As she approached the house, she noticed that the front door was ajar. She neared it just as Minmei was saying: “I have nobody who understands, nobody who’ll take the time to listen to me.” The voice was as recognizable as the perfume.
“None of my friends in the business really know who I am,” Minmei continued. “You see, Rick, you’re the only one who cares. That’s why I came: I was wondering if I could stay here for a while.”
Lisa sucked in her breath and almost shoved her fist into her mouth. She knew she had no right to eavesdrop, but her legs refused to put her in motion.
Minmei was pleading with Rick: “I don’t have anyone else to turn to!”
Lisa’s life seemed to be hanging in the balance. Then she heard Rick give his okay and felt herself going over the edge. Silently she pulled the door closed and began to run, crying harder with each step. A short distance down the block a man stopped to inquire if she was all right. She turned on him like a harridan, telling him to mind his own business.
Claudia, meanwhile, had been hopping from bar to bar, party to party. Her brother, Vince, and his wife, Dr. Jean Grant, had invited her over for Christmas drinks, but she had declined. Likewise, she had no desire to return to her quarters and confront the intense loneliness that plagued her on each holiday. For all his bravado Roy had had a traditional side that revealed itself on holidays, and they had passed many wonderful moments together: quiet dinners, walks through the snow on moonlit evenings, midnight exchanges of gifts and affection. She saw this same shared magic in the eyes of each couple that passed her on the street, and it wasn’t long before she found herself back at the Setup, hoping she would run into a friendly face or two.
The last person she expected to find there was Lisa, but there she was, draped over the bar, an almost empty wine bottle in front of her. She was singing—trying at any rate—one of Minmei’s songs, “Stagefright,” by the sound of it. Claudia’s face dropped, then she gave a small shrug and took the adjacent stool.
“Misery loves company,” Lisa slurred, and smiled.
Several hours and countless drinks later, after toasting everyone they knew or had known and solving all the world’s problems, they kissed each other good-bye just as the sun was coming up over Lake Gloval. Claudia had the day off, but Lisa had put in for the morning shift. A young staff officer who had been a frequent visitor to their private party ran Lisa over to the SDF-2 in his open-air jeep.
Surprised at how sober she was—figuring she had somehow pierced the hangover envelope—she tried to let herself enjoy the ride, the cold air rushing at her face. But all that seemed to do was sober her to the point where last night’s problems had little trouble creeping into her consciousness once again. It was time to give up, she told herself, give up and let Minmei have Rick once and for all.
As Lisa was approaching the command center, she heard Kim and Sammie discussing her—a common enough occurrence these days—so she waited outside the door until they were finished, wondering how much more of this she could stand.
Apparently, word of her all-nighter in the Setup had spread fast. Sammie was saying: “Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“You’d do the same thing if you wanted to forget him,” said Kim, making Lisa think back on the evening to ascertain if she had really done something to be ashamed of. If only she had come into this a little sooner …
“Lisa’s too nice a person to do something like that!”
“Of course—she’s not as perfect as you,” Kim teased.
That seemed to take the conversation in a different direction entirely, and a minute or so later Lisa felt safe to enter. Kim, Sammie, and Vanessa were, of course, all smiles by now, but Lisa didn’t hold anything against them. Vanessa mentioned a Christmas party, the first Lisa had heard about it.
“You mean no one told you? It’s for the bridge. Why don’t you invite Rick—I’m sure he’d love to come.”
Was Vanessa goading her? Lisa asked herself. “Ah, I don’t think he’d be able to make it.”
“But he’s off today.”
“Yeah, but he’s at home with a miserable little …”
“Oh,” said Vanessa. “Sick, huh? Too bad.”
Just then the bridge PA came alive. A female voice said:
“This is ground base security! Zentraedi forces are attacking the industrial section! Emergency communiqué to all sectors!”
Khyron’s Officer’s Pod ran through the streets of New Macross, five tactical pods alongside it. They had entered the city before dawn, submerging themselves in the cold waters of the lake before the early-morning surprise attack. Grel’s Battlepod had taken the point, but something was wrong: He had led them past the same storage tanks three times now.
“What are you doing?!” Khyron screamed into his communicator. “You’re leading us around in circles!”
“The Protoculture has got to be here somewhere,” Grel returned. “My agents—”
“Your agents are idiots! Now listen to me: Your incompetence may end up costing you your life! Now, find it!”
Jeeps and CD vehicles sped through the city announcing the attack and instructing the early-morning crowds to seek shelter immediately. Thus far the Zentraedi were restricting themselves to the storage facilities and factories across the lake, but there was no telling where their blood lust and thirst for destruction would lead.
Max and Miriya were opening presents for Dana when the alert sounded. They left the baby with their neighbors, the Emersons, and headed for the base, awaiting further instructions from Admiral Gloval’s headquarters. It was like old times, after all.
Gloval had been roused from sleep and was now putting in a rare appearance on the SDF-2 bridge. Exedore, recently returned from the Robotech satellite to continue his study of Micronian customs, was by the admiral’s side. Surveillance cameras located throughout the industrial sector had captured the Zentraedis’ curious movements. Both Gloval and Exedore were in agreement that the Officer’s Pod was manned by Khyron.
“They seem to be looking for something,” Gloval commented. “There has been very little destruction. Several sentries were killed when the pods made their first appearance, but nothing since.”
The micronized Zentraedi adviser nodded his head solemnly. “Correct, Admiral. If this were an attack, he would be concentrating on military targets. Or whatever suits his fancy, as you say. It would be my guess that he is here to obtain the Protoculture he needs for his battlecruiser.”
“We’ll concentrate our defense in the industrial sector, then.”
Exedore concurred. He then glanced about and added in a conspiratorial tone: “May I be permitted to make a suggestion, Admiral?”
Gloval’s brow furrowed. “Of course, Exedore.”
The Zentraedi said: “Let him find what he’s looking for.”
Frustrated by Grel’s failure to zero in on the storage facility, Khyron left his mecha behind and went into the streets on foot to reconnoiter. He was armed with a single autocannon and his own brand of reckless abandon. He held his ground calmly as Veritechs dove in for strafing runs, picking them from the skies with hardly a lost step.
Across the lake Azonia headed up a diversionary force consisting of powered armor units and Quadrono Battalion Invid scout ships. Someday Earth would see many more of these in the skies …
She directed her squadrons against the city proper, successfully drawing off the Veritech teams that were going in after Khyron. The opposing forces met above the lake, filling the chilled air with furious exchanges of heat, harnessed lightning, and swift death. Max was at the center of the sudden hell storm, his blue Veritech reconfigured to Battloid mode, juking and dodging volleys of enemy missiles while his gatling cannon retaliated, spewing transuranic slugs against the invaders. Miriya went wing to wing with him, dropping one, two, then three scout ships and wondering which of the remaining mecha might hold her former commander, Azonia, now Khyron’s consort!
Rick, ever
the gentleman, had taken the couch. He was aware that Minmei had stood over him in the middle of the night while he pretended to sleep; she had fixed his blankets and smiled at him in the dark. But he hadn’t slept well at all; his neck was cramped, his left arm was tingling, and some sort of fireworks had roused him much earlier than he wanted to rise—always the case on a day off.
He went to the window and saw thick columns of smoke in the clear skies above the lake. Quickly he switched on the television, conscious of Minmei’s rustling around in the kitchen. Rick was already pulling on his clothes when he heard the announcement from the MBS newscaster, Van Fortespiel, “the Boogieman”:
“This special bulletin just in: The Zentaedi attack force is believed to be concentrated in the industrial section of the city. Casualty reports are expected in at any minute now …”
Rick was stunned. “Why wasn’t I notified?!” he shouted to the screen, pulling off his V-neck sweater and reaching for his uniform. “Lisa’s on command watch—she knew where to find me!”
Minmei waited nervously by the front door. Rick saw her troubled look and tried to reassure her.
“Don’t worry—this is routine.”
Her eyes were wide with a sudden fear. “If something happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do!” She held him. “Please don’t let me lose you now that I’ve finally found you!”
Rick took her face between his hands and kissed her lightly.
“I’ll be back soon,” was all that he said.
Khyron’s years-long familiarity with the Invid Flower of Life had imbued him with senses above and beyond the ordinary, especially when it came to homing in on the flower itself, or in this case its repressed matrix—Protoculture.
He ripped away the metal chamber’s tarpaulin cover and smiled to himself, his heart pounding and blood rushing through his system. “The storage matrix,” he murmured aloud.
The cylinder was easily half his height and perhaps twice his weight, but he lifted it easily onto his back nevertheless. Returning to his mecha, he attached servoclamps to the chamber and winched it tight against the underside of the pod.
A savage battle was raging throughout the sector between Battloids and giants, but he put an end to it now by issuing a recall order to his troops. They regrouped and headed out in formation to the southwest.
Airborne in Skull One, Rick received an update from Max and signaled his team of Veritechs to follow his lead.
“Prepare to block their escape route in sector November! We can’t let them get away with that Protoculture!”
Max broke off to join Skull, leaving the rest of the scout ships to Miriya and her fighter team.
“It’s getting bad back there,” he was telling her. But just then his eyes fixed on the Veritech’s topographic display. Something massive was putting down in sector N … “A Zentraedi escort ship,” he yelled.
Rick saw it land, the escort’s four polelike legs spearing through the roofs of buildings and settling deep into tarmac roads. A bizarre-looking ship, shaped like the body of a bloated walrus, with legs that could have been an architect’s compass and an enormous rear thruster like some outsize megaphone. Khyron’s battlepods and attack mecha were ascending into its open steel-trap belly, while Battloids and Excaliburs poured ineffectual fire against its armored hull.
“Attention, Micronians!” Khyron’s voice suddenly blurted out as the ship began to lift off. “Khyron the Destroyer wants to wish you a merry Christmas, and I send you a special greeting from Santa Claus. May all our foolish hollow-days be as bright as this one!…”
New Macross didn’t know what had hit it, only that the entire city seemed to go up in flames. Later, piecing together what passed for facts—Khyron’s cryptic remarks and the observations of people in the street—evidence would point to a certain sidewalk Santa, an uncommon Santa with empty eyes and skin like polluted clay, a Zentraedi who might have been in radio contact with “the Destroyer” and set off the myriad bombs his agents had planted throughout the city …
The Veritechs abandoned their pursuit of the escort ship and returned to Macross to battle the blaze, diving into the citywide inferno again and again with fire-retardant bombs.
By the end of the day, the fires were brought under control and the city began to count its dead. The hospitals were filled to overcrowding, and whatever Christmas spirit remained was more funereal than festive. Still, by nightfall, most families had been reunited and a strange postholocaust calm prevailed. So often destroyed, so often reborn, the people of Macross were hardened survivors, nothing if not adaptable, and well accustomed to death. Church bells sang to one another from distant sectors, carolers took to the streets, and the SDF-2 crew went ahead with its preplanned surprise, lighting the ship with garlands of light, a sacred tree grown from the navel of the world …
Rick met briefly with Lisa afterward. He was angry in spite of the exhaustion he felt.
“I talked to Vanessa,” he said sharply. “She told me you said I was sick in bed! And you know that’s a lie! I should have been notified at the very first scramble alert!”
“I didn’t say you were sick,” she answered, averting her gaze for a moment. “Anyway, I didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed …” She waited for his puzzled look, then added: “You should be more discreet when you have people coming over—or at least learn to close your front door … I came by last night to say merry Christmas. I know all about Minmei staying with you.”
He let it go at that and returned home, entering the house like he was returning from a day at the office, with a cheery “Hi there!” for Minmei, who was visibly overjoyed to see him.
“Thank goodness!” she gushed, wiping tears away.
“I told you I’d come back.” He smiled.
She ran off to fix her face. Rick noticed that she had prepared an entire dinner for the two of them—even a white-frosted cake with a candle and a small Santa.
“I made it for you,” she said softly, hugging him from behind. “My sweet Rick … I was so worried.”
Rick was speechless, feeling her pressed up against him like that, too good to be true.
“Do you think you could ever give up your commission with the Defense Force?” she asked him. “Please think about it because I never want to lose you, Rick—never again …”
She lit the candle after dinner and wished him a merry Christmas.
“May we have a million more like it,” said Rick, the dog fights and fireworks suddenly forgotten.
Minmei sighed and leaned forward, closing her eyes. Rick followed her lead until their lips met …
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
I believe Khyron suspected that Gloval’s allowing him to leave Macross with the Protoculture cell was a form of peace offering. It was Gloval’s judgment for deportation as opposed to incarceration; Gloval’s way of saying: You have what you want—now leave! But it remains unfathomable to me that Gloval and Exedore could so misread Khyron at this late stage. Leave—with the imperative unfilled? Unthinkable. And yet, could the war have ended in any other fashion?… I have asked myself over and over again how events might have reshaped themselves had Khyron simply left.
Rawlins, Zentraedi Triumvirate:
Dolza, Breetai, Khyron
Vengeance, snarled Khyron.
If there had been doubts regarding Khyron’s leadership, the raid on New Macross not only erased them but instilled within his rank and file a sense of loyalty hitherto unknown, even among the Zentraedi. He was “the Destroyer” now, no longer the Backstabber who had sacrificed thousands along his own vainglorious campaign trail. By capturing the Protoculture cell, he had effected a rescue; he had provided them with the means to take leave of the miserable world that had held them captive these two long years—a way to return home. His troops would have followed him into hell itself … And that was precisely where he meant to lead them …
“All energy inputs building to operative levels, sir,” an engine room tech rep
orted to the observation bubble command center.
“Check the reflex furnaces,” Grel shouted into the communicator. He sat rigidly at his duty station, grateful to be alive after the way things had turned out in Macross. Had Khyron failed to find the matrix, Grel wouldn’t have survived the day.
The Destroyer himself was pacing the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, the olive-drab campaign cloak swirling as he turned.
“Stable,” relayed the engine room tech.
“We have full power,” Azonia updated. Seated at the duty station adjacent to Grel’s, she too was in full-dress uniform.
Khyron clenched his fists and approached the curved console of the command center. His eyes held a look that went beyond anger. “Excellent!” he hissed. “We will leave immediately to rejoin the Robotech Masters!”
Grel and Azonia were raising their hands in salute when he suddenly added: “But before I leave Earth, I want to destroy the SDF-1!”
His subordinates stared at him in disbelief, their protests ignored. The Earth Forces weren’t foolish enough to permit a second sneak attack; they would be lying in wait, the guns of their newly constructed fortress primed and aimed! Surely Khyron recognized this, surely he wouldn’t allow freedom to slip from their grasp now!
“I will have my final revenge on these Micronians,” Grel and Azonia heard him mutter under his breath. Then he turned on them and ordered lift-off. They glanced at each other wordlessly and initiated the launch sequence.
The cruiser shuddered, vibrating to a bone-shaking bass rumble that was more feeling than sound. Protoculture surged through the ship’s atrophied systems, empowering the massive reflex furnaces in its holds. Thrusters erupted with nearly volcanic force, inverted against the tangled tenacious growth that was partly of the ship’s own creating. The Earth itself sensed the force of the cruiser’s withdrawal, replying in kind with tectonic movements created and relayed from deep within its core, the last gasp of some opposing telluric intelligence bent on holding fast its dangerous captive.
Doomsday: The Macross Saga Page 53