Nevertheless, Zor ventured forth in the hopes of redressing some of the injustices his own discoveries had fostered. Under the watchful gaze of Dolza, commander in chief of the Zentraedi, the dimensional fortress embarked on a mission to discover new worlds ripe for conquest.
So the Masters were led to believe.
What Zor actually had in mind was the seeding of planets with the Invid flower. Dolza and his lieutenants, Breetai and the rest, easily duped into believing that he was carrying out orders from the Masters themselves, were along as much to secure Zor’s safety as to ensure the Master’s investment. The inability to comprehend or effect repairs on any Robotech device and to stand in awe of those who could was programmed into the Zentraedi as a handicap to guard against a possible grand-scale warrior rebellion. The Zentraedi had about as much understanding of the workings of Robotechnology as they did of their humanoid hearts.
So, on Spheris, Garuda, Haydon IV, Peryton, and numerous other planets, Zor worked with unprecedented urgency to fulfill his imperative. The Invid were always one step behind him, their sensor nebulae alert to even minute traces of Protoculture, their Inorganics left behind on those very same worlds to conquer, occupy, and destroy. But no matter: In each instance the seedlings failed to take root.
It was at some point during his final voyage that Zor himself began to use the Flowers of Life in a new way, ingesting them as he had seen the Invid do so long ago on Optera. And it was during this time that he began to experience the vision that was to direct him along a new course of action. It seemed inevitable that the Invid would catch up with him long before suitable planets could be sought out and seeded, but his visions had revealed to him a world far removed from that warring sector of the universe where Robotech Masters, Zentraedi, and Invid vied for control. A world of beings intelligent enough to recognize the full potential of his discovery—a blue-white world, infinitely beautiful, blessed with the treasure that was life … at the crux of transcendent events, the crossroads and deciding place of a conflict that would rage across the galaxies.
A world he was destined to visit.
Well aware of the danger the Invid presented, Zor programmed the continuum coordinates of this planet into the astrogational computers of the dimensional fortress. He likewise programmed some of the ship’s Robotech devices to play a part in leading the new trustees of his discovery to a special warning message his own likeness would deliver to them. Further, he enlisted the aid of several Zentraedi (whose heartless conditioning he managed to override by exposing them to music) to carry out the mission.
The Invid caught up with Zor.
But not before the dimensional fortress had been successfully launched and sent on its way.
To Earth.
Subsequent events—notably the Zentraedi pursuit of the fortress—were as much a part of Earth’s history as they were of Tirol’s, but there were chapters yet to unfold, transformations and reconfigurations, repercussions impossible to predict, events that would have surprised Zor himself … had he lived.
“Farewell, Zor,” Dolza had said when the lifeless body of the scientist was sent on its way to Tirol. “May you serve the Masters better in death than you did in life.”
And indeed, the Robotech Masters had labored to make that so, having their way with Zor’s remains, extracting from his still-functional neural reservoir an image of the blue-white world he had selected to inherit Robotechnology. But beyond that Zor’s mind had proved as impenetrable in death as it had been in life. So while Dolza’s Zentraedi scoured the quadrant in search of this “Earth,” the Masters had little to do but hold fast to the mushroom-shaped sensor units that had come to represent their link to the real world. Desperately, they tried to knit together the unraveling threads of their once-great empire.
For ten long years by Earth reckoning they waited for some encouraging news from Dolza. It was the blink of an eye to the massive Zentraedi, but for the Robotech Masters, who were essentially human in spite of their psychically evolved state, time moved with sometimes agonizing leadenness. Those ten years saw the further decline of their civilization, weakened as it was by internal decadence, the continual attacks by the Protoculture-hungry Invid, a growing rebellion at the fringes of their empire, and heightened disaffection among the ranks of the Zentraedi, who were beginning to recognize the Masters for the fallible beings they were.
Robotechnology’s inheritors had been located—“Zor’s descendants,” as they were being called—but two more years would pass before Dolza’s armada made a decisive move to recapture the dimensional fortress and its much-needed Protoculture matrix. There was growing concern, especially among the Elder Masters, that Dolza could no longer be trusted. From the start he seemed to harbor some plan of his own, reluctant to return Zor’s body twelve years earlier and now incommunicado while he moved against the possessors of Zor’s fortress. With his armada of more than four million Robotech ships, the Zentraedi commander in chief stood to gain the most by securing the Protoculture matrix for himself.
There was added reason for concern when it was learned that Zor’s descendants were humanoid like the Masters themselves. The warrior race literally looked down on anything smaller than itself and had come to think of normally proportioned humanoids as “Micronians”—ironic, given the fact that the Masters could have sized the Zentraedi to any dimension they wished. Their present size was in fact an illusion of sorts: Beating inside those goliath frames were hearts made from the same genetic stuff as the so-called Micronians they so despised. Because of that basic genetic similarity, the Robotech Masters had been careful to write warnings into the Zentraedi’s pseudo-historical records to avoid prolonged contact with any Micronian societies. Rightly so: It was feared that such exposure to emotive life might very well rekindle real memories of the Zentraedi’s bio-genetic past and the true stuff of their existence.
According to reports received from Commander Reno (who had overseen the return of Zor’s body to Tirol and whose fleet still patrolled the central region of the empire), some of the elements under Breetai’s command had mutinied. Dolza, if Reno’s report was to be believed, had subsequently elected to fold the entire armada to Earthspace, with designs to annihilate the planet before emotive contagion was spread to the remainder of the fleet.
The Zentraedi might learn to emote, but were they capable of learning to utilize the full powers of Robotechnology?
This was the question the Robotech Masters had put to themselves.
It was soon, however, to become a moot point.
Hyperspace sensor probes attached to a Robotech fortress some seventy-five light-years away from Tirol had detected a massive release of Protoculture matrix in the Fourth Quadrant—an amount capable of empowering over four million ships.
CHAPTER
TWO
Throughout the territories we traveled (the southwest portion of what was once the United States of America) one would encounter the holed hulks of Zentraedi warships, rising up like monolithic towers from the irradiated and ravaged wastelands … At the base of one such apocalyptic reminder sits the cross-legged skeleton of a Zentraedi shock trooper, almost in a pose of tranquil meditation, still clad in his armor and bandoliers, a Minmei doll insignificant in his huge metalshod hand.
Dr. Lazlo Zand, On Earth As It Is In Hell:
Recollections of the Robotech War
“Therefore, it is our conclusion, based upon the available information, that human and Zentraedi are descended from very nearly the same ancestors!”
Exedore leaned back in the chamber’s straight-backed chair to cast a look around the circular table as the weight of his pronouncement sank in. Continued exposure to Earth’s sun these past two years had brought out strong mauve tones in his skin and turned his hair an ochre red.
To his immediate right was the somewhat dour-looking Professor Zand, a shadowy figure who had emerged from Lang’s Robotech elite; to Zand’s right were two Zentraedi, micronized like Exedore and sporting
the same blue and white Robotech Defense Forces uniforms. Clockwise around the table to Exedore’s left were Claudia Grant, the SDF-2’s First Officer—a handsome and intelligent representative of Earth’s black race—Commanders Lisa Hayes and Rick Hunter (Made for each other, Exedore often said to himself), and Admiral Gloval, serious as ever.
The rich golden warmth of Earth’s sun poured into the fortress through two banks of skylights set opposite each other in the conference room’s cathedral ceiling.
Exedore had been working side by side with Dr. Emil Lang and several other Earth scientists, deciphering some of the numerous documents Zor had thought to place aboard the SDF-1 over a decade ago. But his announcement of Terran and Zentraedi similarity came as the result of an extensive series of medical tests and evaluations. The distinction human or Zentraedi no longer applied; indeed, it was beginning to look as though there existed—lost somewhere in time—an ancestor race common to both.
Exedore had noticed that the Terrans accepted this with less enthusiasm than might otherwise be expected. Perhaps, he speculated, it was due to the fact that they continued to reproduce in the natural way, whereas the Zentraedi had long ago abandoned that unsure method for the certainty of genetic manipulation. In Earthspeak the word was “clone”; the Zentraedi equivalent approximated the English term “being.”
New discoveries awaited them in the documents, especially in the latest batch of trans-vids uncovered. Exedore had yet to view these, but there were indications that they would provide answers to questions concerning the historical origins of the Zentraedi race, answers that might shed light on the origins of the Terrans as well. All evidence pointed to an extraterrestrial origin, an issue hotly debated by Earth scientists, most of whom believed that the human race evolved from a tree-dwelling primate species that had roamed the planet millions of years earlier.
But if all these protohistorical answers were coming fast, the whereabouts of the Protoculture matrix Zor had built into the ship remained a mystery. Hardly a place had been left uninvestigated by Exedore, Breetai, Lang, and the others; and Zand had even suggested that the Protoculture was in hiding!
Responses to Exedore’s announcement proved varied: The misshapen, gnomish Zentraedi heard Claudia’s sharp intake of breath and Lisa Hayes’s “Ah-hah,” voiced in a fashion that suggested she had expected no less. Commander Hunter, on the other hand, sat with eyes wide in a kind of fear—the personification of a certain xenophobic mentality that permeated Terran cultures.
Gloval was nodding his head, saying little. His white commander’s cap was pulled low on his forehead, so Exedore couldn’t read his eyes.
“So, Admiral,” Exedore continued, leaning into the table. “There is little doubt—our genetic makeup points directly at a common point of origin.”
“That’s incredible!” Gloval now exclaimed.
“Isn’t it? While examining the data, we noticed many common traits, including a penchant on the part of both races to indulge in warfare.”
This brought startled reactions around the Terran side of the table.
“Yes,” Exedore said flatly, as if to forestall any arguments. “Both races seem to enjoy making war.”
Rick Hunter held his breath, counting to ten. How could the Zentraedi believe his own words, he asked himself, when it was love and not war that had doomed the Zentraedi to defeat? The Zentraedi race had started the entire conflict, and Rick nursed a suspicion that this pronouncement of Exedore’s was his way of letting himself off the hook.
Exedore seemed to be enjoying his so-called micronized state, and Rick further suspected that this had more to do with a new sense of power the small man had gained than it did with exploring the ship for some alleged Protoculture factory. Exedore couldn’t bear to admit to himself that his commanders had waged a war for something that didn’t even exist; they had nearly brought destruction to both races, chasing after some goose that was supposed to lay golden eggs. Truly, this was the saga that would go down in their history as legend: the pursuit of a ship that supposedly held the secrets of eternal youth, the capture of one hollow to the core.
Rick looked hard into Exedore’s lidless pinpoint-pupilled eyes. He didn’t like the idea of Exedore poking into every nook and cranny in the fortress, acting as if it was more his property than Earth’s. Only a moment earlier the Zentraedi had seemed to be sizing him up, well aware of the effect of his words. Rick wasn’t about to disappoint him.
“Well, with all due respect,” he began acidly, “I disagree. We don’t fight because we like to—we fight to defend ourselves from our enemies. So, under the circumstances we have no choice in the matter. Do you understand?”
Rick’s hand was balled up into a fist. Lisa and Claudia looked at him in surprise.
“That’s nonsense, Commander,” said Professor Zand, who was tall and unkempt looking. He stood up, palms flat on the table, to press his point. “There have always been wars in progress somewhere on Earth, even before the invasion from space. I think this clearly indicates the warlike nature of humans.”
Another Zentraedi sympathizer, thought Rick. And talking like an alien to boot. He began to stammer a response, always feeling outgunned when up against academics, but Zand interrupted him.
“A perfect example: Look what happened on Earth when the peacemakers tried their best to prevail. They formed the League of Nations and the United Nations, both of which failed!”
Rick got to his feet confrontationally. What did all this have to do with humans enjoying war? The best he would allow was that some humans enjoyed war but most didn’t. Most enjoyed … love.
“I can’t believe you’d simplify the facts like that,” Rick shouted. “You’re practically rewriting history!”
“Facts, sir, do not lie,” said Zand.
Rick was about to jump over the table and convince the man, but Exedore beat him to the punch, fixing Zand with that unearthly gaze of his and saying:
“We’re merely telling you the results of our best data analysis. Please don’t interject your opinions.”
So when we have something to say, it’s an opinion, and when they have something to say, it’s a fact, Rick thought, restraining himself.
Gloval cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Fascinating … So we’re all descended from the same race, are we? And who can say in what direction all of us are headed. We may never know …”
Rick dropped back into his seat, staring off into space. Whatever happens, he told himself, we mustn’t ever allow ourselves to become like the Zentraedi, devoid of emotions—no better than robots. Never!
The conference room, scene of Exedore’s briefing, was located on level 34 of the new fortress, the so-called SDF-2, which had been under construction for almost as long as the city of New Macross itself. The space fortress was a virtual copy of the SDF-1 and currently sat back to back with it, linked to its parent by hundreds of transfer and service corridors, in the center of the circular human-made lake known now as Gloval, in honor of the admiral. The arid, high plateaus of northwestern North America seemed ideally suited to the reconstruction of the city that had once grown up inside the original super dimensional fortress: The area was cool compared to the background radiation of the devastated coastal corridors, untainted water was plentiful enough, the climate was temperate, and there was no shortage of space. As a result the city had risen swiftly, prospered, and spread out from the lake, a burgeoning forest of skyscrapers, high rises, and prefab suburban dwellings. In the two years since its founding, the population of New Macross had increased tenfold, and it was considered (though not officially recognized as) the Earth’s capital city.
New Macross had its share of Zentraedis, though not nearly as many as the cities that had grown up at alien crashpoints throughout the continent—New Detroit and nearby Monument City chief among them. The Zentraedi enjoyed less freedom than the Terrans, but this was conceived of as a temporary measure to allow for gradual readjustment and acculturation.
Most Zentraedi had opted for micronization, but many retained their original size. However, control of the Protoculture sizing chambers fell under the jurisdiction of the military government, the Robotech Defense Force, alternatively known as the Earth Forces Government. Micronization was encouraged, but the return to full size of a previously micronized Zentraedi was rarely if ever permitted. This had given rise to a separatist movement, spearheaded by Monument City, which advocated the creation of autonomous Zentraedi free states. Critics of the proposals pointed to increasing incidents of Zentraedi uprising as justification for maintaining the status quo. The innate blood lust that had earned the Zentraedi their reputation as fearsome warriors was not always so easily overcome and controlled.
At factories in the industrial sector of New Macross City, humans and aliens worked together toward the forging of a united future. The Zentraedi were fond of work, having had no previous experience with it during their long history of enslavement to war. Manual labor or assembly line, it made no difference to them. Giants hauled enormous cargos of wood and raw materials in from the wastelands, while their micronized brethren worked at benches completing electronic components, adding Protoculture chips to Robotech circuit panels—chips that had been salvaged from the ruined ships that dotted the landscape.
But there was tension in the air on this particular day. Unused to a life without war, some of the aliens were beginning to question the new life they had chosen for themselves.
Utema was one of these. A massively built red-haired Goliath who had served under Breetai, he had worked in New Macross for eighteen months, first assembling steel towers in the Micronian population center, then scouring the countryside for usable materials. But on one of his forays, he had stumbled upon an encampment of former warriors who had abandoned the Micronian ways, and ever since he had harbored an anger he could not articulate. An urge to … destroy something—anything!
Doomsday: The Macross Saga Page 36