Doomsday: The Macross Saga

by Jack McKinney

  He summoned up an image of Roy Fokker in his mind’s eye, then Ben Dixon. He held on to those for a moment and allowed them to fade in the presence of another. Minmei filled up his thoughts as the VT was catapulted off the hurricane bow of the supercarrier and launched into space.

  “Six bandits within range,” Rick shouted into the tac net. “Switch over to your targeting computers and fire on my command.”

  Local space was reduced to a grid on his forward screen, with clusters of Veritechs assigned to each section. Skull One led a formation of five VTs into one of these.

  Death, parcelled out.

  The enemy pods opened up, disgorging pulses of blue fire into the night. An Officer’s Pod was out front—its flashing signature plain as day on Rick’s threat evaluation screen—“hand-guns” and top-mounted cannon spewing flame. The Veritechs danced between the deadly lines, thrusters carrying them out of harm’s way as nose gatlings blazed a reply.

  “Send ’em home, boys!” Rick shouted.

  He engaged the VT’s afterburners, propelling it farther out in front of the pack. Behind him, one of the newcomers sustained a direct hit and disintegrated in a silent sphere of blinding fire. Two other fighters broke across each other’s courses and accelerated into flanking maneuvers on either side of the enemy contingent. Pod gun turrets swiveled to find them without effect, bolts of uncreased lightning telescoping into the void. They broke their formation and scattered in pairs, dangling bipedal legs behind themselves now, boosters blazing pink and white, cyan fire erupting from their plastron cannons.

  Skull One loosed six red-tipped missiles into their midst, orange crescents and small suns fining the skies as they found their mark. Pods exploded, human and Zentraedi pilots died, and Death clapped joyfully from the sidelines.

  It was a free-for-all, rockets and pulsed beams cross-hatching space haphazardly. No one was safe, no one immune.

  Inside the flagship Breetai watched the battle from his command chair, Exedore stone-faced beside him. The fleet commander was pleased.

  “So far they are following their usual attack pattern.”

  Off to the right of the observation bubble, two indicator lights flashed on. Breetai and Exedore turned to these.

  “This is operations,” said someone from the launch bays. “All our Battlepods and mecha have been deployed.”

  “Good,” Breetai responded, directing his words to the communicator. “Inform all the cruiser commanders that I want them to continue on course. But make certain they allow the flagship to maintain the lead.”

  “At once, my lord,” came the reply.

  Breetai rose from the chair. “Prepare to fire main batteries.”

  Pinpoints of blue light flashed into life across the front of the cruisers; bursts of pulsed energy rained from the front of each of these, regular as clockwork.

  Meanwhile, pods and VTs continued to slug it out. Rick found himself up against that Officer’s Pod again; the enemy mecha was in ascent, thruster glowing between its legs while it exchanged fire with Skull One and its wingships. Aft and slightly port, a VT exploded—one of the less-armored tan and white ships piloted by yet another newcomer. Engaging the undercarriage and lateral thrusters, Rick piloted the VT up and over the enemy fusillade; one of his wingmen followed but was tagged and blown to debris. As enemy fire mysteriously ceased, he cut away from the silent Officer’s Pod and went after one of the regulars, executing a Fokker Feint, then rolling over and taking it out with gatling blasts while it floated stationary in space. The Officer’s Pod tracked Rick as he completed the move, encasing Skull One in streaks of fire from which it emerged miraculously unscathed.

  The SDF-1, however, was not faring as well. While the VT teams were successfully shielding it from the stings of enemy mecha, the fortress was sustaining salvo after salvo from the rapidly approaching whalelike ships of the attack group. Bristling guns discharging unbroken lines of lethal energy, the warships closed on the SDF-1 like deep-sea monsters in a feeding frenzy.

  The massive ship was shaking violently. On the bridge Captain Gloval gripped the arms of the command chair for all it was worth. The women worked feverishly at their stations, tireless and unfailing in their duties, the occasional scream notwithstanding.

  “Damage reports coming in, Captain,” said Kim.

  “Later!” he answered.

  Claudia reported that the Veritech teams were taking heavy losses.

  “Keep them deployed as long as we can!” Gloval shouted to her as an explosion rocked the bridge. “Lisa, we’re going to have to use the Daedalus to take out those cruisers one by one!”

  Lisa turned from her console to signal her understanding, then reached up for the remote mike cradled alongside the overhead monitor.

  “Stand by to launch Daedalus when you receive my command,” she said.

  Full of sinister intent, streaks of light radiating from what looked like eye pods and the suggestion of a mouth turned up in a crooked smile, the Zentraedi flagship continued to bear down on the fortress. Concealed behind bulkheads and hastily erected reinforcing partitions in her bow waited scores of Battlepods, erect on their hooved feet, turret guns aimed and ready.

  Inside one of the pods the three operatives received word of the imminent Micronian counterattack. Rico and Bron were standing on the seat, each positioned at one of the projecting levers that controlled the mecha. Konda was down below near the foot pedals. Bron held a communicator in his hand; through this he was in touch with the rest of Rico’s band of micronized would-be deserters.

  “Are you ready?” he said into the mike. “Our moment has arrived.”

  “To our deaths, or our rebirth!” said Rico in a rallying cry.

  The three raised their hands in salute to one another.

  Rico grew serious. “Once inside the fortress, we’ll have to take care.”

  “The wrong place at the wrong time and we could be killed—by Micronians or Zentraedi,” cautioned Konda. “We’ll have to stay out of sight until the proper time. Then we’ll abandon the pod and lose ourselves among the people of the population center.”

  “He’s right,” said Bron getting back on the mike. “I’ll pass the word.”

  The Macross Amphitheater was shaking and quaking—not to thunderous applause or the rhythm of the band but to the frenzied beat of war. Half of the Star Bowl’s 30,000 had fled for shelter at the first warning sirens, and many more began to filter out as the sounds of battle invaded the ship, but a surprisingly large number remained—mainly those who were guided by the past, the unfortunate ones who continued to believe that Macross would always be immune to attack.

  Minmei was introducing a song when the first major jolt was felt. She cried out as she almost lost her balance, and this started a wave of panic in the audience. Suddenly the diehards and risktakers were having second thoughts. People were screaming and rising halfway out of their seats in dismay, as if to get a general fear-level reading before making up their minds to exit or stick it out.

  Kyle could almost smell the panic brewing. He took to the stage in a leap and ran to Minmei’s side.

  “Minmei, you’ve got to keep singing,” Kyle told her.

  Only moments before he had been watching Minmei’s performance from the wings, fascinated by how her mere presence could overshadow the war. And now he glimpsed a way that her power might be put to good use in lulling the audience back into a state of calm.

  She turned to him, panic in her eyes, smudges of run mascara beneath them. “What?” she said, not comprehending.

  “Gimme that,” he said, taking the mike from her hands. “Hey, everybody, we’re going to continue the concert, so please take your seats. There’s no reason for panic. We’ve all been through this before. So please calm down and return to your seats. Minmei’s going to go on with the show.”

  Another jolt rocked the ship, and the screaming escalated. Minmei had her hands over her ears, but Kyle was shaking her by the shoulders and telling her to sing.r />
  “In your strongest voice!” he told her.

  She looked up at him, wide-eyed and childlike, but nodded her head.

  “Be courageous and sing,” Kyle said calmly. “You can do it.”

  Reluctantly she took the mike and stepped forward on trembling legs. She walked out of the stage’s inlaid five-pointed star and perched herself on the edge. The band, taking this as a cue, gave her an intro. She motioned them to pick up the tempo and began to belt out “Stagefright.” People returned to their seats. Minmei turned and winked at Kyle. He smiled at her and mouthed: “You’re great!”

  * * *

  On the bridge, Lisa Hayes gave the word. With a little luck the destruction of the lead ship would result in an explosion that would take out the others as well.

  In space the right arm of the SDF-1 drew back and hurled itself forward, as if it were alive …

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  “What you fail to grasp is that Commander Breetai’s decision to allow the SDF-1 to retreat was entirely in keeping with the Zentraedi tradition of open warfare, that is, move and countermove. It was most certainly not a tactical blunder … Moreover, it is for precisely this same reason that it never even occurred to Commander in Chief Dolza to hold the planet Earth hostage for the return of Zor’s ship. Through no fault of your own you imagine this to be unthinkable. Which, then, is the more barbaric of the two races—yours or mine?”

  Exedore, as quoted in Lapstein’s Interviews

  The steel-plated bow of the supercarrier Daedalus punched through the nose of the Zentraedi flagship.

  It was an encounter of mythic proportion, worthy of inclusion in that short list of eternal struggles—angel and demon, eagle and snake, snake and dragon: a giant techno-knight in gleaming armor, its fist locked in the jaws of a deep-space armored leviathan …

  The two-foot-thick bow plate of the Daedalus swung up and away from the body of the ship, its massive top-mounted hinges groaning in protest. Unseen servodevices locked while others disengaged, motors whined, and hydraulic couplers hissed in a symphony of mechanization. A triple-hinged forward rampart unfolded itself into the hold of the Zentraedi ship while a fan of brilliant energy was loosed from Destroids in the carrier belly. Structural piers and pylons were blown away; girders and tie beams slagged in the infernal heat. Supply crates and storage tanks exploded, filling the air lock with concussive sound and deadly fumes. A bulkhead just inside the breach was holed by concentrated firepower.

  Golden alloy-armored Destroids now began to descend the ramp, their lasers at rest. They were early products of Robotechnology, bipedal and nearly as tall as Battloids but somewhat cumbersome-looking, with large square feet and skeletal laser-gun arms. Following their programmed directives, the three-man units moved into the hold and took up positions for a second and more lethal assault. But they were not quick enough.

  Battlepods suddenly leaped from places of concealment and opened fire. Pulsed beams tore through the thin skins of the mecha, dropping them in their tracks. There were attempts to return fire, but the situation was instantly beyond hopeless. The Destroids were vastly outnumbered and easily overrun; minutes after the skirmish erupted, their silent forms were heaped at the base of the ramp.

  Then the Battlepods reversed the order, taking to the ramp and making for the Daedalus. By this time, however, word of the defeat had reached the carrier command center, and the arm of the SDF-1 was already retreating, ripping out the steel tendrils the flagship defense systems had attached to it in an attempt to seal the breach. There was barely time enough to insert a quarter of the battle-ready pods. As the final few hopped gracelessly into the carrier hold, the ramp folded, retracted, and slammed shut.

  The Zentraedi had been given no clear-cut orders, save to enter the Micronian ship and inflict as much damage as they could without destroying it. Breetai’s hope was that at least some of the pods would make it to the bridge of the fortress and effect a capture of the commanders. Short of that, the pods could attempt to incapacitate the ship’s reflex drives.

  Some of the Zentraedi soldiers, however, had their own ideas.

  Once inside the Daedalus, in an orgy of indiscriminate destruction, they began to fire at everything in sight. Provisions, mecha, vehicles, and Gladiator teams were wiped out. Techs left their stations and picked up weapons to combat the intruders, but not one lived to give details of the battle. The Zentraedi hurled fire against the control towers and communications stations, incinerating systems and personnel with equal abandon. The hangar areas of the carrier were fully aflame by the time the pods took to the main corridors of the SDF-1.

  They still had no idea where they were going, but it was easy enough for anyone to tell where they had been. A path of utter destruction led from the supercarrier, up through the right arm of the fortress and into its heart—Macross City itself. The pods moved wantonly through service corridors, extending their reign of death. Coveralled techs were fried by bolts of unleashed fury; shaking hands reached out weakly for comlink phones and panic buttons but seldom found them. Meanwhile the pods continued their sweep. The Zentraedi were finally repaying the Micronians for two years of frustrating defeats. The mecha soldiers were so caught up in vengeance that not one of them noticed the disappearance of several of their number—a group of awkwardly piloted pods that seemed curiously loath to engage in battle.

  Captain Gloval’s leg shook uncontrollably while he awaited Lisa’s reply. “Come on, Lisa, come on,” he said, hoping to hurry along the flow of data.

  She was bent over her console, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I have no contact at all with the Daedalus, sir. It’s as if it doesn’t exist!”

  Something was very wrong. The oblate bow of the Zentraedi warship filled the bay of the bridge, dark green in color, menacing, enormous. It looked to Gloval as if a whale had mistaken the arm of his ship for a giant fishhook. But the calculated collision had not worked out as planned. Whatever the firepower unleashed by the Destroids, it had not been sufficient to affect the cruiser. In fact, the ship was still hurtling forward, now pushing the fortress along in front of it. And the bridge had lost contact not only with the Destroid squad but with the entire supercarrier garrison as well.

  “Pull the fortress back!” Gloval shouted suddenly. “All power astern and redeploy the shield energy!”

  As Kim and Sammie relayed continued commands to engineering and astrogation, the fortress began to vibrate to a steady bass drone. The engines were powered up and engaged; then the contained explosive fire of the reflex core erupted from the ports of the pectoral thrusters, carrying the ship away from its aggressor, pulling the Daedalus arm free of the flagship’s hold.

  Gloval breathed a sigh of relief.

  The fortress responded with an unprecedented sounding of Klaxons and alert sirens.

  Claudia was on the comlink; she lowered the handset and turned to face the command chair, a look of unmitigated terror contorting her face.

  “Enemy Battlepods have entered the ship through the ramming arm!”

  Gloval’s eyes opened wide. “The enemy’s on board?”

  This had happened only once before, when an overeager Zentraedi pilot had given chase to Max Sterling’s Veritech and battled it briefly in the streets near Macross General Hospital.

  “The Daedalus is on fire,” Claudia continued. “The pods are attacking Macross!”

  “Quickly! Patch us into the civil defense network!”

  The captain and his crew turned their attention to the speaker system, hoping against hope.

  “Ten enemy pods on Lilac Street,” said a horror-stricken voice. “We’re trying to hold … Aargh!”

  “This is area B control—we can’t seem to hold them back, we need help—”

  “… retreating from the Tenth Avenue gate. We’re getting our—”

  “Switch it off!” Gloval shouted from the chair. He dropped his head and said weakly, “God help us all.”

  Destroids, Spartans
, and Gladiators were waiting for the Battlepods when they reached the outskirts of Macross City. For those battle-weary residents who had yet to reach shelter, the attack would recall a similar one two years earlier. But this time they knew their enemy. This time they knew how much they had to fear.

  Bent on nothing less than complete destruction, the pods advanced through the street, blue fire spewing from their upper and lower guns, panicked pedestrians scattering beneath their hooved feet. Explosions launched fragments of glass and steel into the artificial air and tore gaping holes in the streets, exposing raw power lines and rupturing water conduits. Raining showers of electrical sparks, store signs dangled dangerously from fractured rooftops. The facades of buildings fell and burned, sending up clouds of dust and thick smoke.

  A pod, its twin guns blazing, stepped out from behind the remains of a clothing store to face off against a Gladiator positioned at the end of the block. Bursts of blinding fire were exchanged again and again until both pod and mecha exploded, while elsewhere rockets fell and flames spread. A massive multibarreled autocannon swept along Macross Boulevard, sending ground-to-air heat-seekers against airborne mecha. EVE’s star-studded sky veneer was stripped away, revealing in stark detail the naked terrors of war.

  Not all the pods were blasting away, however. Some were actually looting the shops for souvenirs, raking in whatever appeared intact with the mecha’s grappling hooks and waldo gloves. Two of the pilots got a fix on an external sound source that was similar to Minmei’s “singing”; and the pair moved off together, homing in on the Macross Star Bowl.

  Inside, Minmei was still on stage, wedded to her audience in some sort of unrehearsed litany of song.

  Without accompaniment, she sang, “To be in love …”