Doomsday: The Macross Saga

by Jack McKinney

“Roger, control,” Rick answered her. “We’ve got them in our tracking monitors. We’re planning a surprise of our own.”

  Skull One led the group in a formation climb and rollout that brought them nose to nose with the incoming projectiles. Though eyes saw nothing but blue skies ahead, the Veritech screens read death.

  “Impact in seven seconds,” said Rick’s wingman.

  “Hammerheads on my mark—now!”

  Missiles tore from launch tubes as the group loosed a bit of their own death; projectiles met their match head-on, annihilating one another in a series of explosions that fused into an expanding sphere of fire. The Veritechs boostered through this, scorching themselves but holding their own, the route to the enemy base clear as day.

  They came in hugging the barren terrain, the tail section of the leaning hulk looming into view over the horizon. Rick ordered reconfiguration to Guardian mode when they hit the edge of the target zone and released a score of heat-seekers to announce his arrival.

  The ground at the base of the Zentraedi warship was instantly torn up. Snow and dirt were blown from the area, and when the smoke cleared, there was a newly formed crater fully encircling the ruined warship. But no return fire or signs of activity. Rick guessed what the Cat’s-Eye indicators would reveal.

  “Scanners indicate no sign of life,” the recon plane’s pilot said after a moment.

  Rick ordered half the team to put down and reconfigure to Battloid mode for entry into the warship itself.

  The fact that the hulk might contain unknown traps was on everyone’s mind, so they were to proceed slowly and methodically, compartment by compartment, checking for timing devices or infrared trips.

  Three hours in, they reached a central cargo hold filled with Zentraedi ordnance and supplies. Still there was no sign of occupation.

  “Looks like the place was deserted when we hit it,” Rick proposed. “The missiles must’ve been controlled from a remote outpost.”

  Rick’s wingman gestured the arm of his Battloid to the weapons cache.

  “Take a look at all this stuff.”

  Rick did just that: If whoever had been here could afford to leave all this behind, he didn’t want to think about what they were packing when they left.

  He moved his mecha toward one of the supply crates, absently brushing dirt from the lid. As he did so, the insignia of the Botoru Battalion began to take shape.

  Khyron’s battalion!

  One thousand miles west of New Detroit, through land that had once been home to dinosaurs and buffalo, ran the strangest group of creatures to appear in many a day: a small band of giant humanoids and ostrichlike machines—in some cases a commingling of the two, with giants riding piggyback on the pods, hands clamped tightly on plastron guns, legs wrapped around the pods’ spherical bodies. Inside an Officer’s Pod at the head of the pack sat the Backstabber, a crazed smile on his face while he addressed the images of Azonia and Grel on the mecha’s circular screens.

  “Everything is going just as I planned,” he congratulated himself. “These Micronians are so easily fooled.”

  “Battlepods are now approaching objective,” his consort reported.

  “No sign of any resistance,” said Grel.

  “They fell for it!” Khyron cackled.

  As a cowboy would the rump of a horse, he slapped the console of the pod to hurry it along. He could hear the mechaless giants give out a war cry as they crowned a small rise in the terrain and moved on the city.

  * * *

  Denver, Colorado, as it was once known, had been rebuilt so often since the Global Civil War and had undergone so many name changes that people now referred to it simply as “the City.” An enormous hangar used decades before by America’s NORAD had been converted to a concert hall large enough to accommodate several thousand Humans and close to a hundred giants. There was a small crowd tonight, but Minmei was singing her heart out nonetheless, memories of the raid on New Detroit fresh in her mind and the need to cement relations between Human and Zentraedi foremost in her thoughts.

  She had the crowd, small as it was; the band was tight, and there were moments of perfection in her performance. For a while she could put Kyle from her list of concerns; he hadn’t said ten words to her on their cross-country trip from New Detroit, and even now she was certain that he was glaring at her from the stage wings.

  Minmei, in that same ruffled dress she had sported in New Macross, was two verses into “Touch and Go” when the real trouble began. The giant Zentraedi seated in the upper tiers were the first to notice it: a rhythmical undercurrent of mechanical articulation, the beat of metalshod hooves in the streets, a sound like distant thunder.

  The singer herself became aware of the noise a moment later and stopped midsong. Most of the audience was on its feet, staring up at the curved roof of the hangar: Something was moving up there …

  When the building began to quake, everyone made a run for the exits, but they were a bit late: The roof seemed to tear open, and all at once it was raining Battlepods. Several more broke through the hangar walls, followed by Zentraedi shock troopers armed with laser rifles and autocannons. The hall was pandemonium, even though not a single shot had been fired.

  Minmei stood paralyzed center stage, Battlepods close enough to be reflected in her azure eyes. She was aware of Kyle’s presence at her side but incapable of moving of her own free will.

  “Minmei,” he was screaming, “they’re heading right for us! You’ve got to snap out of it!”

  An unusual-looking pod had positioned itself in front of the stage; it had a red snout, a top-mounted cannon, and two derringer-like hand-guns—one of which it slammed against the stage as Kyle was leading her away.

  She felt herself thrown off her feet by the violence of the force, but even that wasn’t enough to restore her will.

  So she surrendered herself to Kyle, allowing him to pull her up and lead her to the stage steps, down into the orchestra pit, down into that grouping of pods closing in on them …

  “Well, look what we have here …” an affected voice boomed out far above her.

  Minmei looked up into a handsome, clean-shaven face framed by attractive blue hair. The giant Zentraedi who had climbed from the unusual-looking pod was wearing a scarlet-colored uniform trimmed in yellow and an olive-drab campaign cloak that fastened on itself over one shoulder. He reached his hand out and grabbed hold of her and Kyle, crushing them together in his grip as he lifted them high above the stage.

  “Let us go!” Kyle managed to yell. “You’re going to kill us!”

  The warrior titan held them up in front of his face; Minmei saw the devil in his steel-gray eyes.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, some unspoken purpose in mind.

  “No harm must come to Minmei, Commander!” she heard one of the other giants insist. She craned her neck to see past the warrior’s thumb, fighting for breath to get a look at the one who had spoken in her defense.

  Khyron gestured to one of his Battlepods, and without warning the mecha kicked the friendly Zentraedi, catching him in the groin and sending him sprawling back against the wall of the hangar, where he rolled over in agony.

  “I will not tolerate disobedience!” Khyron bellowed, raising his other fist.

  He shot Minmei a look that chilled her heart; then he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  Khyron’s name was being shouted in the streets of New Portland, New Detroit, and several other cities that had seen incidents of Zentraedi uprising. Lisa Hayes had heard as much at field headquarters, and she was the one who first reported the rumors to Admiral Gloval. But Gloval remained skeptical: If history had taught him anything, it was that heroes, regardless of their orientation toward good or evil, were often resurrected in times of cultural stress. The Zentraedi were no exception, so it was natural for them to suddenly believe that Khyron, their evil lord, had not perished along with Dolza and the commanders of the armada but had somehow escaped and had merely been
lying in wait these two years, ready to strike back at the Earth with an equally ghostlike battalion of warriors when the time was right.

  Of course, there was no actual proof that Khyron had met his end in battle, and the most recent attack on New Detroit and the theft of the sizing chamber were suggestive of his style. There was also Commander Hunter’s discovery of an arms cache bearing the Botoru Battalion insignia …

  The admiral ran through all of it once more as he paced in front of the large wall screen in the SDF-2 situation room. He was about to put a match to his favorite briar when Claudia called to him from her duty station.

  “We’re receiving a transmission from someone claiming to be Khyron,” she told him. “Shall I put it on the screen?”

  “Yes, by all means,” he replied, stoking the pipe. “And be sure to get a fix on the source of the transmission.”

  Gloval fully expected to encounter the likeness of an imposter. After all, no one in the Earth Forces had met the so-called Backstabber face to face (although God knew how many had met him mecha to mecha and regretted it). The admiral had, however, seen trans-vids of Khyron supplied by Breetai and Exedore during the long debriefing sessions following the defeat of the Zentraedi armada.

  … Which explains Gloval’s sudden start when Khyron’s devilishly handsome face appeared on the wall screen. A collective gasp went up from the command center personnel; even those who hadn’t been privy to the trans-vids recognized the real item when they saw it.

  Khyron sneered: “What a pleasure it is to interrupt you, Admiral Gloval.”

  “He sounds like that sixties actor,” someone in the control room commented. “James Mason.”

  Gloval made up his mind that he was not going to allow himself to be rattled. He cleared his throat and chomped down on the mouthpiece of the pipe. “On the contrary,” he said with appropriate sarcasm, “the disgust is all mine, I assure you.”

  Khyron seemed to like that and said as much. He made a gesture with his hand to indicate something off to his left, and the camera swung slightly to find a second Zentraedi officer—a female, at that. She was not unattractive, with close-cropped blue-gray hair, fine features, and a pointed chin, but she wore the same malicious look on her pale face as that worn by her commander. Gloval didn’t have to guess: This had to be Azonia, also believed to have been killed, the dreaded Quadrono leader who was Miriya Parino’s superior.

  “I have some friends of yours here,” Khyron was saying quite matter-of-factly.

  Gloval didn’t have time to wonder to whom or to what Khyron was referring. Azonia had raised Lynn-Kyle into view, pinched by the scruff of the neck between her thumb and first finger. Khyron, too, raised his fist, shoving Minmei toward the remote camera. The singer looked pale and frightened.

  “Minmei!” Claudia said in surprise.

  “This can’t be happening!” seethed one of the techs.

  Dropping his act of feigned indifference, Gloval pulled the pipe from his mouth. “You filthy swine!” he said to the screen image.

  “You’re mad!” someone added.

  Khyron reacted by tightening his fist around his helpless captive, his face suddenly contorted in anger. “Don’t try my patience, Micronian—I am known to have a violent temper!”

  The implication was obvious, and Gloval signaled everyone to remain calm. “We’re sorry,” he told Khyron.

  The Zentraedi laughed shortly. “Well, then, your apologies are humbly accepted. But listen to me carefully: I want you to know I mean business, Admiral.”

  “We understand. What do you want?”

  “Don’t hurt her—I beg you!” a tech shouted.

  Khyron smirked. “Then deliver the dimensional fortress to me tomorrow by twelve hundred hours.”

  No one had expected this, least of all the admiral.

  “That’s impossible! The fortress is no longer spaceworthy.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Admiral. I’m warning you …”

  “I’m not lying,” Gloval told him firmly. “Listen to me for a moment … The war is over, Khyron. Dolza and his armada—”

  “The war is not over, Admiral!” Khyron threw at the screen. “Not until I have that fortress in my possession!”

  Gloval knew what was on his opponent’s mind. “The Protoculture matrix doesn’t exist,” he tried calmly. “Ask Exedore and Breetai if—”

  Khyron was livid. “Those traitors are alive?!” Suddenly he laughed maniacally. “Just deliver the fortress to me, Admiral—if you value your little … songbird.”

  “You are mad!” said Gloval.

  “Ah, but there’s method to my madness,” Khyron returned with a grin. “First, the fortress for Minmei. Then, the Robotech factory satellite for this second hostage.” He gestured to Kyle, who was dangling by his coattails from Azonia’s pinch.

  “Don’t do it!” Kyle exploded. “Don’t listen to them, Admiral!”

  “You mind your manners,” Azonia said playfully, wiggling him about roughly.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Kyle managed, in obvious pain. “You can’t … you can’t just give in to this guy …”

  “You’re hurting him!” Minmei screamed.

  Khyron gestured to his consort to take it easy. “I’d of course prefer to avoid violence, Admiral. But believe me, I’m more than willing to carry out my threats.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange something,” Gloval answered him. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure what could be arranged, but it was essential to start by buying time.

  “That’s better.” Khyron sneered.

  Just then a third officer entered the screen’s field of view, a large, square-jawed man who deferentially tapped his commander on the shoulder.

  “Uh … excuse me …” said Grel.

  Khyron turned to him briefly, then back to Gloval. “I must take my leave now, Admiral. But remember: tomorrow by twelve hundred hours.”

  He flashed a smile, V-ed his fingers, and cut off transmission.

  Gloval bowed his head and chided himself silently for believing that evil could so easily be laid to rest.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  When I first heard Khyron announce his demands for the SDF-1 in exchange for the hostages he’d taken, my fear was that his agents had actually penetrated our most top-secret operations. Then, when I realized that his request was more in the nature of a formality, I began to relax some. But the knowledge that he did in fact present a continued threat to our security made me reevaluate the plans I had so carefully formulated for the coming months.

  From the log of Admiral Henry Gloval

  Someone had thought to call the Denver hangar theater “Zarkopolis”—as close a translation from the Zentraedi as the Micronian language allowed. The structure bore no resemblance to the original Zarkopolis—the Zentraedi mining base on Fantoma—but it was in keeping with the rekindled spirit of conquest to rename it thus.

  Cross-legged on a raised portion of the stage that had become their command post sat Khyron, Azonia, Grel, and Gerao. In attendance were several aides and shock troopers in full battle armor. Stationed in the vast hall below were troops of Khyron’s elite strike force and half a dozen battlepods. Minmei stood bravely in the Backstabber’s open palm; Khyron regarded her as though she were some zoological specimen.

  “It’s hard to believe that this helpless little creature in my hand is the key to our freedom,” he mused aloud. “To think they’d give up the fortress for you …” He closed his hand on Minmei. “This Micronian sentimentality—it makes me quite ill just to think about it!”

  Khyron got to his feet, striking an orator’s pose.

  “Oh, to be free of this miserable planet!… I can hardly wait, I assure you …” He had turned his back on his audience and was once again eyeing Minmei, now on her knees in his open hand. “Well … why doesn’t Minmei perform for us, eh?”

  He swung around again and extended his hand, a small stage for her act, almost forty feet off the ground.


  Minmei was quick to comply; in fact, she’d been waiting for just such an opportunity. Hers was the voice that had toppled a mighty empire, so surely a handful of disaffected warriors would present little problem. She feared and hated Khyron, but somewhere in the back of her mind endured the idea that she possessed the power to open his heart to love and peace.

  “To be in love …” she began, standing up and looking him in the eye. “… must be the sweetest feeling that a girl can feel … To be in love, to live a dream …”

  Khyron’s expression was softening. The giant hand that was sweeping her in front of a shocked and dumbfounded audience of hardened soldiers was shaking and sweating.

  “… with somebody you care about like no one else.”

  Minmei was practically shouting out the lyrics now as choruses of groans and words of disbelief rose from Azonia and the others.

  Khyron’s body was trembling; his eyes were rolled back in his head.

  “A special woman, a dearest man …”

  And suddenly, his knees were buckling and he was down on the floor, seemingly ready to release her from his hold. Minmei started to step from his palm, singing: “… Who needs to share his life with you alone …” Without warning, he grabbed her again, a sly grin splitting his face as he squeezed the song and breath from her.

  “Well, it was a brave attempt, Minmei. But unfortunately for you, as you can see, I am immune to your witchcraft.”

  “You had me fooled!” Azonia laughed, her hand to her mouth.

  But Khyron silenced her. “I am speaking to my little songbird.” He looked hard at Minmei. “And she’s going to help us get what we want, isn’t that so, my little pet?”

  Minmei flailed about in his hand, struggling to free herself. “I won’t help you—you big overgrown … clown!”

  Khyron faked a look of hurt. “That was not very nice, Minmei … In fact, I’m rather surprised at you—losing your temper like that. Very unladylike.”

  Minmei folded her arms in defiance, fighting back tears.

  “I may have to teach you some manners,” her captor was threatening, his anger building, his grip on her tightening. “You think that just because you’re the magnificent Minmei, you’re better than we are … Well, I despise your music! Despise it! Do you hear me?!”