Doomsday: The Macross Saga

by Jack McKinney

  Exedore lowered the detector numbly. “The secrets of Zor, gone! This long war fought for nothing!”

  Lang patted Exedore’s shoulder commiseratingly. “Perhaps someday we will find it again; who can say?”

  Gloval was shocked to see how quickly the two had become easy in each other’s company. “I think we’d better get back to the hearing room,” the captain said. “We still have a great deal to talk about.”

  Deep within the sealed fastness of the mighty reflex engines, something stirred and then was quiet again. It could not be detected by Lang’s relatively primitive instruments, was capable of hiding itself even from the Zentraedi’s scanners at this range.

  As Zor had provided, the last Protoculture Matrix was safe, biding its time, waiting until his great Vision should come to pass.

  “It does appear we’ve made a great mistake,” Exedore confessed when they were all back in their places. “But! You cannot possibly deny the power of the female’s singing!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gloval responded simply, drawing a doubtful look from Colonel Maistroff.

  But Bron was on his feet. “He won’t deny it because it’s true!”

  “Minmei’s song has incredible power!” Rico added, jumping up too.

  Minmei, for her part, gave a shy smile that seemed to have some secret wisdom behind it.

  “This is not the first time the Zentraedi have encountered something like this,” Exedore told them all. “A very long time ago we were exposed to a culture like yours, and it nearly destroyed us.”

  “How do you mean that?” Gloval was quick to ask.

  Exedore’s protruding, pinpoint eyes roamed the room. “To a Zentraedi, fighting is a way of life. Our entire history is made up of nothing but battle after glorious battle. However, exposure to an emotionally open society like yours made our soldiers refuse to fight.

  “This, of course, could not be tolerated, and the infection had to be cleansed. Loyal soldiers and the Robotech Masters themselves came in to exterminate all those who had been exposed to the source of the contagion.”

  The three spies in particular were pale and silent. The rest looked at one another. Exedore went on. “Dolza, our supreme commander, will do everything in his power to avoid making the mistake our ancestors did. When and if he reads my report, he will certainly launch an all-out attack on Earth, especially in light of the fact that the Protoculture Matrix is no longer on the SDF-1.”

  Gloval’s eyes shifted to Rick. “That’s the same one mentioned in your report?”

  Rick licked his lips. “Yes, sir.” Almost five million warships!

  Exedore nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. But you see, these new developments—the defections, the Minmei cult, the mating of our greatest warrior with one of your pilots—change the entire picture.”

  He looked around at them, the center of their riveted attention. “For, you see,” Exedore said, “unless some solution can be found, we—Breetai’s forces—are in as great a danger from Dolza and the Grand Fleet as you.”

  Breetai sat in his chair in the command station overlooking his flagship’s bridge.

  A projecbeam drew a two-dimensional image of Azonia in the air, the woman who had replaced him in the war against the humans, failed to bring it to a successful conclusion, and been replaced in turn by Breetai.

  “Commander!” she began. “How long do you intend to allow this situation to continue?” She was a medium-size, intense Zentraedi female with a quick mind and high aspirations. Her short, frizzy hairstyle puffed within the confinement of her high, rolled collar.

  Breetai, arms folded on his great chest, answered in his rumbling, echoing bass, “Any continuation of hostilities would be unwise in light of recent events.”

  She sneered at him. “Well, I expect a different solution when the Grand Fleet arrives!”

  He leapt to his feet. “Grand Fleet? What have you done?”

  She gave him a smug smile. “I’ve reported my findings to the supreme commander. And his Excellency Dolza has decided to set the fleet into motion.”

  “So Dolza has decided the Micronians are a threat, has he?”

  “He has,” she said triumphantly.

  Breetai’s anger welled up like a volcano, but suddenly he found himself laughing like a grim god at the end of all worlds. It was the last thing Azonia expected; she watched him, his head thrown back, roaring, light flashing off his metallic skullpiece and the crystal eye, and she felt a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “You imbecile!” he managed when he could talk again. “You know nothing of history, do you? No, no self-respecting Zentraedi cares! Well, know this, my scheming friend: We’re doomed along with the humans! We have been infected, and all of us—all—are now considered plague carriers.”

  “You’re certain of this?” Exedore asked quietly, holding the handset tightly in a trembling fist.

  The communications patch had been set up hastily, with no chance for the aliens to encrypt their exchange. Exedore would certainly know that human techs had monitored whatever Breetai had said. Therefore, the captain bent forward, certain that he would hear whatever it was at once.

  “You know what this means, then,” Exedore said. “I understand.” He returned the handset to its cradle and looked at Gloval.

  “Captain, you must prepare yourselves to escape this star system. We will help you.”

  Gloval’s face hardened. “And leave the Earth defenseless?”

  “Yes.”

  Gloval squared his shoulders. “Out of the question! We are sworn to defend our planet.”

  Exedore was nodding wearily. “Yes, I understand. We Zentraedi would not act any differently. What’s more, without your help, escape for us would be all but hopeless. The Protoculture Matrix was our great hope for success; the armada’s supplies are all but exhausted.”

  He sighed. “It seems we shall soon be fighting a common enemy.”

  Maistroff exploded. “What did you say?”

  Exedore looked to him. “My Lord Breetai has just informed me that the Grand Fleet is headed for this star system. That means four million eight hundred thousand ships with the destructive force of a supernova.”

  “All right, then,” Gloval said matter-of-factly. “A fight it shall be.”

  “You’re crazy!” Lynn-Kyle was on his feet. “There’s no way you can beat a fleet like that! We’re finished!”

  Max had taken Miriya’s hand in his. He told her gently, “I’m so afraid that this might be the end of us. Just when we’ve found each other.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I don’t care, my love, as long as I’m at your side in battle.”

  Rick, on the opposite side of the U-shaped table, looked across at them with envy. “Together,” he said under his breath.

  Exedore had been watching the various reactions carefully and was satisfied. He could tell mighty Breetai that among the military, at least, there were worthy allies.

  Now he raised his voice to say, “It’s not over yet! There might still be a way!”

  “Explain,” Gloval bade him, stone-faced.

  “Thus far, this vessel has proved itself unbeatable. I will need more information before I can be sure, but I believe there is a way that we can win.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  I have therefore concluded that Breetai and his subordinates and all those under their command now entertain such primitive behavioral quirks and abstruse thought processes as to set them completely outside the Zentraedi species and make them a threat to us all.

  Every available unit will therefore be mustered in the Grand Fleet to take the action dictated by our ancient lore.

  From Dolza’s personal log

  “Repeating this announcement, all military personnel are to report for duty at once. All leaves are canceled. All reservists are to contact their units for immediate mobilization. Civilians are directed to stand by for further directives; we will be making announc
ements as soon as further information is available.”

  Lisa wheeled her jeep into the headquarter’s cavernous parking lot on two wheels, snapping off the radio. She hadn’t been able to get anything on the military freqs, and the civvie bands just kept repeating the same thing.

  She dashed into the HQ, flashing her security badge, and, in the situation room, heard the classified announcements.

  “Sensors are still picking up extremely high energy levels from lunar and near-Earth regions. This activity is characteristic of enemy spacefold operations. However, they are of a magnitude never before encountered.”

  She spotted her father and ran toward him. In her mind’s eye was the Grand Fleet as she had last seen it, or at least part of it, in and around the moonlet-size hive that was Dolza’s headquarters base.

  “It doesn’t look good,” Admiral Hayes was saying to a G3 staff commodore.

  “Admiral!”

  Her father looked at her, traded salutes with the staffer, and came over to her. He took her by the arm, leading her to a conference room. He sounded brusque as the door slid shut. “Well? What is it?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Father, what’s going to happen to the SDF-1?”

  He didn’t reprimand her for the lapse in formality, as he once would have. But there was no sympathy in his voice. “It will be destroyed. We’re committing it to drawing the enemy fire away from Earth and the rest of our forces.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I’m sorry, Lisa.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “There’s no other choice.”

  She accepted that; she’d been around headquarters long enough now to realize that her father was no longer a leader. He was an apologist, an errand boy, for the real rulers of the planet.

  She gathered her self-control. “Father, I want to ask you a personal favor. I want you to send me back to the battle fortress.”

  “No! That’s completely out of the question!”

  Now it was her turn to flare. “My place is with my crew, my captain!” She waved her hand around to indicate the scurrying futility of the UEDC base. “It’s not here, in a hole in the ground, when the people I fought beside need me.”

  He knew then that he’d lost her. For a moment, he saw the place through her eyes and wondered how he could ever have been so deluded. The Grand Cannon was a sham, and the UEDC were frightened men who had brought the world down around them rather than admit that they were wrong.

  He shook it off, his oath to his duty coming to the fore again. But there was real pain in his voice as he told her, “I’m sorry, but—”

  “But you won’t.”

  “I can’t allow you to throw your life away up there. Lisa, Lisa … you’re my daughter.”

  “I’m an officer in the RDF!”

  He said it very quietly, “I know that.”

  “Then reassign me!”

  He looked at her angrily now. “Father or no, I promise you this: If you try to leave, I’ll have you thrown in the brig.”

  She was only partly successful at keeping the tears out of her eyes, but her voice was steady. “Yes, sir.”

  Admiral Hayes despaired of ever winning the battle; he saw that he had lost the last of his family.

  Breetai looked up at the projecbeam image. “What now, Azonia?”

  She didn’t mince words; he had expected no less. “There are no options, great Breetai. Dolza will try to exterminate us now that we have been exposed to the Micronians. I will stay and face the Grand Fleet. It will be an honor to go into battle with you, my lord!”

  Some part of him knew what she meant. Wasn’t this the battle any Zentraedi dreamed of, a hopeless fight against overwhelming odds in the clash of dreadnoughts as numerous as the stars? Wasn’t this the apocalypse to which the Zentraedi looked for their version of immortality?

  “Commendable,” he said. “May you win every fight.”

  She drew a breath at the high compliment he had paid her. “And you too, Breetai!”

  Her face dissolved as the projecbeam image did, and he turned to another. “Khyron? Your intentions?”

  Khyron, languid and condescending, smoothed his beautiful blue hair. “You know my answer. The odds are too great. Why fight if you can’t win, Breetai?”

  “Why be Zentraedi if you don’t know the answer to that, Khyron? But this is as I expected; I wasn’t depending on you, anyway.”

  And so it was all out in the light at this eleventh hour. Khyron had substituted the ruthlessness and savagery that were all he had for courage. The difference came forth only in moments like these, but it was plain.

  Now Khyron’s facade broke, and he screamed at Breetai, froth leaping from his lips. “You will be destroyed!” The projecbeam image vanished.

  On his own flagship, Khyron sat slouched in his command chair like a wounded toad. “All right, let’s go.” He threw the command over his shoulder to his subordinate, Grel.

  “What coordinates?” Grel asked carefully. In such a rage, Khyron was easily capable of lashing out and killing any around him.

  “Anyplace else in the universe but here,” Khyron brooded, staring off angrily at nothing. There was no response from Grel, and Khyron snarled, “Didn’t you hear me?”

  Grel calculated his next words carefully. “But sir, we can’t run.”

  Khyron barked a galling laugh. “You think not? Watch, then!” He signaled, and the engines of his flagship came up to power, as did those of all the Botoru ships under his command.

  Grel licked his lips, wondering how best to tell Khyron that he hadn’t been speaking figuratively. Khyron cherished the practice of beheading the messenger who bore bad tidings.

  Breetai paid little attention to the maneuvers of the Botorus. He considered the nearby fabric of space, where the first perturbations of the Cosmic String heralded the Grand Fleet.

  Once he had been Dolza’s most valued subordinate—had saved Dolza’s life from the very Invid attack that had killed Zor. Now he contemplated the stirrings of the universe in advance of the attack and reflected on the incredible way things had turned out there in the Micronian star system.

  Hear my thoughts, Lord Dolza! To go down in battle is all we seek, from the highest to the lowest. Mark me well, for this is the final battle of Breetai!

  In the hearing chamber, people were exhausted, but the marathon went on. Computers and analysts were hooked in; G-staff members and evaluation teams were ready.

  “Dolza will assume you’re too weak to fight,” Exedore was saying, still animated and prim in the midst of the most tiring activity. “He will divide his fleet and attack from every side, sealing off any avenue of escape. But this maneuvering will give you your only chance.”

  “Enough background; kindly be specific,” Gloval snapped.

  Exedore turned to a luminous tactical projection he had constructed with the help of the SDF-1 computers.

  “Their flagships will be here, here, here, and here, and Dolza’s mobile base will appear here; these are my best projections.

  “If you can destroy these vessels, it will throw the entire Grand Fleet into chaos.”

  “Simple military strategy,” someone muttered.

  “No; simple military strategy—of all-out, straightforward attack and overwhelming numbers—is what has allowed our tactics to remain the same for so long,” Exedore countered. “That and the fact that the Zentraedi have never lost a war.”

  Colonel Maistroff rubbed his face with his hand, as if he were washing. “So, in short, we crush the head of the snake!”

  Exedore nodded. He stepped away from the tactical display, pacing toward the place where Gloval sat.

  “With their attack forces in disarray, our only chance for survival is to utilize the combined forces of the SDF-1 and our battlefleet. We are already aware of the crude Robotech cannon in your planet’s northern hemisphere but consider it a minor element at best.”

  Gloval came to his feet. “I’m glad that we’re now fighting on the same side.” H
e clasped hands with the gnomish little man.

  “Yes, so am I.” Exedore turned to Minmei, who was watching it all unbelievingly. “And without your singing, this alliance between our peoples would not have been possible.”

  Kyle had assumed a hard expression, eyes closed, chin sunk on chest, lip curled. But Minmei was in a sort of dream state. “Who, me? Really?”

  Exedore nodded his head slowly. “While I don’t profess to understand Micronians, I now realize the importance of your singing. It touches emotional resources to which we Zentraedi did not have access before—a courage that is beyond mere courage in battle.”

  He seemed to blush a little; nothing could have surprised them more. Even Kyle was shocked.

  “Will … will you sing for us?” Exedore got out, face coloring furiously. “So that we may hope for victory? Please, Miss Minmei.”

  “Of course.”

  She stood up, in that room where the plans were coming together that would spell the death or life of worlds, the survival or slaughter of billions. She drew a breath and sang in a voice as clear as polished diamond.

  She sang “To Be in Love,” one of her first compositions, still one of her favorites. It was a simple song, and there was nothing in it of armies or battles. It was about a closeness between two lovers.

  Exedore and the three former spies were mesmerized. Kyle, eyes closed, was cold and indifferent. Gloval, Max and Miriya, and the rest watched and listened, immersed. Her voice soared to rebound from the domed ceiling.

  Rick was transfixed, too, at first. The fact that he’d lost her didn’t make her any less desirable, especially now.

  But then a new sound came to him, a sound he recognized even through the intervening decks and bulkheads.

  On the hangar decks, the elevators were at work, lifting Veritechs for cat launch. For the final battle.

  The finder beams had done their work. Now there was a brutal application of force, and the warp and woof of the universe were ripped apart.

  The Zentraedi had refined their targeting. This time, there was no cosmic bow wave of incandescent fire. Instead, a green cloud of some kind seemed to appear—until it became clear that every last mote in the cloud was a warship.