you back to take charge of our forces.”

  Breetai narrowed his good eye at the pronouncement; he’d anticipated this moment for some time. “On one condition,” he told Dolza, taking delight in the Old One’s disgruntled reaction. “I must request that the Imperial Fleet be redeployed and placed under my command.”

  “Why such a large force?” Dolza demanded.

  Breetai gestured to the wall screen. “You have seen what the Micronians are capable of. They are unpredictable and dangerous. I’m going to need the extra resources.”

  “Very well, then. You have them,” Dolza said stiffly.

  Breetai rose and brought his right fist to his left breast in salute. “Your lordship.”

  Dismissed, he started for the door, but Dolza called out to him, “One more thing, Commander.”

  Neither one of them turned around: Dolza sat stone-faced in his chair; Breetai stood straight and unmoving, right hand clenched at his side. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “I expect you to give me better results this time.”

  The words dripped with menace, the implication clear.

  “You’ll not be disappointed with my performance, m’lord.”

  When Breetai reached the sliding door, Dolza added, “For your sake, I hope not.”

  Exedore was waiting for him in the corridor, eager to learn the results of the brief meeting. Breetai brought his adviser up to date as they returned to the flagship. The first stage of the journey—one that suitably suggested the enormous size of the command center—was on foot. The two Zentraedi walked for several minutes until they reached an egress port, where a curved platform jutted out into the command center’s central chamber. This was a vast low-g space of water-vapor clouds and what might have appeared to human eyes as blue skies. An open-aired-hover-dish met them at the edge of the railed flyout and transferred them to a waiting shuttle, one of several “anchored” in antigrav stasis. In true Zentraedi fashion, these shuttlecraft resembled nothing more than oddly shaped fish, with two small circular “mouths,” one above the other at the ship’s snout, and ventral forehead slits and bilateral gill membranes aft, which were actually the exterior drive housings. The shuttlecraft conveyed them through the heart of the chamber—over a veritable city given over to the Robotechnological devices which maintained the command center—to the main docking area where ships-of-the-line, cruisers, destroyers, and battlewagons were anchored. Ultimately they were delivered into the flagship itself. Breetai insisted that they go directly to the bridge.

  The observation bubble and the command post’s circular viewscreen were in ruins, unchanged since Max Sterling had piloted a VT through them over two months before. But at least the debris had been carted away and the commander’s chair and twin microphonelike communicators were intact.

  “I’ll be most eager to hear what our spies have to report when they return from their mission,” Breetai was saying.

  “Yes, our emergence from hyperspace will be the signal they’ve been waiting for.” Exedore continued, “Their observations should prove most enlightening, my lord. Surely we’ll learn to what extent the Micronians have applied their knowledge of Protoculture. From there it should prove a simple step to redesign our offensive campaign.”

  “Let us hope so, Exedore,” Breetai said noncommittally. “Now, give the order to all vessels of the Imperial Fleet to prepare for an immediate fold operation.”

  Exedore turned to his task. Klaxons were soon sounding, and announcements issued over the command network.

  “All vessels move to fold position … Axis pattern adjust to flagship’s attitude … countdown has begun … Hyperspace-fold to commence in exactly one minute …”

  Exedore surveyed the vessels of the Imperial Fleet as the countdown sounded. He was pleased with Breetai’s reawakened confidence. But there was something … some nagging doubt remained at the edge of his thoughts. Words of warning from the ancient texts continued to erode his strength. A secret weapon, a secret weapon …

  One million warships readied themselves for the fold.

  And Exedore wondered: Will they be enough?

  On the way to his quarters in Barracks C, Rick heard himself being paged and walked over to one of the yellow courtesy phones.

  Minmei.

  “Rick, I’m so glad I got you. I guess you’ve heard the news that I passed out. Well, it’s true. I’m in the hospital now, but I don’t want you to worry about me. It was just overwork, and now I’m catching up on some much-needed rest … Oh, Rick, why don’t you come over and visit me. It would be great; I could really use the company. You don’t have to bring me anything—”

  He replaced the handset in its cradle, stood there staring at it for a moment, uncertain, then walked off. Again he heard his name on the PA, but this time he ignored it.

  He went straight to the computer keyboard in his quarters, sat down, and began to hammer away at the keys methodically and without pause. He commanded the printer on-line and tore free the single sheet he’d completed.

  “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dixon,” he read aloud. “As your son’s commanding officer, it is my sad duty to inform you that—”

  Ben, hit your afterburners—now!

  Rick crumpled the paper in his hands and threw it aside in anger. “I just can’t do it!” he shouted to the monitor.

  Beside him on the desk was a photo of Ben and his parents taken years ago, along with a letter from them that had arrived too late. Rick took hold of them and stood up.

  They were both so proud of him! There’s nothing I can say to make this any easier. It seems like such a waste!

  There was a knock at the door; he replaced the items and went to answer it, a weary stranger in his own room.

  At the door it all caught up with him. Palms pressed against the cool metal for support, he stood there and sobbed, letting his pain wash out uncontrolled. Then suddenly he spun round at the sound of a familiar voice, a ghostly hallucination his mind wanted desperately to embrace.

  Ben was leaning over the computer, as though reading what Rick had written, one foot crossed in front of the other, his characteristic grin in place.

  Lieutenant, old buddy—hi!… Hey, I know you’re feelin’ bad, but it couldn’t be helped. It was just my time to go.

  Rick turned away from the apparition, complimenting one part of himself for a nice try. But he wasn’t about to let himself off the hook that easily.

  He hid his face and tears from Max as the door slid open. Sterling spied the photo and letter but said nothing. He reminded Rick that the two of them were due on deck shortly, and they left the room together a minute later.

  Why wasn’t Max equally broken up about Ben’s death? Rick asked himself. He considered what his mind had materialized only moments before. It couldn’t be helped, it was just my time to go … Was there something to that?

  In the elevator Max seemed to read his thoughts.

  “I guess it’s tough being in command,” he told Rick. “I mean, after a while you start feeling responsible for everybody who’s serving under you, right?”

  Rick turned to him. “You don’t know how helpless I feel each time we go into battle. Each time we … lose someone. It’s like letting someone slip from your grasp and fall. You’re always wondering if there wasn’t something more you could have done, somethin
g you overlooked.”

  “I wonder if I’ll feel that way when I get my first command.”

  Max’s response surprised him; he wasn’t going to get the sympathy he’d expected.

  “It’s probably coming soon,” Max continued. “Command just promoted me to second lieutenant, and it’s barely a month since I was promoted to third lieutenant.”

  They were ascending the wide staircase that led to the starboard observation deck overlooking the Daedalus. Rick stopped to look at Max.

  “I’m sure you’ll make a good commander.”

  Rick’s tone was flat, but he meant it; Max not only had the required skills, he had the faith and will to carry on—he knew how to stow away the horrors. Rick thought he’d achieved that after Roy’s death. Before the battle he had felt renewed, but with Ben’s death that feeling had faded. In its place was a hopelessness he could barely bring himself to confront.

  A female tower controller’s voice rang out over the ob deck speakers: “Unloading will commence in exactly one minute. Please be sure all cargo bay doors are open to receive supply consignments from helicopter shuttle groups. Under flight decks should now be clear and convoy vehicles in place to continue transfer to warehouse distribution centers …”

  The SDF-1 was back at its original landing site in the Pacific, floating now in Cruiser mode like some techno-island. For days, huge cargo carriers and choppers had been flying in all make and manner of supplies and provisions. Trucks and transports lumbered through the streets of Macross city day and night, confirming the worst fears of the civilians aboard: The battle fortress was no longer welcome on Earth.

  Max pointed out a fancy-looking double-bubbled jet chopper coming out of pink and lavender sunset clouds to set down on the carrier deck. In addition to the Robotech insignia, it bore black and gold Earth Council markings.

  “Gotta be somebody important,” Max guessed.

  “It’s from Alaska HQ. I’ll bet they brought lift-off orders. We’re the only thing standing between Earth and the Zentraedi, but they’re ready to toss us to the sharks, anyway.”