Doomsday: The Macross Saga

by Jack McKinney

  Minmei struggled with his words, determined not to let Kyle get to her. She knew what he was up to: pulling out all the stops now to convince her to come around. And she knew it would get worse—uglier.

  “I just can’t do it anymore,” she said firmly.

  Kyle reconfigured his tone. “If you just opened your heart and let the love flow through you, you could be the greatest talent ever. Through your music, we could transcend all the evil in the universe and bring people together … That’s a precious gift, Minmei, but it has to be properly presented. That’s why I’ve worked so hard for three years … But now, this is the end. I’m going to take a long trip, and I probably won’t see you again—at least not for some time …”

  A ferry was crossing the lake, its mournful horn sounding. Minmei clenched her teeth, hating Kyle for his hypocrisy, his years of abuse. He had almost succeeded in dragging her down to that plane of misery and cynicism he lived on—despite the noble sound of his words, the peaceful thrust of his speeches. And now he was simply going to walk out on her—his standard approach to interpersonal challenge when martial arts wouldn’t do it. So of course it was important for him to make her realize that she’d been rotten all along, that he could do nothing with such flimsy stuff, that she was no longer worth the effort. He had done the same thing to his parents.

  He had draped his jacket over her shoulders in preparation for a theatrical exit.

  “I hope that someday,” he was saying, “you can find happiness for yourself. I’ll always love you …”

  Creep! She was shouting to herself. Rat! Fool! But at the same time she seemed to have a vision of him, off somewhere in the wastelands, probably living among the Zentraedi renegades organizing a new movement … perhaps seeing if he could get himself enlarged to their size—a dream at last fulfilled.

  A sudden breeze came up, sending watery crests of moonlit brilliance across the waves. She felt a chill run through her, and when she turned, he had disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  The symbolism of the SDF-1 as New Age Ark wasn’t lost on the residents and crew of that fortress—Macross, thrice-born city of the stars. But unlike the Old Testament Ark, which was really Noah’s Ark, the dimensional fortress was thought of by some as the savior itself; the reappearance of the culture hero, the second coming, clothed in the guise of technology—Robotechnology—befitting the times, much as the Nazarene was his own world. This, however, remained the stuff of esoteric cults; underneath it all, the old religions continued to thrive. A return to the basics was universally stressed; the original untampered-with versions of creation and regeneration. And even the Zentraedi found their way over to these.

  History of the First Robotech War, Vol. CCXIII

  Although Dolza had rained death on the east and west coasts of the South American continent, the Amazon basin, with its complex river systems and millions upon millions of acres of virgin forest, was left relatively untouched by his deadly storm. Ironically, many of the indigenous people who had once abandoned their dwellings on the jungled shores of those many slow-moving tributaries for the coastal cities had found their way back into that verdant wilderness after the devastating Zentraedi attack. Green hell or green mansion, its untamed prehistoric disorder was currently home to more survivors than ever before.

  And among the most recent arrivals was Khyron.

  So different from those bleak icebound reaches he had come to hate, this landscape of perpetual murder—where one waged a daily battle for survival, and where pain, misery, and death ruled supreme—it was hardly his world, but it was most certainly his element.

  Chased by unrelenting squadrons of Earth Forces mecha, Khyron had been forced to put down here, his own troops reduced to a mere handful, and his cruiser all but depleted of its Protoculture fuel supplies. The small amounts of precious fuel that had spilled from ruptured Protoculture lines had found sympathetic roots in the forest, working vegetal miracles in the thin surface soil—Khyron’s ship, wrapped in creepers, tendrils, orchids, and vines, looked as if it had landed there eons ago. But there were things to be thankful for: Some of his troops had served for many months in the Micronian population center factories, learning about that strange custom called “work” and that more important process known as “repair”; moreover, his agents were still at work in the so-called cities of the north, reporting to him on matters of mecha deployment, Protoculture storage, and the growing separatist movement in the Zentraedi cities such as New Detroit and Monument. Soon the time for his reappearance would be at hand …

  In addition, Khyron learned that scores of Zentraedi ships had crashed in the jungle, and already the survivors of those wrecked ships were finding their way to his new stronghold.

  For several weeks the tech crews had worked feverishly to effect repairs on the cruiser’s weapons and navigational systems, while squads of giants had scoured the thick forests for food and supplies, often raiding the simple Micronian settlements they stumbled upon. The hot, steamy jungle succeeded in dragging them down to its own primitive levels, humanizing them in ways even Khyron didn’t notice. Discipline had loosened somewhat, especially with regard to fraternization between males and females and the wearing of uniforms. The men, sometimes stripped to the waist or in tank-top undershirts, grew accustomed to sweating—something new to their bodies, despite their having labored on infernal worlds like Fantoma. And Khyron got used to his troops calling him by name.

  “Commander,” called one of the techs now. “I can give you auxiliary power.”

  “Then do it,” Khyron told him.

  There were four of them in the control center of the cruiser, all in sleeveless T’s, enervated by the afternoon heat. The man who had addressed Khyron was seated at one of the many duty station consoles; he engaged a series of switches, and illumination was returned to the bridge.

  “Good,” Khyron complimented him. He reached for his communicator and inquired after the reflex furnaces.

  A tech wearing an earphone, a flex-mike communicator, and a monocular enhancer responded from elsewhere in the ship. He was one of those who had spent more than a year in the New Detroit mecha factories.

  “Not yet, Khyron. And probably not at all unless we acquire some Protoculture soon.”

  “What is the status of the main reactors?” Khyron asked.

  “Barely functional. Takeoff is still impossible.”

  “Not good enough! Is there some way to shunt primary power to one of the smaller ships?”

  “Yes …” the engine room tech said hesitantly. “But its range would be very limited.”

  “Enough to get us to New Macross and back?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That’s all,” Khyron said, breaking transmission. He adopted a thoughtful pose for a moment; then, wiping sweat from his brow, he turned to Grel, who was tinkering with a monitor at the opposite end of the control room.

  “Grel, are your spies in the Micronian cities to be trusted?”

  “I believe so, m’lord,” Grel said over his shoulder.

  Khyron walked over to him, bending down to repeat his question. Again Grel stated that the agents could be trusted.

  “I have a plan …” Khyron began. “This ‘hollow day’ that approaches—”

  “‘Holiday,’ m’lord. A feast day of sorts.”

  “Holiday,” Khyron repeated, trying the word out. “Yes … ‘Christmas,’ you called it. The Micronians will have their minds on celebration.”

  Grel smiled. “I understand, Commander. It would be an ideal occasion to strike.”

  “And you’re certain about the whereabouts of the Protoculture matrix, Grel? Because I warn you—if you’re not …”

  Grel swallowed hard. “Certain, m’lord.”

  Khyron ordered him to open all communications channels within the cruiser. When Grel nodded, Khyron picked up the comlink mike.

  “Now hear this,” he announced. “We are mounting a raid on a
Micronian population center. Our objective: the Protoculture cell housed in the storage facility at New Macross. I want all of you to go on standby alert.”

  Khyron signed off.

  “What is this ‘Christmas,’ Grel?”

  Grel raised his eyebrows. “A feast celebrating the creation of one of the Micronian culture heroes, I believe.”

  “Culture hero?!” Khyron spat. “It is the name ‘Khyron’ they will speak of after our raid! Khyron the destroyer of worlds!” He threw his head back, laughing maniacally and crushing the communicator in his hand. “Khyron, the Protoculture hero!”

  “Sometimes I think life was easier when we were Zentraedi,” Konda said sadly.

  Bron and Rico responded at the same time:

  “You don’t meant it!”

  “We’re still Zentraedi, Konda!”

  Konda pushed his long lavender hair out of his face and looked at his comrades. “I know that. But I mean when we were soldiers.” He turned and motioned to the shelves of Christmas toys that lined the back of their small Park Street stall. “We wouldn’t have to worry about selling all this stuff!”

  Snow had begun falling on New Macross two hours earlier, lending further enchantment to an already cheery and magical Christmas Eve. It was the first snowfall in several weeks, the first Christmas snow many of Macross City’s residents had seen in a decade. Shoppers and pedestrians moved along the sidewalks in a kind of wonder, as if questioning their surroundings: Was it possible after four long years of war and suffering that joy was finally returning to their hearts? One could almost feel the radiant warmth of their collective glow.

  All except Rico, Konda, and Bron, that is.

  Their jobs at the laundry had come to a sudden end months ago, when they had returned from a routine-pickup with a stack of expensive linen sheets, each bearing Lynn-Minmei’s indelible ink autograph. There had followed a succession of menial jobs since, culminating with this Park Street stallful of toys—transformable robots, lifelike dolls, and huggable stuffed puppies, all of which had peaked three seasons before and were little more than memorabilia now. They had managed to sell two items during the past week—and that was only by reducing the prices to less than they had paid.

  “We just have to learn to be more aggressive” Rico said knowingly.

  “What d’ ya mean?” said Konda.

  Rico thought for a moment. “Uh, you know: forceful.”

  Bron looked confused. “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “That’s what someone told me.” Rico shrugged.

  “Well, okay,” Bron echoed, beginning to roll up his sleeves to expose his brawny arms. “But I don’t see how we can do that from inside this stall.”

  “He’s right,” Konda suddenly agreed. “We should put all these toys in sacks—”

  “Like Santa Claus,” Bron interjected proudly.

  “Right. And take them over to the mall. We’ll have more knee room there.”

  Rico stared at the two of them. “Elbow room, you idiot.”

  Konda grinned sheepishly. “Whatever.”

  “I say we do it!” Bron said decisively, slapping his friends on the back. “We’ll be the most aggressive salesmen in town!”

  In the deserted children’s playground across from the mall where Park Street emptied into Macross Boulevard, Minmei rocked herself side to side on one of the swings. The newspaper gossip columns were filled with rumors linked to her sudden disappearance from Monument City almost three weeks ago, and this was the first time she had ventured out of the White Dragon since returning to Macross. Even so, she wasn’t disguised, dressed in a plain burgundy-colored dress and black sweater barely heavy enough to keep her warm. She reasoned—rightly so—that people wouldn’t recognize this new Lynn-Minmei, who was as far removed from that eternally optimistic star of stage and screen as one could get.

  Singing was a part of her past. So was Kyle and everyone else connected with her career. She had spent a few days with her agent, Vance Hasslewood, after the scene with Kyle, but he wanted to be more to her than a sounding board. So she returned to Uncle Max and Aunt Lena; they took her in with open arms and helped her secure a few moments of peace. But she realized she wouldn’t be able to remain with them: One day Kyle would wander in, and she didn’t want to be around when he did.

  If only it weren’t Christmas, she kept telling herself. If only it were summer, if only everyone else didn’t seem so happy and complacent, if only …

  She stretched her hand out to collect some snow, and as the flakes melted against her warm skin, she thought about Rick. Where was he now? Would he even be willing to talk to her after what had happened in the restaurant? He was probably off having a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner with someone—that girl Lisa, perhaps. Everyone had somebody they could turn to.

  Suddenly someone was calling her name. She looked up and saw three men running toward her from the boulevard entrance to the park. One of them, the shortest of the three, was pushing some sort of cart in front of him; the other two were carrying enormous backpacks and bedrolls. All three had on baseball caps and orange jackets, and there was something familiar about them …

  “Minmei!” one of them shouted again.

  And then she knew. Disguise or no disguise, new Minmei or old, these three would always recognize her!

  She jumped up from the swing seat and began to run for the street.

  Rico, Konda, and Bron gave chase, but encumbered by the toy sacks, backpacks, and such, they couldn’t keep up with her.

  “Minmei!” Rico called again, out of breath.

  Aggressive sales tactics had gotten them thrown out of the mall—they’d actually been grabbing kids and forcing toys upon them—and so they had wandered over to the park in search of fresh quarry.

  “Maybe she didn’t hear us,” Konda suggested mildly.

  “Maybe it wasn’t her,” said Bron.

  Rico nodded. “Couldn’t’ve been. We’re her best fans.”

  Rick was in the kitchen of his quarters, waiting for water to boil, when he heard the television announcement.

  “Last night we reported that famed singer and movie star Lynn-Minmei had been taken ill. But we have since learned that she is listed as officially missing, following her hasty departure from Monument City three weeks ago. Official sources believe that this has something to do with the disappearance of Miss Minmei’s longtime friend and manager, Lynn-Kyle. There has, however, been no mention of foul play …”

  Rick listened for a moment more. He was certain that the two of them had wandered off somewhere together. After what he had witnessed in Chez Mann, it was obvious that Minmei was completely under Kyle’s spell. Rick didn’t dwell on it, though; people made their own choices in life. Besides, he had problems of his own to dwell on: Lisa would talk to him only over the com net, and even then her tone left no doubt about how she felt toward him. She refused to talk about it, wouldn’t so much as have a cup of coffee with him.

  The newscaster was saying something about a discovery in the Amazon region when Rick heard the doorbell ring. He threw off his work apron and went to answer it.

  It was Minmei, although he almost didn’t recognize her. She had a forlorn and downcast look about her, snowflakes like a network of disappearing stars in her dark hair. She asked to come in, not wanting to impose, apologizing for not having called first.

  “My friends don’t have to call,” Rick said, offsetting his initial stammering.

  She began to cry, and he held her.

  Inside, he put his wool officer’s jacket over her shoulders and made some coffee. She sat on the edge of his bed and sipped at her cup, happier by the moment.

  “I feel so tired of everything,” she told him after explaining her fight with Kyle and her flight from Monument. “I’m sick of being fussed over all the time … Now, when I think about my life, I remember the things that I’ve lost instead of being grateful for what I have. I just don’t have anyone to turn to for support anymore.”


  She was standing by the window now, her back to him, staring out at the snowfall. Rick, on the other hand, was staring at her long bare legs; even while he tried to listen to her complaints, he wondered if she was going to spend the night.

  “You’ve still got your music,” he said after a moment, not sure what he meant.

  “If that’s all I’ve got, then I don’t want to sing anymore.”

  “Your songs are your life, Minmei.”

  “My life is a song,” she demanded, lower lip trembling.

  Rick made a face. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I can’t perform anymore, Rick.”

  “It’s Kyle, isn’t it?”

  She frowned at him. “That’s not it! I don’t care if I ever see him again! We spent all our time together, whether we were working or not. He smothered me with his stupid attempts at affection, then yelled at me when he couldn’t control me.” Minmei looked hard at Rick. “I have nobody who understands, nobody who’ll take the time to listen to me.”

  Rick resisted a sudden impulse to run. He was aware of what she was leading him into, and even though he’d played this scene through a hundred times before, he didn’t want to win her from weakness. As much as he desired her, he didn’t want to get her on the rebound from Kyle.

  * * *

  At about the same time Minmei showed up at Rick’s door, Lisa was enjoying a holiday eggnog with Claudia, Max, and Miriya at the Setup, a health spa-pub on the boulevard. Later, she cabbed over to Rick’s place, told the driver not to wait, and headed for his quarters, leaving footprints in the thin layer of snow.

  She had a present for him—a shirt she had shopped long and hard for, yet another peace offering in the seemingly constant war they waged with each other. She had considered drenching it in her own favorite scent (“SDF No. 5,” Claudia called it) but thought Rick wouldn’t appreciate the joke. He had been calling her every other day with one suggestion or another—coffee, a movie, a picnic!—and she had turned him down each time. But with some distance from the battleground (her hours at the outdoor table forgotten), and this being holiday time, she decided that the time was right for forgiveness. Rick had been inconsiderate and all, but it probably wouldn’t be the last time; and if she was going to make this thing work, she would have to learn not to hold on to her anger.