Doomsday: The Macross Saga

by Jack McKinney

  But Grel persisted. “It’s a lot worse than that, sir. There is talk among many of our own soldiers about defecting to the Robotech ship to lead the Micronian way of life!”

  Khyron spun around, fists clenched. “Defecting?!”

  “M’lord!” snapped Grel. “That’s what I heard. And not just a few—”

  “Enough!” shouted Khyron. “Is anyone in the higher command aware of this?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “As I thought.” Khyron sneered. “Everyone is losing their minds over what’s happening on the battle fortress …” He raised his fist. “Well, let them! Let them perish through their own stupidity! Khyron will survive and prevail! Khyron will live to see that ship destroyed! Khyron alone will rule the Fourth Quadrant of the universe! And woe to anyone who stands in his way!”

  It was true that neither Breetai nor Dolza had received word of the incipient desertions, but the commander in chief had reasons of his own for wanting the Micronians annihilated. Breetai had dispatched a ship to the command center with trans-vids of the “death-ray” sequences he and Exedore had viewed. There, Dolza had come as close to fear as his Zentraedi conditioning allowed.

  A trans-vid of his response was quickly returned to Breetai. The fleet commander and his adviser screened this on a rectangular monitor that had been installed behind the remains of the spherical one Max Sterling’s VT had finished off some months ago. The brief message did not take either of them by surprise.

  “I am now convinced that the Micronians have discovered the secrets of Protoculture,” Dolza stated flatly. “And as a result they are extremely dangerous to us. Any prolonged contact with them can only have a disastrous effect on our troops. I am therefore ordering you, Commander, to begin preparations for a final assault on the Robotech ship. You are to infiltrate the fortress and secure the Protoculture matrix. Failing that, you are to destroy the ship. And understand me, Breetai: This time I expect results. Succeed or find yourself facing the fury of my fleet.”

  * * *

  Word of the impending assault threw the Minmei followers into a state of dismay.

  “What do we do now?” asked one of the cultists, Minmei poster in hand. “When we attack the fortress, we’ll probably kill this girl. We’ll never get to hear her sing!”

  “We want to hear her sing!” yelled another.

  There were at least twenty of them in concealment behind a row of Battlepods in one of the flagship docking bays. All eyes were on Rico now.

  “It’s not just singing. In the fortress population center they have loads of things we don’t have. All that will be lost if we attack them!” He struck a determined stance. “Why don’t we save them, and save ourselves as well?”

  “How?” several voices said.

  “We can’t do anything by just thinking about our future. I say we look for a way to remain aboard the enemy ship when the attack begins.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Even in their weakened state, enough residual conditioning remained to leave them fearful in the face of Rico’s suggestion, and more than one forehead was beaded in sweat. But Rico had given voice to their wishes, and soon Bron and Konda were slapping him on the back, full of encouragement and congratulations.

  “If they catch us, we’ll be executed,” said one of the few holdouts.

  But Rico was on a roll. “That’s the chance we’ll have to take,” he said, scanning each face.

  “Then count me in. I want all those things I’ve never had before.”

  “Me, too,” said another, and another. Shock trooper and duty officer alike continued to cast yea votes until it was unanimous.

  “Okay. We’re in it together,” Bron said finally. “But before we can enter the enemy ship we’ve got to become Micronians.”

  Again there was a moment’s hesitation as the irreversibility of their decision set in. Then someone asked, “Do you know how to work the sizing chamber well enough, Bron?”

  “No,” he confessed. “It takes a specialist to operate it, right, Karita?”

  All eyes focused on a meek, docile-looking blond soldier at the outer perimeter of the group. Nervously, Karita clasped his hands together as Bron put the question to him. It was true. He knew the secrets of control levers eight and nine.

  “Without permission?” he seemed to whimper.

  “Of course, you fool. If the plan is discovered, we’re all dead!”

  “You want to hear real singing, don’t you?” said Rico, trying a gentler approach.

  Karita turned his back to them and stammered, “Sure I do, but, well, uh …”

  Bron took the Minmei poster from someone’s hand. “If you help us, this picture and the singing doll are yours. What do you say to that deal, Karita?”

  “Well … I don’t know …”

  “We’ve got to work like a team,” said Konda. “If we stick together now, we’ll all be able to enjoy a new life with the Micronians.”

  Karita turned to face them. “All right. I’ll do it. But you’ll have to promise to take me with you.”

  Bron went over to Karita with a big grin and put an arm around him. “You just operate the converter. We’ll see to it that you get into the ship.”

  Meanwhile, aboard the dimensional fortress life was busy imitating art. Little White Dragon, finally shown in its entirety, had received ecstatic praise from one and all, and more than ever Lynn-Minmei’s voice seemed to weave a magic spell over the ship. During a follow-up concert carried live by MBS, there wasn’t a man or woman who didn’t feel somehow transported by the star’s songs and gentle lyrics. On the bridge Captain Gloval grew introspective, remembering better if not quieter days. Vanessa, Sammie, and Kim, ever-present cups of coffee in their hands, slipped into a sort of collective daydream fantasy where those “silver suns” and “golden moons” were almost tangible and love was something no longer sought but found and embraced. Claudia Grant walked through London snow she hadn’t thought about in years, arm in arm with Roy Fokker, her lover still in that interior realm unlocked by Minmei’s magic. Even Lisa, who only the day before had walked out on the film, succumbed; but it wasn’t Karl Riber she thought of but Kyle, who brought into question all that she had lived and worked for, all that she was.

  And from the stage wings of the Star Bowl Kyle watched his cousin perform as though for the first time, feeling at once threatened and comforted, concerned about how much attention was lavished on her and how little was focused on ending the war but at the same time recognizing how all-important Minmei had become to morale and the personal strivings of all those onboard the fortress.

  Not for a moment, though, did the singer herself question her gifts or her purpose. Tearfully she accepted the applause, the flowers and love, but in a strangely distanced state of being, as though outside herself, her songs on the side of love in the eternal struggle of good against evil.

  And was there anyone more aware of Minmei’s cause than Rick Hunter, standing now outside the Star Bowl as she finished one of her tunes, his ear pressed up against one of the posters that adorned the amphitheater wall? She was his cause from the beginning, and it seemed certain now that she would be his cause at the end.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Although films like King Kong, Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman, and Devil Doll had understandably enough become popular onboard the SDF-1, perhaps we should have been paying more attention to a little-known classic called One Touch of Venus, wherein a statue of the goddess comes to life and sings a song that weaves a spell of love over everyone.

  Lisa Hayes, Recollections

  The right arm of Zor’s ship drew back and hurled itself forward as if it were part of a living being, its steel-hulled supercarrier fist punching through the armor plating of the Zentraedi cruiser and crippling it; only then, with the ship so impaled, was the forward ramp of the carrier lowered and the full firepower of the Micronian Destroids unleashed.

  “The ‘Daedalus Maneuver,’ as it is called
,” said Exedore. “Apparently named after the oceangoing vessel itself.”

  Breetai ordered a replay of those trans-vids which had captured the Micronian battle maneuvers for study: the deep-space destruction of Zeril’s cruiser and the fiery death of a destroyer under Khyron’s command when the SDF-1 had been temporarily redocked on Earth. Exedore was arguing that it might be possible to force the Micronians into employing the maneuver once again, but in such a way as to prove advantageous to the Zentraedi. Breetai was trying to keep an open mind, despite the fact that there was precious little in the way of reinforcing evidence to warrant optimism at this point. If two years of fighting (by Micronian reckoning) had established anything, it was that one could only expect the unpredictable from these Micronians. Still, there was too much at stake to completely rule out Exedore’s plan. He had been as shocked by Dolza’s threats as Exedore had been. That the Micronians presented an unprecedented danger was not to be argued; but to destroy Zor’s dimensional fortress in lieu of capturing it was madness. Without the knowledge contained aboard that ship the Zentraedi would never be able to break free from the yoke of the Robotech Masters. Dolza knew that better than anyone.

  Breetai stroked his chin as the trans-vids ran to completion. “We would be taking a great risk,” he said to his adviser.

  “True, m’lord. But even so, we stand to gain everything if we succeed. If we can force them into executing a Daedalus attack, we might be able to insert a Regault squadron into the fortress without detection. Then we would be in a position to capture the ship intact.”

  Breetai uttered a sound of approval. “That has been my design all along. But how can we make certain the Micronians fulfill their part in this?”

  “First, we must rely on the fact that they judge our actions to be as predictable as we judge theirs to be unpredictable. Then we must take care to so maneuver the flagship that they launch their attack at the bow of our ship. We are strongest there, and with our troops suitably forewarned, it would prove a simple matter to get our infiltrators aboard.”

  “Hmm … you’ve thought this out carefully, Exedore.”

  The misshapen Zentraedi bowed slightly. “May I be permitted to speak freely, m’lord?”

  Breetai gestured his assent.

  “With the one million ships of the Imperial Fleet at our disposal and Zor’s Protoculture matrix in our possession, we would be a force to be reckoned with. Both Dolza and the Robotech Masters would have to deal with us.”

  Breetai grinned. “And what of the Invid? Have you given this thought, too?”

  Exedore’s pinpoint-pupiled eyes widened at the mention of the name, but he regained his confidence soon enough.

  “Those enemies of life as we know it will surely search us out,” he told Breetai coldly. “But they will be made to suffer the same fate as the Micronians, and anyone else who presumes to tamper with Protoculture!”

  The flagship sizing-chamber had been the scene of frantic activity since Breetai’s sounding of general quarters. True to his word, Karita had operated the reduction converters, secretly “micronizing” some twenty Zentraedi soldiers; and Rico, as promised, saw to it that Karita along with three other Minmei cultists found a place in one of the Battlepods. Sometime later the Zentraedi commanders would learn that fewer Battlepods went out than pilots, but it was not something they needed to concern themselves with at the moment; the Zentraedi were not as fussy about this sort of thing as the Micronians were.

  Several conversion kits for the pods had been secured, but not enough to go around. Bron and Konda therefore offered last-minute advice and instructions to the micronized pilots who would be manning the standard pods. Then, in sleeveless sackcloths once again, the three infamous operatives regrouped and climbed aboard the mecha that would deliver them back to the SDF-1 and its world of delights.

  Hundreds of Battlepods pressed plastron to plastron filled the launch bay of the flagship. Pilots ran their craft through systems checks and prepared themselves for battle. Rico, Konda, and Bron were at their stations inside the pod when a change in the attack plan was announced from the bridge: All Regault squadrons were being ordered to move to the bow of the ship and await further instructions.

  “Now what?” asked Konda in a sudden panic.

  “Just calm down,” Bron told him, already beginning to move their Battlepod forward with the rest. “The plan is still to attack the battle fortress, isn’t it? We’ll get our chance, so stop worrying about it.”

  Aboard Khyron’s cruiser, meanwhile, the attack mecha of the Botoru Battalion were readying themselves. The Backstabber’s Officer’s Pod headed up four shipshape columns of the Seventh’s finest fighters. Khyron was addressing them over the net:

  “The Micronian ship is almost within range. As soon as their fighters are launched, we will take to space and engage them. Do not concern yourselves with losses; think only of victory

  Khyron lowered the visor of his helmet. The stage is set, he said to himself. Nothing can save the Micronians now!

  From inside the flagship command bubble Breetai ordered his attack force into motion—a relatively insignificant number of ships but appropriate for the occasion. He wanted the Micronian commander to feel confident, not unduly threatened.

  “Follow my lead toward the enemy fortress,” he spoke into the communicator. And he thought to himself: Let the games begin!

  * * *

  Sammie’s scream broke them out of the trance Minmei’s songs had sired.

  Lisa and Claudia furiously began to tap commands into their console keyboards, while Kim let out a call that brought Captain Gloval running. Vanessa sat hunched over the threat board controls like some maniacal organist.

  “Thirty ships,” Lisa said, as Gloval tried to make sense of the overhead monitor readout. A schematic showing the fortress’s position relative to Earth revealed that a triangular formation of enemy paint had emerged from behind Luna and was presently on an intercept heading with the SDF-1.

  “Thirty,” Gloval said, puzzled. “Why, when they have so many at their command? What can they be planning?”

  “Estimate of TOA and DOA coming in, sir,” said Vanessa.

  Gloval turned to the threat board and back to Lisa.

  “Sound general quarters. Scramble the Veritechs.” Gloval took to the command chair and exhaled wearily as alert Klaxons blared throughout the fortress.

  Thirty ships, he kept repeating to himself. Not an arbitrary number, but somehow calculated. The enemy was actually communicating with him, offering up just this number of ships as a tease. Not enough to overwhelm the fortress, though just enough to ensure a tight fight. So why was he experiencing such an unusual sense of dread? He couldn’t put his finger on the cause, but he likened the feeling to those small warnings your mind transmits just as you’re stepping into an accident. Something says “oops!” to you even before you’ve committed yourself to an action, but your body refuses to listen: It moves forward into catastrophe in some irrevocable fashion, obeying laws of causality as yet unknown.

  Gloval stared at the monitor screen, watching the radar blips move closer and closer to the fortress. Well, here was all the advance warning anyone needed, and still he could not bring himself to turn tail. How that would surprise those Zentraedi bastards! he said to himself. If he just refused to engage them, if he just set the ship on a course of retreat … What response did they expect from him this time? he wondered. Once again he would be forced to choose between shield and main gun. Or he could simply wait it out until the enemy began to turn on itself, as had so often been the case. But no, that would go against his training.

  Gloval made up his mind that he would simply meet the ships head-on, no second thoughts about it. Brute force against brute force, one on one. He’d bring the Daedalus into play if he had to. Just punch those ships from space, one after another. Starting with that lead monster up in lights on the radar screen. Yes, the SDF-1 would start with her: an all-out strike to the front of the formation!


  Rick was still leaning against the curved wall of the Star Bowl when the sirens went off. He joined a group of VT pilots who had raced from the amphitheater and flagged down a taxi. Together they piled inside and ordered the driver to put the pedal to the metal and get them to the Prometheus.

  The hangar area was a study in controlled chaos. Pilots ran to their ships, pulling on helmets and cinching harness straps. Right controllers directed prepped Veritechs toward runways and launch bays, while groups of techs unloaded heat-seekers from antigrav pallets and locked them into undercarriage pylons. Supply trucks and personnel carriers screeched across the floor ferrying ammo canisters and cat officers through the madness, often narrowly missing one another. Shouts and elevator and engine noise erased the gentler sounds of radio communiqués, canopy descent, and rapid heartbeat.

  Rick threw himself into Skull One, throwing levers and toggles as he fastened straps and adjusted the seat. The alphanumeric displays of the HUDs and HDDs came to life, glowing brightly as systems ran themselves to self-check status. Rick ran through a self-check himself, then worked the foot pedals and interfaced with the HOL microprocessor, ordering the Veritech forward to the elevator. He had his hands on the Hotas—the so-called hands on throttle and stick—when Lisa appeared on the central commo screen.

  “Thirty alien craft approaching from section twenty-four, Skull Leader, do you copy?”

  “Affirmative, Commander.”

  “These aren’t ostriches, Rick. Radar shows cruisers and battlewagons. No mecha as yet. Your threat evaluation displays should be registering their signatures now, do you copy?”

  Rick turned to a side screen: Thirty bandits in a flying wedge formation were revealed.

  “I copy, Commander,” he told Lisa. “Locked and loaded; I’m outta here.”

  “Rick, this looks like a big one, so be careful, okay?”

  He pulled his visor down. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  Rick goosed the VT forward at the urgings of a flight controller and positioned it on one of the elevators. He completed his checks as the fighter was raised to the flight deck and stabilized for hookup. As the cat officer and his shooter went through their well-oiled routine, he ran through one of his own.