He was looking at himself, years ago, only a lieutenant commander then. Next to him in the photo was his wife, and in front of them a shy-looking little girl wearing a sun hat and sun dress with a Band-Aid on one knee.
Whenever I look at this picture, I wish Sara were still here to see how her little girl turned out—to see what an extraordinary soldier Lisa’s made of herself.
A comtone from his desk terminal broke his contemplation. “Pardon me for interrupting, sir,” an aide said. “But you left word that you be informed when the shuttle made final approach.”
Hayes shook himself; there had been that last, terrible fear when the shuttle was attacked and not even he could countermand UEDC orders and send help. More to the point, there was no help that Earth could send that would be of any use; the SDF-1 and its Veritechs were the only effective weapons against Zentraedi pods. Hayes could only wait and hope.
When the shuttle survived its gauntlet, he had nearly collapsed into his chair, staring at the photograph of the past. There was so much to heal between himself and his daughter, so much to put behind them.
Now, he looked to the aide’s image on his display screen. “Thank you.”
“The craft should be landing very shortly. Shall I meet you at the elevators, sir?”
Hayes pressed against his big, solid oak desk with both hands, pushing himself to his feet. “Yes, that would be fine.”
The headquarters of the United Earth Defense Council was a vast base beneath the Alaskan wilderness. Very little of it was aboveground—surveillance and communications equipment, aircraft control tower—but the surface was guarded by the few remaining Battloids on Earth.
Years before, when the SDF-1 made its miscalculated spacefold jump out to the rim of the solar system, it took with it most of its Robotech secrets and all the fabricating equipment humanity had discovered in the huge vessel when it originally crash-landed on Earth. Earth had turned back to largely conventional weapons for its defense with the exception of one gargantuan project that was already under way: the Grand Cannon.
The Grand Cannon took up most of the sprawling, miles-deep base, a doomsday weapon that let the UEDC live the fantasy that it could defend itself against an all-out Zentraedi onslaught. Admiral Hayes had been largely responsible for the Grand Cannon’s construction; Gloval’s simple disdain for such a massive, immobile weapon system was one of the major stresses that had ended their friendship.
Waiting by the landing strip, the brutally cold arctic wind whipping at his greatcoat, Hayes recalled those days, recalled the bitter words. His once-warm bond with Gloval, solidified during their service together in the Global Civil War, had shattered as Hayes accused the Russian of timid thinking and Gloval sneered at the “hidebound, Maginot-Line mindset” of the Cannon’s proponents.
Hayes’s thoughts were interrupted by the aide. “Admiral, we’ve just received word that the shuttle’s ETA has been moved back by twenty minutes. Nothing serious; they’re just coming around for a better approach window. If you like, I’ll drive you back to the control tower; it’s warmer there.”
The admiral said distractedly, “No, I’ll wait here. It’s not that cold, anyway.” Then he turned back to watch the sky, barely aware of the biting wind.
The aide sat back down in the open jeep, shivering and buttoning up his collar all the way, burrowing his chin down and tucking gloved hands under armpits. He always thought of his commander as rather a comfort-loving man; certainly, Hayes’s living quarters and offices gave that impression.
But here was the Old Man, indifferent to an arctic blast that would send an unprotected man into hypothermia in seconds. None of the base personnel knew much about this daughter; her last visit to the base had been rushed and very hush-hush. Hayes rarely mentioned her, but he had been remote most of the time since he had received word she was coming. The aide shrugged to himself, swearing at the shuttle, wishing it would hurry up.
In an Officers’ mess onboard the SDF-1, Max sat toying with his coffee cup, glancing over at the table a few yards away where Rick Hunter sat immersed in thought, an almost palpable cloud of gloom surrounding him.
He’s been sitting there by himself for half an hour twiddling his spoon, and it’s like his food isn’t even there, Max reflected. He made a quick decision, rose, and went to approach his team leader.
“Lieutenant, it’s too early to be depressed about this,” Max jumped right in. “I’m sure Commander Hayes will get back here somehow.”
Rick turned away from him, chin still resting on his hand. “First of all, I’m not thinking about her, and secondly, what makes you think I’m depressed?”
Rick decided it was all far too complicated to explain to Max Sterling, the bright-eyed boy wonder of the VTs, the cheerful, unassuming ace of aces. A man who never seemed unhappy, at a loss, or in doubt of what he was doing. Eager beaver! Rick thought huffily.
“Maybe you need a little excitement—some distraction,” Max persisted. “How about a game? I know just the place! Let’s go!”
Before Rick could object or even consider pulling rank, Max had him by the arm and yanked him to his feet, tugging him toward the door. It seemed easier to give in than to start a tug-of-war in the middle of the Officers’ mess; Rick went along compliantly.
It didn’t take long to get there; Max even paid for the cab. The Close Encounters game arcade was alive with noise and lights, like some Robotech fun house.
Max’s eyes were shining. “Great place, huh? You’re gonna love it!”
More war games? Rick groaned to himself. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just head home—”
But Max had him by the elbow again. “A coupla games’ll make you feel like a new man, boss.”
“Max, I don’t think—”
“Look, I’ve been here before; I know what I’m talking about!” He dragged Rick through the entrance.
As they moved deeper into the arcade, Rick recognized a face. Jason, Lynn-Minmei’s little cousin, had stopped to watch a young woman playing a game. Rick went past without saying anything to attract the child’s attention; talking to Jason would only remind him of his feelings for Minmei and compound his doubts and gloom.
In passing, he did notice the young woman: a very intense player with green-dyed hair and an expression like some beautiful lioness ready for the kill.
* * *
The shuttle had barely rolled to a stop when Hayes reached it, running. His aide watched him in astonishment.
By the time the ground crew got the mobile stairs in position, Lisa was waiting in the open hatch. The wind tugged at her long, heavy locks of brown-blond hair and her too-light trench coat. She was wearing fur-trimmed boots she had borrowed, but the cold sent ice picks through her and numbed her skin instantly.
She halted, shocked to see her father waiting for her. Their previous meeting and parting had been anything but cordial, with the admiral doggedly taking the UEDC line against Gloval’s common sense and compassion. Coldly formal to her in the meetings, her father had later sought to get her reassigned to headquarters base, to get her out of the danger of her SDF-1 assignment. Lisa had torn up the conciliatory note he had sent her and returned to the dimensional fortress with Gloval. She was unaware of how that tormented her father.
Now, looking up at her, he said, “Lisa! Thank goodness you’re here at last!” She came down the stairs carefully, holding the railing with one hand as the wind buffetted her, clutching a dispatch case.
“You’re finally off that cursed alien Flying Dutchman.” He was smiling, tears forming. “We’ve got a lot of talking to do!”
But when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she came to attention and snapped him an exacting salute. “Admiral, Lieutenant Commander Lisa Hayes reporting, sir. I’m carrying a special dispatch from the captain of the SDF-1 to the United Earth Defense Council.”
He was taken aback, the smile wiped from his face. It was her turn to be formal and distant now, her right, as it had been his the la
st time.
If she was giving him back his own, he was willing to accept it. Nothing was as important to him as the fact that his daughter, his only family, was with him again. He returned her salute crisply, straight-faced.
“Welcome home.”
Dante’s Inferno was one of the more popular games there, but Rick just didn’t feel like following old Virgil down through the nine circles to the demanding Ultimate Player level.
Dragonbane, with its swirling nightmare reptile attackers and Nordic swordsman, seemed a little too much like his own duel with inner demons.
Nor was he inclined toward Psycho Highway Chainsaw Bloodbath. Eventually, though, Max convinced him to take on a pair of side-by-side Aesop’s Gauntlet machines, mostly because the easy chairs before them were thickly upholstered and comfortable.
Down below, on the main level, Miriya sharpened her skills at the Veritechs! game. She found grim amusement in being a simulated Micronian pilot, blowing Zentraedi Battlepods to whirling fragments. She was disappointed that there were no Quadrono powered-armor opponents in the game; her own unit was by far the elite of the alien armada.
She also approved of the training machine—as she thought of it—for not introducing trainees to the realities of warfare at this early phase of their instruction. It was clear that the gamesters would need a little hardening and proper military discipline before they could deal with the horror and bloodshed of real warfare. This clean, neat gaming gave them appropriate affection for combat without any confusing exposure to certain unpleasant aspects of a real warrior’s life. Clever.
She sent another pod to computer-modeled oblivion, pretending it was that of Khyron, whom she had come to despise. The score credit flashed, and little Jason, still watching, piped up, “Wow! Look at that!”
She tried to ignore him as tokens stamped with a big M poured into the payoff tray. The little Micronians were intriguing to her, but disquieting. And the small ones were always so boisterous or emotional—certainly impulsive and rather simpleminded. At first she thought that they were a slave underclass, but that didn’t square with the indulgent treatment they got from the bigger Micronians. She forcefully shut from her mind the truth about human childbearing; compared to it, the war and slaughter were simple, comprehensible, painless things.
And such thoughts were not in keeping with her true mission aboard the SDF-1. She looked around, wondering when she would find her quarry. The memory still burned in her: of how the Micronian ace had outflown her and then, in the very streets of Macross itself, she in her Quadrono superarmor and he in his Battloid, faced her down, made her flee.
Her face burned again at the thought of it. She had difficulty eating or resting and would until she regained her honor.
The dimensional fortress was big, but not big enough that her enemy could hide forever.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Considering the staggering expense involved in any Robotech operation, the match that took place in the arcade that day certainly ranks as the most cost-effective VT mission of the war—and perhaps the most fateful.
Zachary Fox Jr., VT: The Men and the Mecha
Every animal in Aesop’s Bestiary seemed to have it in for Rick, while Max progressed through the ascending levels with ease.
“The points’re piling up, Lieutenant,” Max said, referring to his score. Rick, teeth gritted, was trying to wax the fox that was leaping for the grapes. Damn thing moved faster than a Zentraedi tri-thruster.
After a lot of bleeping, ringing, and flashing from Max’s machine, a flood of tokens, glittering like gold, slid into the payoff tray. The tokens could be used for more games, of course, or redeemed for prizes, vouchers of various kinds, or—if one really pressed the issue—cash.
“That’s great! I always make more than I can cart off.”
“Well, you left me behind,” Rick admitted. Wasn’t this supposed to make me feel better?
Actually, it did. “Max, look at that!” More and more tokens slid down into the tray until they were spilling all over the place.
Close Encounters’s assistant manager, Frankie Zotz, a nervous young man in white pancake makeup and black, owllike hairdo, rushed into the manager’s booth. “Hey, boss! We’re gettin’ wiped out at some of our most difficult machines!”
Blinko Imperiale, the manager—he of the goggle shades and two-tone Mohawk and vaguely intimidating lab coat—sat with chin on fist.
“Dincha hear me?” Frankie Zotz yelped. “That pilot’s upstairs again, and the green-haired dame’s inside turnin’ a VT game every which way but profitable!”
Blinko didn’t even move, sadly staring off at nothing. “Oh, boy. I knew I never shoulda opened this place near where those RDF maniacs hang out!”
The split-screen comparisons were obvious even to nontechnical personnel. The DNA strands and analysis workups spoke for themselves.
The presentation flashed along as Admiral Hayes muttered, “Interesting … hmmm …”
It was much more than that; it was astounding. It shook the very foundations of human knowledge.
It had long been thought that wherever the basic chemical building blocks of life coexisted in the universe, they would preferentially link to form the same subunits that defined the essential biogenetic structures found on Earth. In other words, the ordering of the DNA code wasn’t a quirk of nature. Tentative evidence dated back to long before the SDF-l’s crash landing on Earth, both from meteoric remains and from spark-discharge experiments.
The new data pointed up to a universal chemistry—that the formation and linking of amino acids and nucleotides was all but inevitable. The messenger RNA codon-anticodon linkages that blueprinted the production of amino acids seemed to operate on a coding intrinsic to the molecules themselves. This meant that life throughout the universe would be very similar and that some force dictated that it be so.
Admiral Hayes skimmed over all that; it had little to do with the war. He skimmed some of Dr. Lang’s hypotheses and preliminary findings, too: that somehow the very energies that drove Robotechnology were identical to the shadowy forces governing molecular behavior. There was also mention of this irritatingly mystical Protoculture, something none of the alien defectors had had sufficiently high clearance to have learned much about.
Lang, it appeared, was monumentally frustrated that the hints and suspicions couldn’t be verified. But he was vocal about his suspicion that this Protoculture the Zentraedi were so obsessed with was the key to it all—molecular behavior, the war, the origins of life, ultimate power.
The point of the presentation was obvious even to an aging flag-rank officer whose Academy biochemistry classes were far behind him. “Let me see if I’m completely clear about what you’re telling me.
“You believe our genetic backgrounds, the Zentraedi’s and that of the human race, are similar. And because of the possibility that we might all be part of the same species, you hope to promote peace talks.”
Lisa was nodding, wide-eyed as the little girl he remembered. “But will all this convince the UEDC to open negotiations, sir?”
He sighed, the heavy brows lowering, staring down at the briefing file before him on the coffee table. Lisa held her breath.
“I’m not sure,” her father said at last. He looked up at her again. “But I’ll present it to them and make sure they listen, then we’ll see what they say.”
For the first time since she left the SDF-1, Lisa smiled.
Miriya bent over the VT machine, refining her game. Next to her, on the floor, were two plastic pans filled with playing tokens. Frankie Zotz had had to refill the game’s reservoir twice to pay off all her winnings. She ignored his sweaty invitations to go play some other game—or, better yet, take a rain check and just go—with a slit-eyed amusement and a dangerous air that kept him from pressing her too hard about it.
Max came downstairs with Rick, holding his own tray of tokens. Suddenly, he stopped yammering his overcheerful encouragements about h
ow Rick would eventually get the hang of the computer games. That was fine with Rick; he had had just about enough light banter.
Max paused on the stairs. “Oh! That girl! Sitting at that game!”
Rick looked at the green hair. She wore a tight brown body suit that showed off a lithe figure, and a flamboyant yellow scarf knotted at her throat. “So? What about her?”
“Isn’t she incredible?” Max said, more excitedly than Rick had ever heard Max talk about anything. “I’ve been seeing her everywhere.”
“Well, she is sort of attractive,” Rick had to admit, his mind too full of Lisa Hayes and Minmei for him to go on at any greater length.
Max, the renowned VT wizard, wasn’t much when it came to the pursuit of females; his few fumbling attempts with one or another of the Terrible Trio had failed, and he retreated completely when Sammie, Vanessa, and Kim became involved with the three Zentraedi ex-spies, Konda, Bron, and Rico.
Max’s modest, self-effacing shipside persona made him a sort of uninteresting doormat for women. Perhaps he wasn’t suave or seductively menacing enough. So when he wasn’t out in a Veritech, he kept to himself for the most part.
But this was different; the Close Encounters arcade was his turf. “Maybe I can get her in a game with me!” Max said, as he went racing down the stairs.
There was quite a crowd around Miriya; she had rolled up one of the largest scores ever on the Veritechs game. She felt a little irritated, even a bit strange, with all these Micronians gathered around. Yet she endured their gaze, proud and pleased to show off her prowess.
She briefly considered the idea that her strange sensations had something to do with the damned Micronian food. It was nothing like the cold, processed, sanitized rations of the Zentraedi; human food had strange textures and flavors, odd biological constituents. It was all animal tissue and plant substances, and she suspected it was affecting her system.
She shook off the feeling and kept playing, rolling her score higher and higher, until she went over the top, beating the game, and more tokens poured into her tray. Getting enough money to survive in Macross had been no problem for Miriya since she had discovered the arcades.
Doomsday: The Macross Saga Page 19