Robotech: Homecoming
Book Three of the Robotech series
Copyright 1987 by Jack McKinney


CHAPTER ONE
The enemy armada, so vastly superior to us in numbers of fighting mecha and
aggregate firepower, continues to harry and harass us. But time and again the
Zentraedi stop short of all-out attack. They impede our long voyage back to
Earth, but they cannot stop us. I am still uncertain as to what good fortune is
working in the SDF-1's favor.
I do not point out any of this to the crew or refugees, however. It does no good
to tell grieving friends and loved ones that casualties could have been far
worse.
From the log of Captain Henry Gloval

Blue lines of enemy cannon fire streaked by Roy Fokker's cockpit, scorching one
of his Veritech fighter's tail stabilizers, ranging in for a final volley.
      "Flying sense" the aviators called it, jargon that came from the
twentieth-century term "air sense": honed and superior high-speed piloting
instincts. It was something a raw beginner took a while to develop, something
that separated the novices from the vets.
      And it was something Lieutenant Commander Roy Fokker, Skull Team leader
and Veritech squadron commander, had in abundance, even in the airlessness of a
deep-space dogfight.
      Responding to his deft touch at the controls and his very will-passed
along to it by Robotech sensors in his flight helmet-Roy's Veritech fighter did
a wingover and veered onto a new vector with tooth-snapping force.
      Thrusters blaring full-bore, the maneuver forces pressed him into his
seat, just as the enemy was concentrating more on his aim than on his flying.
      The Zentraedi in the Battlepod on Roy's tail, trying so diligently to kill
him and destroy his Robotech fighter, was a good pilot, steady and cool like all
of them, but he lacked Roy's flying abilities.
      While the giant alien gaped, astounded, at his suddenly empty gunsight
reticle, the Skull Team leader was already coming around behind the pod into the
kill position.
      Around that fragment of the battle, an enormous dogfight raged as
Zentraedi pods and their Cyclops recon ships mixed it up ferociously with the
grimly determined human defenders in their Veritechs. The bright spherical
explosions characteristic of zero-g battle blossomed all around, dozens at a
time. Blue Zentraedi radiation blasts were matched by the Veritechs'
autocannons, which flung torrents of high-density armor-piercers at the enemy.
      Roy was relieved to see that the SDF-1 was unharmed. Most of the fighting
seemed to be going on at some distance from it, although it was clear that the
enemy fleet had all the odds on its side. The Zentraedi armada easily numbered
over a million warships.
      Roy located his wingman, Captain Kramer, in the furious engagement;
forming up for mutual security, he looked around again for the fantastic
Zentraedi mecha that had done so much damage a few minutes before. It had flown
rings around the Veritechs that had gone after it, taking Roy and the Skulls by
surprise and smashing their formation after cutting a swath through Vermilion
Team.
      Whatever it was, it was unlike any Zentraedi weapon the humans had seen so
far. Unlike the pods, which resembled towering metal ostriches bristling with
guns, the newcomer was more human-shaped-a bigger, more hulking, and heavily
armed and armored version of the Veritechs' own Battloid mode. And fast-
frightfully fast and impossible to stop, eluding even the SDF-1's massive
defensive barrages.
      Roy had expected to see the battle fortress under intense attack; instead,
the super dimensional fortress was cruising along unbothered and alone.
Moreover, transmissions over the tac net indicated that the Zentraedi pods and
Cyclopses were withdrawing. Roy couldn't figure that out.
      He switched from the tac net to SDF-1's command net. There was word of the
new Zentraedi mecha. The thing had made it as far as SDF-1-getting in beneath
the fields of fire of most of the ship's batteries-then had suddenly withdrawn
at blinding speed, outmaneuvering gunfire and outracing pursuit. The ship had
suffered only minor damage, and the operations and intelligence people had
concluded that the whole thing had been a probing attack of some kind, a test of
a new machine and new tactics.
      Roy didn't care as long as the battle fortress was still safe. He gathered
the Veritechs, ready to head home.
      "Enemy pod," Skull Five called over the tac net. "Bearing one-niner-four-
seven."
      Roy already had the computer reference on one of his situation screens. A
pod, all right, but evidently damaged and drifting, none of its weapons firing;
it was leaking atmosphere.
      "Could be a trick," Skull Seven said. "What d' ya think, skipper? Do we
blast it out of the sky?"
      "Negative; somebody may still be alive in there, and a live captive is
what the intelligence staff's been praying for." The incredible savagery of this
deep-space war was such that few survived as casualties. Alien or human, a
fighter almost always either triumphed or died, a simple formula. The humans had
never recovered a living enemy.
      Besides, for very personal reasons, Roy was especially eager to see a
Zentraedi undergo interrogation.
      "We're getting signals from it, nothing we can unscramble," a
communications officer reported over the command net.
      Whatever was going on, none of the Zentraedi forces seemed to be turning
back for a rescue. Veritech fly-bys drew no fire; eyeball inspection and
instruments indicated that the damaged pod's main power source had been knocked
out but that some of its weapons were still functioning. Nevertheless, it passed
up several opportunities to blast away at nearby VTs.
      "This is too good an opportunity to pass up," Gloval finally announced
over the main command net. "If there is a survivor aboard, we must get him into
the SDF-1 immediately."
      "That thing could be booby-trapped-or its occupant could be!" a security
staff officer protested from one of Roy's display screens.
      Gloval replied, "That is why we will push the pod closer to SDF-1-but not
too close-and connect a boarding tube to it. An EVA team will make a thorough
examination before we permit it any closer."
      "But-" the officer began.
      Roy cut in over the command net, "You heard the captain, so put a sock in
it, mac!" Roy was elated with Gloval's decision; it was only a slim hope, but
now there was hope of finding out what had happened to Roy's closest friend in
the world, Rick Hunter and Lisa Hayes and the others who'd disappeared on their
desperate mission to guide the SDF-1 through danger.
      Roy began swinging into place, shifting his ship to Battloid mode. "Okay,
Skull Team; time to play a little bumper cars."
      Two more Skulls went to Battloid, their Robotech ships transforming and
reconfiguring. When the shift was complete, the war machines looked like
enormous armored ultramech knights.
      They joined Roy in pushing the inert pod back toward the battle fortress.

      The men and women of the EVA-Extra Vehicular Activity-crews were efficient
and careful. They're also gutsy as hell, Roy reflected, his Battloid towering
over them in the boarding tube lock. But of course, everybody knew and honored
the legendary dedication and tenacity of the EVA crews.
      Crowded into the boarding tube lock with two other Battloids behind him,
Roy watched expectantly. The huge lock, extending from the SDF-1 at the end of
nearly a mile of large-diameter tube, was a yawning dome on a heavy base,
equipped with every sort of contingency gear imaginable. The captured pod and
EVA crew and Roy's security detail took up only a small part of its floor space.
      "Not beat up too bad," the EVA crew chief observed over the com net. "But
I dunno how much air it lost. What d' ya say, Fokker? Do we open 'er up?" She
was holding a thermotorch ready. She'd turned to gaze up at Roy's cockpit.
      As ranking officer on the scene, Lt. Comdr. Roy Fokker had the
responsibility of advising Gloval. Tampering with the pod was very risky; they
could trigger some kind of booby trap humans couldn't even imagine, destroying
everyone there and perhaps even damaging the SDF-1.
      But we can't go on fighting war this way! Roy thought. Knowing next to
nothing about these creatures we're up against or even why we're fighting-we
can't go on like this much longer!
      "Cap'n Gloval, sir, I say we take a shot."
      "Very well. Good luck to you," Gloval answered. "Proceed."
      Roy reached down and put a giant hand in front of the EVA crew chief,
blocking her way as she approached the enemy mecha. "Sorry, Pietra; this is my
party."
      His Battloid stood upright again and walked to the pod, shouldering its
autocannon, its footsteps shaking the deck. "Cover me," he told his teammates,
and they fanned out, muzzles leveled, for clear fields of fire. The Battloid's
forearms extruded metal tentacles, complicated waldos and manipulators, and
thermotorches.
      "Just try not to break anything unnecessarily," Pietra warned, and led her
crew to the shelter of a blast shield.
      Roy looked the pod over, trying a few external controls tentatively.
Nothing happened. He moved closer still, examining the pressure seals that ran
around the great hatch at the rear top of the pod's bulbous torso. Being this
close to a pod's guns had him sweating under his VT helmet.
      "Careful, Roy," Kramer said quietly.
      He didn't want to use the torch for fear of fire or explosion. He decided
to try simply pulling the pod's hatch open with the Battloid's huge, strong
hands. He ran his ship's fingers along the seams, feeling for a place to grab
hold...
      The pod shook, rattled, and began to open.
      Roy's Battloid leapt back, weapon aimed, as the hatch lifted up. Battloid
forefingers tightened on triggers, but there was no occupant immediately to be
seen.
      However, the Battloids' external sound sensors relayed a remarkable
exchange, muffled and a little resonant, coming from the pod.
      "Well, finally! Thank goodness! When you start bragging to your fighter
pilot buddies about this mission, boys, don't forget it took you just about
forever to get a simple hatch open!"
      That voice was womanly and very pleasant, if a little arch and teasing.
Another, a young male's, sounding highly insulted, answered, "You weren't so hot
at getting in touch with your precious bridge, I noticed!"
      If this is some kind of trick, we're up against the zaniest enemies in the
universe, Roy thought.
      "I thought you both did very well," another male voice said calmly, humbly
placatingly.
      "Ah, look out, Max," the first male voice said. "And let's get outta
here."
      There was a certain amount of grunting and straining then, and at one
point the female voice yelled, "Ben, if you don't get your big foot out of my
face, I'm going to break it off!" A vociferous argument broke out.
      "Everybody shut up!" the first male voice screamed. "Ben, Max: Gimme a
boost up, here."
      Moments later, two flight-gloved, human-size hands gripped the edge of the
hatch. A dark mop of black hair rose into view.
      Rick Hunter, standing on the head of the husky Ben Dixon, hauled himself
up triumphantly.
      "Hold your fire! We're back! Roy, we escaped from the Zentraedi-um..."
      Three Battloids stood there looking at him, hands resting casually on the
upturned muzzles of their grounded autocannon, heads cocked to one side or the
other. Their attitude seemed to be one of resigned disgust.
      "We escaped!" Rick repeated, thinking perhaps they hadn't heard him. "Man,
have we got stories to tell! We were in an enemy ship! We met their leaders! We
shot our way out in this pod! We...we...What's wrong?"
      Roy couldn't tell Rick how overjoyed and relieved he was; it would have
spoiled their friendship.
      "We were hoping for a POW," he said. "Boy, is Captain Gloval gonna be sore
at you for not being a Zentraedi."


CHAPTER TWO
The Zentraedi version of psychology could only be termed primitive, of course,
except as it applied to such things as maintaining military discipline and
motivating warriors. And even there, it was brutal and straightforward.
No surprise, then, that when those particular three Zentraedi were quick to
accept their spying mission, Breetai scarcely thought twice about it.
But of course, he hadn't spent as much time watching transmissions of the
swimsuit portion of the Miss Macross contest.
Zeitgeist, Alien Psychology

The SDF-1'S survival of the latest Zentraedi attack had buoyed morale all
through the ship-at least in most cases; there were those whom the lessons of
war had made too wary to quickly believe in good fortune. Even with Earth
looming large before it and the long, dark billions of miles safely crossed, the
battle fortress was dogged by the enemy-now more than ever. Continued vigilance
was imperative.
      One of those acutely aware of the continuing danger was Claudia Grant, who
was acting as the vessel's First Officer in Lisa Hayes's absence. Though Claudia
and Lisa were friends, Claudia had always felt a little put off by Lisa's
single-minded devotion to duty, her severity. But now, elevated to the
responsibilities of her new position-especially at this moment, with Gloval off
the bridge-Claudia was seeing things in a different light.
      The members of her usual watch, the female enlisted-rating techs, Sammie,
Kim, and Vanessa, were off duty for a long-postponed pass into Macross City.
Lisa, Claudia, and the other three had formed something very much like a family,
with Gloval as patriarch; they had become a highly efficient team both under
everyday stresses and demands and under fire.
      The turmoil of the war had brought an assortment of other techs to the
bridge on relief watches, and Claudia didn't trust any of them to really know
what they were doing, just as Lisa hadn't. So even though she was almost out on
her feet with fatigue, Claudia had refused to be relieved of her duties as long
as Gloval was away.
      There was no telling how long that would be. The glorious news of the
rescue of Lisa and the others was tarnished by the fact that the SDF-1 was still
surrounded by the enemy armada. Debriefings and command conferences might go on
for a very long while.
      Claudia looked up wearily from her instruments as she heard one of the
relief-watch techs say wistfully, "Boy, is that beautiful! D' you think we'll
ever set foot on Earth again?"
      The tech had brought up a long-range image of their blue-white homeworld
on the screen before her.
      Claudia was a tall woman in her late twenties, with exotic good looks and
glowing honey-brown skin. Her dark eyes twinkled and shone when she was happy,
and flashed when she was angry. Right now, they were flashing like warning
beacons.
      "Why don't you go ask the commander of that Zentraedi fleet? Go ahead,
take a look at them! Maybe they've gone away!"
      The tech, a teenage girl who wore her auburn hair in a pageboy and still
didn't look quite comfortable in uniform, swallowed and went a little pale.
Claudia Grant's temper was well known, and she had the size and speed to back it
up when she needed to.
      The tech worked her controls obediently, bringing up a visual of the
Zentraedi fleet. They were all around the battle fortress, standing out of range
of the ship's secondary batteries and lesser weapons. They were like a seaful of
predatory fish-cruisers and destroyers and smaller craft in swarms, blocking out
the stars. And farther away, the instruments registered their flagship: nine
miles of armor and heavy weapons.
      The tech gasped, eyes big and round.
      "Still there, huh?" Claudia nodded, knowing full well they were. "All
right, then, let's not hear any more about wanting to go home; not until our
job's done. Understood?"
      The tech hastened to say, "Aye aye!" as did the rest of the watch.
      Claudia eased off a bit, looking around at the watch members. "There are a
lot of folks depending on us. And I guarantee you, you don't want to know what
it feels like to let people down in a situation like this."
      In a far-off compartment of the SDF-1, three strange beings skulked and
crept around. They were not Zentraedi, at least not any longer; they were of
human scale. But neither could they fairly be called human, though that was the
appearance they gave; until a few hours before they had been members of the
giant warrior race.
      The devastatingly fast and ferocious enemy mecha that had wreaked such
havoc among the VTs-the one the humans hadn't seen before-had put this threesome
aboard. The one thing they could accurately be called was "spies."
      They had hastily retreated from the metal canister in which they'd
arrived. The mighty Quadrono Battalion mecha that had, in its lightning raid,
torn open a section of the SDF-1's hull to toss them inside had also
(understandably enough) attracted a certain amount of attention. If the canister
was found before it quietly dissolved, it might set off a massive search.
      The smallest of the three, Rico, said, "Okay, let's start spying!" He was
dark-haired and wiry.
      The sturdy Bron, a head taller, said sourly, "But we can't spy in these
clothes; they'll know who we are!"
      Even though the Zentraedi military had little experience in espionage-out-
and-out battle was what the warrior race preferred-it was obvious that Bron was
right. The Zentraedi fleet carried no wardrobe in human size, of course, and so
the three wore improvised, shapeless knee-length robes of coarsely woven blue
sackcloth. The sleeveless robes were gathered at the waist with a turn or two of
Zentraedi string, more or less the thickness of clothesline. Not surprisingly,
the spies were barefoot.
      It all had them a bit shaken, this matter of dress. The Zentraedi drew
much of their sense of self from their uniforms. The best the trio had been able
to do was agree to maintain the attitude that they were wearing the special
attire of an elite unit. A very small elite unit.
      Konda, nearly Bron's height but lean and angular, shook his hair back out
of his eyes. His hair was purple, but intelligence reported that the color
wouldn't stand out much in light of current human fads. "Then, let's find some
other clothes," Konda proposed.
      They'd been given some briefings and rather broad guidelines by Zentraedi
intelligence officers, but to a great extent they were improvising as they went
along. Still, Konda's idea made a lot of sense. The spies leapt from hiding and
set off down a passageway, slipping among the shadows and peering around
corners, much more conspicuous than if they'd simply strolled along chatting.
      Naturally, SDF-1 had no internal security measures against Zentraedi
spies, since it was generally assumed that a fifty-foot-high armored warrior
wouldn't be difficult to spot in the average crowd.
      There followed a period of ducking and darting, of peeping into various
compartments and avoiding any contact with the occasional passerby. The spies
knew the general location of the battle fortress's bridge and worked their way
in that direction, since the ship's nerve center was something the Zentraedi
wanted very much to know about.
      As the motley trio peeked out from concealment, they heard a very strange
and appealing sound, something none of them had ever heard before. It was human;
Konda wondered if it was some alien form of singing, even if it didn't sound
very military.
      The sound was coming in their direction. They yanked themselves back out
of sight. The oddly interesting sound stopped, and the spies heard human female
voices.
      "Where d' you want to go tonight, Sammie?"
      There was the sound of slender shoe heels clicking along the deck. The
human females were coming their way, so the spies drew back even deeper into
darkness.
      "Oh, I don't really care, as long as I can get out of this uniform,"
Sammie answered.
      "Mine feels like it'll be glad to get off me!" Vanessa said.
      The Terrible Trio giggled together again; they'd been laughing with
delight ever since the relief watch had shown up on the bridge to give them a
brief taste of freedom. The hatch to a complex of enlisted ratings' quarters
compartments slid open for them and they entered. The hatch closed, shutting off
the giggles.
      The accelerated course in human language the three spies had been given
let them understand the words perfectly, but the content was another question
entirely. "What did all that mean?" Konda wondered, rubbing feet that had been
made very, very cold by the deck plates.
      Little Rico was thinking of a uniform wanting to get off somebody. Can
these creatures have sentient clothing? Perhaps with artificial enhancements?
That would indicate a supreme control of Protoculture! "It seems these
Micronians have some great powers."
      "Micronians" had always been a derogatory Zentraedi term for small
humanoid beings such as Homo sapiens. Now, the spies weren't so sure that the
condescension was justified.
      Bron nodded. "Well, let's keep watch and see what else we can find out."
      It seemed like a very long time before the hatch reopened. The Terrible
Trio emerged, each dressed for a night on the town in a different, fetching
outfit. They laughed and joked, going off in the opposite direction, leaving the
very faint but heady fragrance of three perfumes in the passageway.
      "Different clothes!" Rico exclaimed softly. With different powers,
perhaps, specialized for a particular mission?
      "I know!" Bron said with a certain surprising emphasis.
      "Do these people change uniforms every time they do something?" Konda
posed a tactical question:
      But why, then, did the clothes all look different? The spies somehow knew
what they'd just seen weren't uniforms. But how could the Micronians bear to
lose their identity by not wearing their uniforms? It was all too unsettling for
words.
      Not to mention the fact that the three Micronian females looked and
sounded, well, somehow delightful. Beguiling. It was very puzzling. The three
looked at one another.
      "Incredible," Bron summarized.
      "Uh, but what does it all mean?" Rico said with troubled brow.
      Konda rubbed his jaw in thought. "They changed their clothes in that
compartment down there. So that means...we can get disguises!"
      "Good thinking!" Bron cried.
      "Let's go!" Rico exploded.
      They dashed down the passageway, bare feet slapping the deck. After first
making sure nobody was still inside, they piled through the hatch together,
anxious to blend in with the Micronians. And though none of them admitted it to
the others, they were all thinking of those three intriguing Micronian females
but trying not to.
      They'd had a previous close encounter with the human enemy, monitoring
SDF-1 transmissions that were confusing and puzzling but ever so fascinating.
What they'd seen was the swimsuit competition of the ship's Miss Macross
pageant. Though they hadn't been able to make head or tail of it, and neither
had Zentraedi intelligence analysts, the experience had made Rico, Bron, and
Konda eager to sign up for the spying mission.
      Inside, various small subcompartments opened off a narrow central
passageway. The spies began searching through them, looking for garments that
might fit.
      They approached the clothes tentatively, timidly. The human fabric
constructions seemed unthreatening enough, hanging there docilely; but if they
somehow incorporated Protoculture forces, there might be no limit to what they
could do. The threesome moved as carefully as if they were in the midst of a
pack of sleeping Dobermans.
      When at last they worked up the nerve to actually touch a dangling cuff
and nothing catastrophic happened, the Zentraedi proceeded with more confidence.
      A pattern emerged: The lockers in those quarters on the forward side of
the passageway tended to have rather recognizable clothing suited to normal
activities, even if the cut was a little strange. The ones on the aft side,
however, had frilly things, as well as trousers and the skirt-type uniforms the
females had worn, as well as more elaborate designs of the same undivided lower
garments.
      After a lot of rummaging and trying on, Konda and Rico, now in human
attire, stepped back into the main passageway. Konda wore dark slacks and a
yellow turtleneck, settling the collar uncomfortably. Rico had found blue
trousers and a red pullover.
      "Hey, Bron, let's get moving!" Rico called.
      "This uniform is very unusual," Bron said, lumbering to catch up. "But
it's all I can find that fits me. I dressed to conform with a two-dimensional
image I saw in that compartment. What d' you think?"
      Bron held out the hem of his pleated skirt, standing awkwardly in the
large pumps he'd found. His white silk blouse was arranged correctly, its fluffy
bow tie and the tasteful string of pearls exactly corresponding to the fashion
photo he'd seen.
      "Y' look fine, Bron! Now, let's get started," Rico snapped. Bron looked
wounded.
      Rico was edgy; he and the others had come aboard unarmed, since all
Zentraedi weapons were now far too big for them to handle or hide. They'd found
no Micronian weapons at all in the humans' personal quarters except those of a
makeshift and unsuitable sort. How could these creatures feel any peace of mind
without at least a few small arms close at hand? It all made less and less
sense.
      Bron glowered, and Rico subsided; it was unwise to get the big fellow
irritated. Bron gave his skirt a final hitch and said, "Ready."
      They fell in together and trooped off in the direction the Terrible Trio
had gone, ready to bring triumph and glory to the mighty Zentraedi race.


CHAPTER THREE
We had met the enemy, and he wasn't us. Then we wound up in front of some of
"us," and they were the enemy.
Lisa Hayes, Recollections

"Please continue your report, commander Hayes," the captain bade her.
      They sat in high-back chairs along the gleaming conference room table, all
in a row. A short time ago they'd been greeted as heroes, but now-despite
Captain Gloval's comforting presence-Lisa felt very much as if she were sitting
before a board of inquiry.
      Lisa, Rick, Ben, and Max looked across the long, wide table at the row of
four member officers of the evaluation team. Only one of them held rank in one
of the combat arms, Colonel Maistroff, an Air Group officer with a reputation as
a martinet and stuffed shirt.
      The others were intelligence and operations staffers, though the bearded
and balding Major Aldershot was supposed to be something of a mainstay over at
G3 Operations and had earned a Combat Infantry Star in his youth. The team
studied the escapees as if they were something on a microscope slide.
      Gloval, presiding at the head of the table, was encouraging Lisa. "You are
certain that what you've made is a fair estimate? At this Zentraedi central base
there are really that many more ships than we've already seen?" The comlink
handset next to him began beeping softly; he ignored it.
      Lisa thought carefully. So many things about their captivity in the
planetoid-size enemy base, a spacefold jump away-somewhere else in the universe-
were astounding and unnerving that she rechecked her recollections again,
minutely.
      Rick looked over to her, and their eyes met. He didn't nod; that might
have tainted her testimony. But she saw that he was ready to back her up.
      "Yes, sir, at least that many. And quite possibly millions more. I made a
conservative estimate."
      Gloval, hand on the phone, looked to Rick. "Truly?"
      Rick nodded. "Yes, sir. That many."
      Gloval listened to the handset for a moment, then replaced it in its
cradle without responding. "Based on all combined reports," he resumed, "our
computers place the total enemy resources at somewhere between four and five
million ships."
      "Sir, forgive me, but that's ridiculous," one team member said. From the
security branch, he was the officer who'd been all for destroying the escapees'
pod. "Our projections are based on the most accurate data and statistical
techniques known.
      "No species could accumulate that sort of power! And even if they could,
they couldn't possibly remain at the primitive social and psychological level of
these aliens!"
      "Now, granted, we're seeing a great deal of military display here," the
Intel man, a portly fellow in his early thirties, added. "But how many of those
ships have actually proved themselves to be combat-ready? A comparative handful!
No, Captain; I think what we're seeing is just a bluff. And I think your people
here have been taken in by it. My analysis is that Commander Hayes and her party
were permitted to escape so that they could bring us this...hysterical report
and demoralize us."
      "Permitted?" Ben Dixon was halfway out of his chair, the big hands
clenched into fists, about to leap across the table and pummel the intel
officer. "D' you know how many times we almost got killed? How close we came to
not making it? When was the last time you saw any action, you-"
      "Captain!" the intelligence officer burst out to Gloval by way of
complaint.
      "That will do!" Gloval thundered, and there was sudden silence as Max
Sterling and Rick Hunter pulled Ben back.
      Having shown his Jovian side for an instant, Gloval lapsed back into a
reasonable voice. "Gentlemen, let's hear the entire report before discussing
it." It wasn't a suggestion, and everybody understood that. The debriefing team
subsided.
      Lisa had thought her words out carefully. "In the course of our captivity,
we observed that the aliens have absolutely no concept of human emotions.
They've been groomed entirely for war. And their society is organized along
purely military lines.
      "It appears that they've increased their physical size and strength
artificially through genetic manipulation and that they also have the ability to
reverse the process."
      The others present were studying the few video records she'd managed to
make surreptitiously during captivity, but Lisa's memory, with Rick's, Ben's,
and Max's, provided vivid and chilling recollections. They'd witnessed Zentraedi
trans-vid records of the destruction of an entire planet, seen the gigantic
protoculture sizing chambers the aliens used to manipulate their size and
structure, felt the deathly squeeze of Commander in Chief Dolza's fist around
them.
      And something else had happened, something Lisa could only bring herself
to refer to obliquely. The enemy leaders had been repulsed, but fascinated, by
the human custom of kissing. At their demand, and to ascertain what effect it
would have on them, Lisa and Rick had kissed, long and deeply, on an enemy
conference table as big as a playing field.
      None of the four escapees had mentioned the kiss. Lisa still wasn't sure
exactly what it was she'd felt afterward. She suspected that Rick was also a
little confused, in spite of his love affair with the girl called Minmei. Max
and Ben had kept silent, Rick's friends as well as his wingmates.
      Lisa finished, "And I think this last part is very important: While they
examined and interrogated us, they constantly made reference to something they
called -'Protoculture.'"
      The intel officer who had almost been attacked by Ben Dixon tilted his
chair back arrogantly. "That's pure fantasy."
      His security buddy added, "And were there any little green men?"
      Major Aldershot glanced around at him stiffly, the ends of his waxed
mustache seeming to bristle. "I will point out that the commander is a much-
decorated soldier. This insulting levity is unbecoming from someone who has yet
to prove himself under fire." It was the most he'd said all morning.
      "What is this `Protoculture'?" Gloval put things back on track.
      Lisa hesitated before answering. "It's apparently something that relates
to their use of Robotech. I'm not sure, but they think that Protoculture is the
highest science in the universe and that somehow we possess some of its deepest
secrets."
      Colonel Maistroff said with a sly grin to the other evaluation team
officers, "Too deep for me!" and guffawed at his own joke.
      The intel and security officers roared spitefully along with him as Lisa's
cheeks colored and Rick felt himself flush in anger.
      "Silence!" Gloval barked. It was instantly quiet. "This is a very grave
moment. This alien armada has pursued and harried us across the solar system for
almost a year and yet has never made an all-out attempt to destroy us; perhaps
we do possess a power in the SDF-1 that we don't fully understand."
      That was a good bet, the way Rick saw it. Even the brilliant Dr. Lang
understood only a fraction of the alien ship's secrets, and he was the one who
had masterminded its reconstruction from a burned and battered wreck.
      Maistroff fixed Lisa with a gimlet stare, red-faced at being rebuked in
front of junior officers. "Commander Hayes, is that all?"
      Lisa met his glare. "Yes, sir, that's all."
      Ben whispered to Rick, "I don't think they believe us." Ben wasn't exactly
point man on the genius roster, and the idea that such a thing could happen had
never occurred to him until the debriefing was well along.
      "It's probably the dishonest expression on your face," Rick whispered back
absently.
      Maistroff placed both hands flat on the table and turned to Gloval. "Do
you really believe this wild tale? It's enemy trickery! Hallucinations!"
      Gloval began stoking up his evil-smelling briar, tamping the tobacco
slowly with his thumb, pondering. "This information must be correlated and
reported to Earth immediately, whether I believe it or not-"
      Maistroff interrupted him, saying tightly and too quickly, "I'll send a
coded message right away-"
      "Colonel Maistroff." It was Gloval's turn to interrupt. "No, you won't."
He lit his briar while they all gaped at him.
      Gloval said, "We've got to break through the enemy elements that stand
between the SDF-1 and our homeworld."
      The evaluation team was aghast, Maistroff shouting, "We can't make it!"
      Rick looked around and saw that everybody on his side of the table thought
it was a magnificent idea. Gloval rose. "At our current speed, we are only two
days from Earth, and they must have this information." He started for the hatch.
      Maistroff scowled at Gloval's back. "And then what?"
      The captain answered over his shoulder. "And then nothing. We just await
orders while we relax, Colonel Maistroff."
      He cut through all their protests. "That will be all, gentlemen."
      Gloval turned to the escapees. "And as for you four..." They all shot to
their feet at rigid attention.
      "At least for the time being, you'll be relieved of duty. You've earned a
little R and R. You're dismissed."
      The four saluted him happily. "Enjoy yourselves," Gloval said gruffly;
puffing his pipe. They did a precise right-face and marched out of the
conference room in style. But at the last moment, Gloval removed his pipe from
his mouth and called, "One moment, Lisa."
      The others continued on. Lisa paused at the hatch and turned back to him.
"Yes, Captain?"
      "Personally, I am inclined to believe that your report is accurate.
However..."
      "Certainly," she said. "Thank you, Captain. I know you believe in us, and
I appreciate that."
      "I'm glad you understand."
      The door slid open again, and she turned and left. Gloval, looking back to
the debriefing team, saw that the fact that he'd chosen to tell Lisa what he
did, where he did, wasn't lost on them.

      "I'd rather face the aliens again than that bunch of brass," Max Sterling
told Rick as they walked down the passageway. They were walking side by side,
with Ben behind. They could hear Lisa's quick footsteps as she fell in at the
rear.
      "Gloval wasn't so bad, and that Major Aldershot," Ben said.
      "They're only doing their job," Rick maintained. "I'd feel the same way in
their place."
      "Sure you would," Lisa put it, a little surprised that Rick Hunter had
been so transformed from a headstrong discipline problem to a trained military
man who understood why and how the service functioned. "And they'd feel exactly
the same way we do in ours."
      "That's right; why not look on the bright side," Ben said. Rick looked
back to Ben but found himself making eye contact with Lisa. He looked ahead
again quickly, in turmoil, not sure what he felt.
      "After all, all of us were promoted, weren't we?" Ben went on, noticing
nothing, very jolly. "And we're going home to a big hero's welcome! So why not
relax and enjoy the rest and recreation Captain Gloval gave us?" He clapped Rick
on the shoulder, staggering him.
      Rick looked back at him sourly. "You could probably relax in the dentist's
chair, Ben."

      "Are you sure this is the right way?" Konda asked nervously, watching the
elevator's floor-indicator lights count down toward One.
      "We're headed for the area of greatest activity in this battle fortress,"
Rico said confidently. "Surely the most important concentration of military
secrets will be there."
      "I still think we should be trying to reach the bridge," Bron grumbled.
      The elevator stopped, and the doors parted. A brilliant ray of light broke
on them. The three spies stood rooted, making astounded, strangled sounds.
      Before them was Macross City in all its glory. The streets were jammed
with traffic; the sidewalks were crowded with busy, hurrying people.
Streetlights and signs and headlights shone, as did the starlight projected by
the Enhanced Video Emulation system. Display windows were filled with clothing
and appliances, books, furniture, and an astonishing variety of other goods.
      Rico gulped and found his voice. "There's so much to spy on! Where should
we start?"
      Konda drew a deep breath. "Perhaps we should just mingle with the
Micronians and observe their habits."
      They gathered their courage and stepped out. Humans were everywhere, alone
and in pairs and bigger groups, all going every which way. Some were in military
uniforms, but in general everybody was dressed differently. Reassured that he
and his companions wouldn't be noticed, Bron pulled up his knee socks and
smoothed the pleats in his skirt.
      It took all their self-control not to shout upon seeing male and female
Micronians mingling freely. No officers or overseers were in immediate evidence,
although it was just as plain as could be to the Zentraedi that such hivelike
activity would be totally impossible without some strong central control. Still,
there were humans who strode along purposefully while others stood idly
conversing and still others browsed along, glancing through the gleaming store
windows.
      And nobody, nobody, was in step with anybody else.
      They started off, observing carefully. Bron said, "Well, I think there's a
good chance we're going to be observing them for a very long time before we
figure them out."
      They came to a window-shopper, a young man staring longingly at a display
in a music store, eyes fixed on a red crystal electric guitar that had three
necks and a set of speakers bigger than public comcircuit booths.
     "What d' you suppose he's doing?" Bron whispered.
     Rico considered, then smiled in sudden realization. "Taking inventory!"
     Bron and Konda murmured, "Ahh!" and nodded knowingly.


CHAPTER FOUR
Due to an OVERWHELMING NUMBER OF APPLICATIONS, processing and mailing of
membership packets for the MINMEI FAN CLUB is running several weeks behind.
MINMEI hopes that all her LOYAL FANS will understand this and wants you to know
that she LOVES EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU!!!
Macross City newspaper, magazine, and broadcast ad

The trio of micronized zentraedi came to an intersection. Before them, crosswalk
signals blazed and traffic lights changed colors. The movement of vehicles and
people was orchestrated somehow, but the logic behind it was difficult to grasp.
Everything was so disorderly, so unmilitary.
      And all around them was the barrage of lighted signs and flashing neon of
Macross City's "downtown." They could read the signs-at least when the logos and
print styles weren't too fanciful-but couldn't make any sense of them. And there
was so little uniformity! Surely, they thought, these Micronians must be mad.
      And none of the three dared admit to the others how oddly appealing he
found it all.
      Rico threw his hands in the air. "What military purpose could all those
indicators possibly serve?"
      Konda glanced around at lovers strolling with arms about each other's
waists, at parents leading their children by the hand, at old people enjoying
coffee at an outdoor cafe. It was just as horrible as the intelligence reports
had indicated. "You can be sure some kind of sinister force is at work here."
      He started off, the other two falling in with him. "There's something
strange at the root of all this, something that makes these creatures so
completely unlike us. But I haven't been able to put my finger on it."
      "I noticed it, too!" Rico said excitedly. "Like something's out of
balance-something weird that affects all of them."
      They heard laughter and shouting coming their way, and the hiss of small
wheels against the sidewalk. Bron pointed. " Warriors!"
      A young male and a young female sped with easy, athletic grace along the
sidewalk on small wheeled contrivances barely big enough to stand on.
      Their hair streamed behind them, and they whooped and laughed, tilting and
swaying to steer. From their merry demeanor, the spies could see that the young
Micronians enjoyed their drill and the prospect of combat.
      "Gangwaaaay!" called the boy.
      "Yahooooo!" sang the girl.
      Trying to hide his dismay at their bloodthirsty war cries, Bron dodged,
then faked the other way. The skateboarders, unaware that they were part of an
interspecies skirmish, effortlessly avoided him. Bron mistook their evasive
maneuvers for an attack, reversed field too quickly in the unfamiliar low-heeled
pumps, and ended up on his backside.
      Konda and Rico hurried to kneel at either side. "Bron, are you wounded?"
      "No, Konda, but I think they suspect something."
      The spies looked around apprehensively. Passersby were gazing at them
curiously, sometimes murmuring to one another but not stopping or making
agressive moves.
      "Perhaps that was only a probing attack," Rico speculated. His voice
betrayed an unusual lack of self-confidence. If the Micronians were playing such
a sadistic cat-and-mouse game, they must be masters of psychological warfare.
      More and more people were noticing them now, laughing outright before
moving along, passing comments among themselves. Their attention seemed to be
focused on Bron and his attire.
      "It could be that there's something wrong with our uniforms," Rico hissed.
      "I don't see any difference between our uniforms and theirs, do you?"
Konda demanded as he and Rico each took one of Bron's arms and hauled the bulky
warrior to his feet.
      Bron pulled up his white knee socks and rearranged his string of pearls.
"I don't see any difference, either. But just the same, I wish I'd chosen
something a little less breezy down around my legs." He flapped the hem of his
skirt in the air.
      People were stopping now, staring at them, laughing and slapping each
other on the arm. The female Micronians seemed inclined to look, avert their
eyes, then look again, blushing and shaking with laughter.
      Rico caught a few words here and there-"women's clothes," for example-and
made a brief, horrified comparison study of the garments he saw all around him,
and their wearers.
      "That's it! It's a female's uniform you're wearing!"
      So, they hadn't been spotted by the Micronians' secret police. Bron had
his eyes closed, almost collapsing back into Konda's arms with the mortification
of it.
      Konda shoved him upright. "Come on! Let's get out of here now!"
      Nobody appeared inclined to stop them, and most were laughing too hard,
anyway. They dashed off in a line, Konda leading, around a corner and down a
street, around another corner and across to a park, making sure not to bump into
anybody.
      "Frat initiation," someone said sagely.
      "Another bunch of drunken performance artists!" an old man yelled, waving
his cane at them vengefully.
      But other than that, they drew a few puzzled glances and nothing more.
Konda had spotted an illuminated symbol whose meaning they'd learned on their
earliest explorations, the little stick-figure Micronian near the lighted sign,
MEN.
      The attendant was standing outside, whiling away the time and watching the
people go by. He watched as Konda and Rico dashed into the men's room, not
terribly interested; he'd seen guys in a bigger hurry in his time. Then he heard
the pounding of heavy footsteps and did a classic double take as Bron brought up
the rear.
      The picture of offended righteousness, the attendant held up his hand.
"Just a second, madam! Nothin' doin'! Ladies' room to th' left!"
      "Okayokayokay!" Bron veered off and ran into the ladies' room.
      There were a few relatively quiet moments, during which the attendant
looked up at the evening sky synthesized by the EVE system-tonight they were
recreating a northern hemisphere summer sky-and reflected on the sorry state of
the human race. Women in the mens' room! Boy, if you weren't on your toes every
minute...
      Distracted, wandering to the corner of the little building to look up and
philosophize, he failed to notice the dim cries of "A man!" "Get out!" and
"Pervert!" that came from the ladies' room along with shrieks and howls of
outrage.
      Bron emerged from the ladies' room a moment later in a low crawl, the
shoulder of his blouse ripped, hair askew, and face scratched in parallel
furrows, several spots on his shins promising remarkable bruises.
      Panting, he took a moment to catch his breath, slumped against a
partition, preparing to move on quickly before he was attacked again.
      "These...Micronians certainly have a warlike culture!"

      Elsewhere in the park, in the Star Bowl-the open-air amphitheater where
Minmei had been crowned Miss Macross-a different sort of ceremony was about to
take place.
      None of it fazed Max Sterling very much-few things seemed to-but Ben
wasn't happy. "Hey, Max, I thought we were supposed to be resting and relaxing."
      Max adjusted his large aviator-style eyeglasses, smiling his serene,
mischievous smile. "Aw, what's the matter? Don't you want to be a hero? Didn't
you say you were looking forward to it?"
      Ben considered Max sourly. Now, here was this little guy-not even twenty
yet-who wouldn't even be flying in one of the old-time wars. In prewar days,
pilot candidates who needed corrective lenses were as sought after as those with
untreatable airsickness.
      And then there was Max's self-effacing style, his quiet, somehow Zen
humility, which wouldn't have been noticeable except that he was the hottest
pilot who'd ever climbed into a Veritech, and everybody knew it. Not Rick
Hunter, not even Roy Fokker himself, was Max's equal, but Max just went along
like a goodnatured kid who was rather surprised at where fate had brought him,
bashful and loyal and given to blushing. Even if he did follow the fad of dying
his hair-blue, in this case.
      "Aw, pipe down," Ben growled at him, but in fact Ben wasn't that unhappy.
Who gets tired of being cheered? Pity them, whoever they are.
      Banks of lights came up all around them, until they were standing in a
lighted area brighter than brightest day. Triumphant music soared from the sound
system as curtains swept aside, and the applause and cheering and whistling
began, like waves hitting a shore.
      Rick and Lisa, who'd been conversing haltingly and enjoying a kind of
mutual attraction they couldn't seem to resist, looked relieved that the
extravaganza had started. The four escapees, in full-dress uniform, stood in a
line on the stage; from all around the packed Star Bowl the outpouring of joy
and admiration came.
      There'd been good war news and bad, and virtually everyone in the
amphitheater had lost friends and relatives; besides, many in the audience were
military. But these were four who'd gone into the very heart of the enemy
stronghold and come back, and returning-coming back home-was something very much
in the minds of the people of Macross City these days.
      The master of ceremonies, a man in a loud suit with an oily voice, held
the microphone right up against his capped teeth.
      Rick sighed and made up his mind to put up with the show as best he could.
The music was still all trumpets and drums, and the ovation was growing louder
and louder. A tech somewhere turned up the gain on the mike so that the emcee
could be heard.
      "And here are the four young champions who have miraculously escaped the
clutches of our enemy: Commander Lisa Hayes, our number one space heroine-"
      Lisa was breathing quickly, eyes on the floor, Rick saw; by an iron
application of will, she forced herself not to bolt from the stage; there was
bravery and there was bravery, and facing a crowd took a great deal of hers.
      "And Lieutenant Rick Hunter, whose flying exploits are already legendary!"
      Rick was used to crowds, was used to taking bows and waving and soaking up
the glory, from his days in his father's air circus. He could easily have played
to the crowd, knew just what it was they wanted and just how to make them like
him even more: the little tricks of eye contact, of perhaps singling out a child
to kiss or an elderly sort to shake hands with or a good-looking woman to hug.
      But he did none of that. The mission that had landed him in the Zentraedi
ship and in the heart of the mad Zentraedi empire hadn't been undertaken to win
cheers. Playing to the crowd was a thing that was behind him now, something out
of a different life. Rick Hunter acknowledged the ovation with a bow of his head
and remained more or less at attention.
      He looked aside only once, to see what Lisa was doing. She was watching
him.
      "And here are their intrepid companions," the emcee went on in a voice so
ebullient that the listeners might have thought he'd been along on the mission.
"Max Sterling and Ben Dixon! To these four, we express our deepest gratitude."
      The crowd did. Earth was so close now, and there was a holiday spirit in
the air. A homecoming; a victory; the sight of four humans who'd gone up against
the relentless enemy and come back covered with glory-these things all had the
Macross City inhabitants at a fever pitch.
      The emcee was holding his hands up. The uproar died a little. "There's
more to come! To properly demonstrate our high regard for these young heroes, we
present that singing sensation, Miss Macross herself, Lynn-Minmei!"
      "Miss Macross? Minmei!" Rick had almost forgotten about the Miss Macross
contest Minmei had so recently won when he'd gone out on this last mission. It
felt like a century before, but it was really only a few days.
      She emerged from the wings, most of the spotlights going to her-followed
by an escort, a fellow in white tie and tails who carried bouquets of red roses,
as if she were royalty. And she was, of a sort; the audience went wild, shouting
her name and whistling, clapping.
      Rick could see a cluster of people waiting in the wings-Minmei's
entourage, apparently-men in expensive suits who wore sunglasses at night and
stylish women with calculating looks in their eyes.
      But Minmei...She was gorgeous in a frilly dress whose hem was gathered up
high on one side to show off long, graceful legs. Her jet-black hair swayed
behind her, and her eyes were alight. She seemed used to the spotlight, used to
the devotion of the crowd. She was the same young woman who had shared so many
adventures and so much privation with Rick and-at the same time-a new persona, a
darling of the mass media.
      She blew kisses to the crowd, and it went even wilder; guards at the edge
of the stage, who hadn't been too hard-pressed to keep people away from the
military heroes, had all they could do to keep-rabid fans from getting out of
control. Young girls especially were reaching out in a hopeless effort to touch
Minmei, many of them crying.
      "I don't know about you," Ben's voice grated. "But I'm embarrassed; being
put on display like this. And just look, will you?" He held up a limp lapel that
had been stiffly starched at the beginning of the evening. "My uniform's
starting to wilt."
      Lisa was watching Rick watching Minmei. Lisa didn't feel very much like a
heroine, didn't feel strong or brave. Instead, she found herself resenting the
sideshow atmosphere. What did civilians know about military achievements,
anyway? Show them some beauty contest winner and they forgot all about the
people who put their lives on the line to safeguard the SDF-1.
      "I think I'd rather be trapped back in that Zentraedi headquarters
station," she blurted before she herself could quite analyze what she meant by
it. Rick gave her a quick, troubled glance, then looked back at Minmei.
      It was Max Sterling, calm and unflappable, who answered good-naturedly.
"Well, it might never happen again, so let's just sit back and enjoy this, huh?"
      Minmei held up her hands for silence, and the ovation became relative
silence. She took the first of the bouquets of red roses from the man in the
tuxedo and gave it to Lisa.
      "Congratulations on your safe return!" Minmei's winsome smile and
enthusiastic manner were difficult to resist. She had a way of putting something
extra into the words, of breaking through resistance, so that whomever she was
talking to virtually had to respond in kind.
      Lisa simply couldn't think badly of Minmei-found herself saying, "Thank
you very much," and meaning it, and even returning the bright smile. Minmei
surprised her by shaking her hand warmly, then went on to Rick, taking another
bouquet.
      Lisa closed the hand into a tight fist. In those seconds Minmei had made
her feel like a friend, as if she was all-important to Minmei. Lisa had to admit
that that would be a very hard thing for anybody to resist-especially a man.


CHAPTER FIVE
As veteran Zentraedi warriors, you will, of course, even in your micronized
state, find it necessary to hide your natural superiority. Be sure to conceal
your immunity to the degenerate behavioral impulses of the humans.
Breetai, from his instructions to the spies Rico, Bron, and Konda

Minmei had gone on to Rick, taking another bouquet and presenting it to him.
"And congratulations on your safe return, you handsome devil!"
      She handed him the flowers with a wink and a laugh. He stood for a second
looking as though he'd just touched a live wire. Then he blurted out, "Well! Um,
thank you!"
      Minmei put one slender hand to his right cheek and held him steady while
she kissed his left. Fire and ice coursed through him; he remembered the moment,
months before, when, trapped together in a distant compartment of the SDF-1,
they'd shared a deeper, more lasting kiss.
      The crowd had suddenly gone ugly. Minmei was everybody's favorite, and
there was a strange current of jealousy at seeing her single out a nobody
lieutenant, hero that he might be, for special treatment. She was the dream
girl, the idol, the fantasy figure; an undertone of hostility ran through the
crowd.
      She turned to the audience without losing her merry persona. "Now, now!"
she chided, shaking a finger at them in mock chastisement. Amazingly, the sounds
of resentment died away as quickly as that, and people were applauding her
again. To make her point, Minmei kissed Max's cheek, and Ben's, as she gave them
their roses. "Congratulations...congratulations..."
      The crowd loved it; the crowd loved her.
      Down among the people near the stage were the three spies. At first they'd
merely drifted along with the people assembling in the amphitheater, to make
sure they'd eluded any Micronian pursuit. Then it had become apparent that a
major gathering was taking place, and they'd set out to infiltrate it. That had
proved amazingly easy.
      Bron had gotten rid of his pleated skirt and knee socks and white silk
blouse and even the tasteful string of pearls. He was wearing a blue turtleneck
and dark slacks, although it had taken a little doing to get new clothes.
      On a quiet side street, they had stumbled across a metal bin stenciled
CONTRIBUTIONS FOR THE NEEDY. With some effort, the portly warrior had hauled
himself into it and found Micronian male garments that fit.
      The three spies concluded that keeping contributions for the needy in the
difficult-to-enter metal housing served as a kind of minimum qualification test
in the savage Micronian culture; any needy individual who wasn't fairly spry
would be out of luck. It was a stern way to run things, the trio agreed, but no
doubt very efficient.
      Now, though, they looked around themselves worriedly. These Micronians
were obsessed with the creature Minmei. At first the spies had thought that
they'd stumbled onto a simple propaganda rally and that they'd get insights on
the humans' attitudes toward the Zentraedi, but the Zentraedi had hardly been
mentioned.
      Instead, there was a lot of strange business with passing plants around-
flowers, to be precise-and a very confusing level of noise and emotion,
virtually all of the outpouring directed at Minmei.
      Konda in particular felt that they were close to uncovering some important
military secret. There was no question but that the enemy was highly motivated;
perhaps some new sort of mind control technique would be revealed.
      They recognized Minmei from transmissions of her that they'd intercepted
on their original signal-intelligence mission, of course. She'd abandoned the
bizarre armor the Micronians called a bathing suit, and wore a slightly less
revealing but even flimsier cover. The trio had as yet seen no demonstration of
Protoculture powers from the humans' garments, but they were still very edgy.
      The crowd was still carrying on over Minmei. "Hey, what's going on? A
riot?" Bron yelled over the uproar.
      They were packed in together tightly by the massed crowd, but Konda got
his hands onto Bron's shoulders. "Don't panic! I don't think it's a riot; it
seems to be something else..."
      Rico was nearly at the end of his rope, sweating and shuddering a bit; a
good old fashioned anti-enemy hate rally was something anybody could understand,
but this was utter chaos! He covered his ears with his hands, squeezing his eyes
shut. "Oh, my head!"
      He began to slump in a near faint. His companions managed to catch him
somehow in the press of the crowd. Just then, Minmei came to the edge of the
stage in a convergence of spotlights and the gathered residents of Macross began
applauding and cheering all over again.
      "Now what's the matter?" Bron asked, refering to Rico as well as the
Minmei situation.
      Chairs had appeared from somewhere, and Rick, Lisa, Max, and Ben were
sitting uncomfortably. Minmei, angelic in the spotlights, indicated them with a
sweeping gesture. "To celebrate their return, my first song this evening is
dedicated to these four heroes and all the others who guard and defend us!"
      She threw kisses to the crowd as the band came up, uptempo. Streamers and
confetti rained down, and light effects blazed. As she threw her arms wide, she
seemed to be a creature of pure light, of spirit, of magic. The streamers and
confetti rained down on the crowd, too, and many joined in, joyously, knowing
the words, arms around each others' shoulders.

     "Stage lights flashing,
     The feeling's smashing,
     My heart and soul belong to you
     And I'm here now, singing,
     All bells are ringing,
     My dream has finally come true!"

      In a time when the most adored performers were unapproachable and
inaccessible, she was somehow the exact opposite of the media sirens who reigned
elsewhere. She was, after all, one of the citizenry, another Macross Island
refugee like virtually everybody else aboard. Her success and stardom could as
easily have been theirs-was theirs in a way.
      She was one of them, and she gave herself to them totally, letting them
share the moment. Her silver-bright voice soared, taking the high notes with
complete confidence. Her slim, straight figure reflected the light back into
their eyes, the joy back into their hearts.
      They were a battered, war-weary community, and in a way nobody quite
understood, she made them feel hope and experience a soaring elation. It had
been said-and not discounted by Minmei herself-that she was a reflection of
them, the military and civilian occupants of SDF-1.
      Certainly there were precedents in history. Times of greatest danger and
tribulation inevitably bring forth symbols.
      In human societies...
      The three spies couldn't quite understand it but couldn't resist it
either. It had to be admitted, the gathering of humans might as easily be an
assembly of Zentraedi in some ways-except that this spirit of undisguised joy
was utterly weird. People swayed and laughed and forgot their problems, thinking
about home, and there wasn't a single pro-war propaganda message to be seen
anywhere.
      Somebody threw an arm around Rico's shoulder from one side, somebody else
hanging one around Bron's from the other, and they were caught up in the swaying
of the throng. It so happened that the groups on either side were keeping
separate time, one going one way while the other went counter.
      "This must be some kind of tribal ceremony," Konda speculated, but he
found himself enjoying it.
      Still, somehow, as easily as if they'd been doing it all their lives, the
Zentraedi sorted out the conflicts and in a moment were swaying along with the
thousands upon thousands of others. It began to dawn on them what they were
seeing.
      As had happened before, a symbol had arisen, and Minmei was it, uniquely
suited to the role. One tiny Micronian female, hoping to get home, possessed of
a kind of deathless optimism; and all that was set off by remarkable singing
skills and a personality that won over whomever she encountered. And none of it
was calculated; people sensed that. She was wonderful and straightforward, and
Macross City threw itself at her feet.
      She's incredibly dangerous to the Zentraedi cause, Rico mused. Why do I
like her so much?
      "I feel incredibly primitive," Bron reported dubiously.
      "But it has a pleasing effect on the senses," Rico was honest enough to
admit.
      "It's-mass hypnosis!" Bron burst out, even though he'd been trained to
recognize mass hypnosis and knew this wasn't it.
      "Yeah, but I kinda like it," Konda confessed. They swayed along with the
music and laughed at the people who swayed and laughed with them...

"Stage fright, go 'way-
This is my big day,
This is my time to be a star!
And the thrill that I feel
Is really unreal:
I can't believe I've come this far..."

      In the midst of the performance, people had forgotten about the four
forlorn figures sitting on their chairs, very much in the background now but
unable to make an escape. Only Max Sterling seemed unbothered and happy.
      Rick shifted the bouquet on his lap despondently. He saw it all now:
Minmei had been elevated to a different level of existence. What they had gone
through together and felt for each other didn't matter anymore. He had lost her.
      Lisa leaned toward him to ask, "What's the matter, Rick?"
      He shook himself, drawing a deep breath. "Nothing. The light bothers my
eyes, is all."
      Lisa saw it wasn't true. She hadn't gotten to be a commander and the SDF-
1's First Officer by being unobservant or slow to understand what was going on.
But that didn't help her figure out what she was feeling as she looked at Rick
and the now-unreachable Minmei: some complicated mixture of relief and
foreboding.
      Minmei's hands were high, and she had moved the crowd into a veritable
transport of joy. White light blazed all around her, and it seemed that every
hope and aspiration was embodied in her.

"I can't believe I've come this far,
This is my time to be a star!"

      The hatch to the battle fortress's bridge slid aside; all heads turned.
Gasps and yells sounded from all sides.
      Lisa felt better already, there in the place that was most important to
her. "Hi," she said shyly, not recognizing many of the faces and wishing only to
get back to her station, get back to her work. She would have died before
admitting that she wanted to drive all other thoughts out of her mind-to forget.
      Claudia placed one hand to her chest in a "mercy me" sort of pose. "The
prodigal returns!" The dark face creased in lines of real welcome, and Lisa
began to feel better.
      Gloval was absent from the bridge. The relief watch tech at Lisa's usual
station stepped away from it, glad to see Lisa but a little intimidated before
the omnipotent superwoman. "Nice to see you again," the enlisted rating
squeaked.
      Lisa, nervous as a cat, managed to meet her eye for a moment. "Thank you
very much," Lisa got out, essaying a smile and then hiding behind her thick
curtian of brown hair again. "It's nice to be back."
      She ran her fingertips across the console's controls, lost in thought.
There had been so many times when she'd never expected to stand there again.
      The women on the bridge were paying her a kind of attention that didn't
really conform to any conventional military courtesy-happy for her and taking
liberties with standard procedure.
      "Congratulations on your promotion!"
      "And you're a real hero!"
      "We're all so proud of you, Lisa!" The tech who'd been watching over
Lisa's station had her hands clasped, smiling beatifically.
      These were all women who had served their time under fire, who had come to
know what it was Lisa Hayes did so well and how much of a difference her actions
had made in the fate of SDF-1. Their few words meant so much more to her than
the spotlights and crowds-she felt her tension ease; she was home again.
      Now that she was back in familiar surroundings, everything that had
happened came back to her. A small part of her was preoccupied, sifting through
her emotions, but Lisa just savored the contentment of being back where she
belonged.
      The things that had brought conflict to her-the kiss in the enemy
stronghold, the sight of Rick and Minmei-were, perhaps, aberrations. Maybe it
was just her destiny to be what those in her family had always been-members of a
military dynasty, her destiny tied to that of the SDF-1.
      Certainly, all things seemed clear there on the battle fortress's bridge.
Doubts, misgivings-they fell away like dead flower petals.
      Then Claudia was leaning an elbow on the console, too good a friend not to
understand exactly how Lisa felt, too good a friend not to kid her out of it.
"Well, how does it feel to be a heroine?" she purred.
      Lisa's pale cheeks colored. "Oh, you!"
      "Come on! Tell Aunt Claudia!" The dark eyes narrowed mischievously. "Or
did this promotion give you a sudden sense of modesty?"
      Lisa lowered her gaze to the deck, avoiding eye contact as she often did
when she wasn't on duty. But she grinned at Claudia's jibe, the first time she'd
grinned in a while. She gave her friend a bemused smile.
      "That's it! My secret's compromised!" Lisa crossed her arms on her chest
and made a severe face, imitating Captain Gloval at his sternest. She rolled her
r's, so there'd be no mistake. "So let's have a little respect here!"
      Somebody Lisa didn't recognize returned from a coffee run, and they all
had some. "It's good to be here," Lisa said meditatively, letting the cup warm
her palms. Then she made a puckish expression. "And lemme tell ya, the Zentraedi
make lousy coffee."
      Claudia realized something and set her cup down. "Hold on! Lisa, I thought
you were supposed to be on special furlough."
      Lisa lowered her cup, not wanting to think too hard about the ceremonies
and the tangled feelings that had driven her back to the bridge. She bit her
lower lip for a moment and said, "I wanted to come home."
      Claudia was about to say something to that; Lisa was both shielding
something and waiting for someone to draw her out about it. It seemed to Claudia
Grant a good time to order the enlisted crew off the bridge for chow or whatever
and get down to business.
      But just then the hatch slid back again, and the Terrible Trio stood
there. Sammie, Kim, and Vanessa spied Lisa and charged in, the dignity of rank
forgotten. Lisa forgot it, too, swapping hugs with them and loving the calm and
strength and serenity of the SDF-1's armored bridge.
      Claudia filed the subject of Lisa's furlough and her strange new
introspection away for discussion in the near future. She'd been protective of
Lisa ever since they'd met and tried not to let that spill over into nosiness,
but...
      This girl needs a talking to, Claudia decided. And I'm not even sure about
what!


CHAPTER SIX
As an insect seen through an enlarging imager may appear a monster, so these
Micronians, magnified by a few minor successes and by an unforgivable timidity
among certain Zentraedi leaders, are permitted to resist us. This has led to a
stalemate; what Zentraedi worthy of the name would permit this?
Khyron the Backstabber

The jeep roared down the empty SDF-1 passageway, rounding corners on two wheels,
tires shrieking. Ben Dixon enjoyed this kind of outing; he usually took a
slightly longer route to the fighter bays than he had to because he so missed
the open road.
      Ben's dragster had been parked in an alley on Macross Island on the day of
the fatal spacefold maneuver. So now it was either a floating relic in space
back near Pluto's orbit or had been completely dismantled by the salvage and
reclamation people. Either way, he didn't like to think about it.
      But barreling around the roomier parts of the dimensional fortress helped
ease his loss. The civilians had crowded-but-very-livable Macross City, but once
in a while some people needed to hit the road, floor the accelerator, and let
off a little steam. It was an open secret that some of the less traveled regions
of the SDF-1 had become virtual racetracks.
      Ben took a corner even more sharply than usual and waited for Rick, who
was sitting in the seat next to him, to make a perfunctory objection. But, lost
in thought, the Vermilion Team leader didn't say anything. Sprawled in the back,
Max Sterling looked supremely unworried. Ben was a little bit offended by that;
Max was a good friend, but Ben expected passengers to be a little intimidated
when he drove. Yet nothing seemed to ruffle Max or dim the boyish cheerfulness
for which he'd become famous.
      In fact, a few guys had decided that Max's goodnaturedness meant that he
was a wimp despite his ferocious flying skills. There'd been a few fights, and
Max had insisted that Rick keep Ben from interfering on his friend's behalf.
      Help wasn't necessary, anyway; Max's astonishing reflexes and hand-eye
coordination more than sufficed. Max always helped his opponents to their feet
afterward, still with that boyish smile; he even performed first aid in one
extreme case. After a while, interest in bothering Max Sterling waned.
      Max gave his blue hair a toss and resettled his glasses, turning at the
sound of another jeep engine. He leaned forward to tap Rick and point; at the
wheel, Roy Fokker was catching up to them, accompanied by three of his Skull
Team fliers.
      "Hey, Rick!"
      "Hi, Roy."
      "Uh oh." Roy came up very close alongside, and Ben had to cut the wheel to
avoid an accident.
      "Where d' you three think you're going?" Roy demanded.
      They were on one of the longest straightaways in the ship, but they were
moving fast. Ben knew he was being tested; he sweated a bit but kept on a steady
course. But they were approaching the far bulkhead at an alarmingly rapid speed,
and there was room for only one jeep in its hatchway.
      The Skulls in Roy's jeep didn't seemed very thrilled about the encounter
either, but they knew better than to say anything to their hotheaded leader.
      "What'd you say?" Rick asked mildly.
      Roy hollered, "I said, where d' you think you're going?"
      Max leaned forward. "The PA system said for all military personnel to
report for duty!" he said. Ben Dixon began sweating bullets as the far bulkhead
got closer and closer.
      "You had orders to stay behind, you nitwit! That announcement doesn't
apply to you guys!" Roy was shaking his fists in the air; the guy riding shotgun
grabbed the wheel while one of the others in the back seat began crossing
himself and the other spun a tiny prayer wheel. Roy ignored them, keeping the
accelerator floored.
      "But that wasn't an order...specifically," Rick pointed out.
      Roy had his hands back on the wheel. "Well, I'm making it an order!
Specifically! Return to quarters, and make it fast!"
      Ben eased back, breathing a sigh of relief. Roy's jeep took the lead as
Rick yelled, "Gonna take on the enemy alone, huh?"
      Roy turned and rose, his front seat passenger diving for the wheel again.
Roy shook his fists at the heroic escapees. "Maybe you'd rather report to the
brig for insubordination?"
      Ben began braking. He and his friends chanted in perfect unison, "Not
really, sir! No thank you, sir!" a bootcamp response used here to mock Roy by
implying that he was as dumb as a drill sergeant.
      Roy cracked an unwilling smile, then turned to take the wheel back from
his ashen-faced front seat passenger. "I'm glad you understand," he called back,
voice growing fainter. "Nobody likes a smart aleck!"
      Ben stopped just short of the bulkhead, and Roy's jeep shot through the
hatch, speeding toward the fighter bays.
      "There goes a wonderful guy," Ben said, letting out his breath.

      The Zentraedi had a saying that in Earthly terms would translate to: "Even
wolves may be prey to the tiger."
      So the huge armada kept its distance from SDF-1, pacing it on its homing
journey. Ironclad orders stated clearly that Zor's fortress was to be captured
with all its Protoculture secrets intact. From the perspective of the fleet's
commanders, the more important point at the moment was that the SDF-1's main gun
had proved itself operational, even though the Micronians had used it very
sparingly.
      The Zentraedi couldn't figure out why-one of the mysteries that prompted
the placement of Bron, Rico, and Konda aboard SDF-1. What the Zentraedi didn't
know was how little the human race understood about the giant ship and how
vulnerable the SDF-1 really was.
      All the Zentraedi knew for certain was that the ship contained enough
power to destroy whole star systems and rip the very fabric of space and time.
So the armada paced the battle fortress, watching and waiting.
      A report was being delivered by a technician in a fleet command vessel.
"Commander Azonia, the super dimensional fortress had started to increase its
velocity."
      Azonia looked up sharply at her intelligence analyst. Azonia sat in the
control seat amid a vast array of machinery and consoles and holographic data
displays that stretched away in every direction.
      "What are your orders?" the analyst asked. Azonia glanced at the various
maps, readouts, and tactical projections.
      "Dolza has given me no authority to destroy it," the armada's commander
replied, running a hand through her close-cropped blue-black hair. "So we'll
just follow it and see what happens." Azonia had replaced the legendary Breetai
as commander when he'd made one mistake too many, and she had no intention of
suffering similar humiliation.
      The analyst bowed obediently, and withdrew from the command center. Azonia
pulled her campaign cloak tighter around her and adjusted the high collar; she
was having doubts she would never betray to a subordinate.
      The Micronians' homeworld was close; what would happen there? The original
Zentraedi invasion force had smashed all Terran opposition until it encountered
those thrice-damned Robotech mecha-the Veritechs. And after ail these months,
who knew what new defenses the perversely ingenious humans might have developed?
      Allowing the super dimensional fortress to reach its destination was a
risky game at best; a disastrous one, perhaps. Yet Azonia couldn't see any new
orders coming from her superiors, nor could she come up with an alternative
course of action to offer them that didn't risk the loss of the all-important
secrets of Protoculture.
      Azonia forced down those thoughts. There was still time to win, and
victory in this campaign would bring the most precious prize in all the
universe.

      The SDF-1 was in its cruiser mode, which meant that the great main gun
couldn't be fired. This was unavoidable, however, since the giant weapon would
function only in Attack mode-a formation that rendered Macross City virtually
uninhabitable.
      In its present configuration it looked like a conventional spacecraft or
even a naval vessel. The Thor-class suppercarriers Daedalus and Promethus were
swung back flush against it, and the two great booms of the main gun were mated
together to form a prow. The bridge and its attendant structures rose above the
main deck but still sat rather low.
      As its gargantuan thrusters flared blue fire, the ultimate warcraft
approached the orbit of pockmarked Luna.
      Claudia studied Earth's moon in her displays. "We are proceeding at
maximum speed, Captain," she reported. "Beginning Earth-approach
maneuver...now!"
      Gloval appeared to be asleep: The polished visor of his cap was pulled low
down on the bridge of his nose, and his arms were folded across his chest. But
he said quite clearly, "Vanessa, how has the enemy fleet reacted?"
      Vanessa pushed her glasses up, made a final sweep of her instruments to be
sure, and then turned to Gloval "They're still all around us, Captain, but
they're maintaining distance. It's strange-they're still matching our speed
exactly."
      Gloval rubbed his cheek and realized he needed a shave. He didn't even
want to think about how tired he was. "It would appear they still don't want to
risk firing on the SDF-1. This would seem to bear out your theory, Lisa."
      Lisa broke her intense concentration on her instruments to say, "I
certainly hope so, sir." If she was wrong, the battle fortress wouldn't last
another hour.
      "We are approaching the orbit of Luna, Captain," Vanessa said tensely.
      "Keep monitoring the enemy closely."
      "Yes, sir."
      Lisa chimed in, "Fighter ops reports Vermilion and Ghost teams ready for
takeoff, Captain." She did her best to sound businesslike and not think about
one of those Vermilion Team Veritechs. Especially its pilot...
      Gloval nodded and hoped he wouldn't be forced to use them. They were some
of his very best pilots, but they'd been chewed up badly in the latest
installment of the running battle the SDF-1 had been fighting for months in the
remote, dark places of the solar system.
      Earth was so close. Gloval would have given his own life without an
instant's hesitation if it would have meant repatriating all the refugees who'd
survived the brutal voyage. But that wasn't how things worked.

      In a Zentraedi command center, a finger the size of a log stabbed at a
tactical display screen representation of the SDF-1 and the armada around it.
      Khyron could barely keep his voice from breaking in rage. "The Micronian
ship is here, and the ships under my command are here, behind it. Now, at
maximum speed, their vessel stands a good chance of penetrating the net around
it and escaping!"
      He stared angrily at his second in command, Grel, and his trusted
subordinate, Gerao. "Are we to sit here with our arms folded while these
creatures get away and not raise a finger to stop it?"
      "But Azonia has forbidden us to act," Grel pointed out. "What can we do?"
      Khyron slammed his palms down on the display console. "We will crush
them!"
      Khyron, handsome and fiendish commander of the Zentraedi Seventh Fleet and
its mecha strike arm, the Botoru Battalion, had a reputation that gave even the
giant warriors pause. He had earned the nickname "Backstabber": He had a
reputation for savage ferocity, a total lack of feeling for his own men, and an
unquenchable thirst for bloodshed and triumph.
      Grel knew better than to contradict his superior when the killing rage was
upon him. There was a persistent rumor that Khyron's secret vice was the essence
of the Flower of Life, a forbidden addiction; if that were so, he used it in
some form that made it a flower of death. In this mood, he was capable of
anything.
      "Order the lead ships in the squadron to increase speed and attack!" he
roared, holding his hand high in a salute and gesture of command. "For the glory
of the Zentraedi...and of Khyron!"

      Vanessa stared intently at her screens, calling out, "A squadron of enemy
battle cruisers has broken away from the rest of the fleet and is moving in on
us, Captain. Approximately ten of them."
      Gloval stared out the forward viewport morosely. "Scramble fighters."
      "Yes, sir." Lisa drew a deep breath, opening the PA mike. "Vermilion and
Ghost Teams, scramble, scramble!

      Down in the hangar decks of the supercarrier Daedalus, there was the
controlled chaos of a "hot" scramble, one that everybody knew was no drill. The
huge elevators began raising the Veritechs to the flight deck port and
starboard, two to a lift.
      Roy Fokker pulled on his flight helmet and checked his controls as his
ship was moved out for lift by a tow driver. Roy was Skull Leader, but
experienced pilots were in such terribly short supply and Rick and the others
were on enforced R&R, so he had to help fill the ranks of the depleted
Vermilions, especially at a critical time like this.
      The Veritechs' stabilizers and wings began sliding into flight position.
Cat crews rushed to hook up and launch the fighters; The Veritechs went into a
vigilant holding pattern, ready to fend off any attack against the VTs that were
still vulnerable, awaiting launch.
      The cats slung the fighters out into space; the blue Robotech drives
flared, and the Vermilions and Ghosts formed up to do battle yet again.

      Gloval had hoped to avoid it, but he gave the order nevertheless. "Engage
SDF-1 transformation and activate pin-point defensive barrier. We are breaking
through the alien fleet!"
      "Macross City evacuation is nearly complete, Captain," Sammie told him.
      The voices of the others kept up a constant, quiet flow of orders and
report. "All sectors begin transformation." "All section chiefs please report to
the bridge." "Damage crews stand by." "Emergency medical and rescue personnel
ready, Captain."
      Banks of screens showed interior and exterior scenes, the frantic haste to
brace for attack and reconfiguration.
      Once again the awesome, incredible, and perilous Robotech transformation
of SDF-1 was about to take place.

      It had been hard to get used to the bustle and activity of Macross City,
but this sudden abandonment of it was even stranger.
      The three Zentraedi spies still had no idea what was happening. The PA
announcements were bewildering, impossible to understand. The trio was hesitant
to show ignorance at first, but by the time they'd worked up the nerve to start
asking questions, everybody was scurrying in a different direction and answers
were impossible to get.
      Now they found themselves standing at the center of a deserted
intersection as traffic lights and crosswalk signals blinked through their
accustomed sequences. The EVE system was shut down, the artificial sky gone,
leaving only cold, distant metal high overhead.
      "Everyone's vanished," Rico said slowly, pivoting through a 360-degree
turn. It felt very spooky to be standing in the middle of an empty city.
      "What d' you think that announcement was?" Konda asked. "What could it be-
this `transformation' they're talking about?"
      Bron was about to add something when the street began to quake beneath
them, tossing them around like water droplets on a griddle. As deep grinding
noises began, they were thrown to the surface, so they tried to cling to the
pavement. They could feel the vibrations through the ground.
      Then the street parted beneath them and an enormous sawtooth opening
widened rapidly. Despite his hysterical scrambling, Rico disappeared into it.


CHAPTER SEVEN
What they never asked themselves was whether Khyron would have behaved as he did
if it hadn't been for the accursed Micronians! I hated Micronians, too; we all
did. It was just that Khyron was better at it.
Grey aide to Khyron
Reacting faster than Bron, Konda just managed to grab Rico's sleeve and keep him
from falling beyond reach. Then Bron was there to help pull his companion back
out of the abyss.
      It was a long drop, into a type of machinery they hadn't seen in the
battle fortress before. Rico lay puffing and gasping, white-faced. "What kind of
insane place is this?"

      Elsewhere, the titanic booms that were the battle fortress's bow were
rotated to either side by monster camlike devices. Whole sections of hull moved
and slid, opening the ship's interior to the vacuum of space as precious
atmosphere escaped. Giant armor curtains slid into place to seal the gaps, but
not before there was grievous loss of the very breath of life. The SDF-1's life
support systems would eventually replace it, but the inhabitants of Macross
would be living under the same atmospheric conditions as Andean Indians for a
while-if they survived.
      Enormous pylons the dimensions of a city block rose from the floor and
descended from the ceiling, crushing the buildings in their way. The grinding of
servomotors shook every bolt and rivet in the ship.
      Scraps of buildings, torn loose by the outpouring of air, were whirled
around like leaves in a cyclone. Macross City was being leveled.
      The three spies went dashing down the middle of a broad, empty street,
dodging a falling sign here, a broken cornice there. Utility poles toppled,
whipping live power lines around like snapping, spitting snakes. Konda puffed,
"I think it would be advisable for us to take cover as soon as-"
      He never got to finish. Just then, the ship's internal gravity fields
shifted from the effect of the massive power drains of the transformation.
      The three went floating into the air among drifting automobiles, scraps of
roofing material, uprooted trees, and spinning trash barrels.

      All through the great fortress, modules shifted, and billboard-size
hatches closed here, opened there.
      The full-ship transformation had the two Thor-class flattops, Daedalus and
Prometheus, swinging out from the SDF-1's sides by the elbowlike housings that
joined them to the ship. The midships structure that housed the bridge and so
many other critical areas rotated, coming end for end into the center like a
spinning torso.
      Inside, cyclopean power columns met and latched as cables snaked out to
connect with them and complete the new configuration.
      Gloval fought to stifle his impatience; the ship was nearly helpless while
undergoing transformation, but there was absolutely no way of hurrying it. And
there was no alternative: The SDF-1's main gun couldn't be fired in any other
configuration because the ship spacefold apparatus had simply vanished after
that first disastrous jump from Earth to Pluto. The transformation was a kind of
glorified hot-wiring, bringing together components that would otherwise be out
of each other's reach.
      "Starboard wing section transformation seventy-five percent complete,"
Vanessa said.
      "Port wing section transformation complete," Kim added. "Now connecting to
defensive power system."
      "Enemy vessels approaching in attack formation," Lisa said, her face lit
by her screens. "Estimated intercept in fifty-three seconds. Ghost and Vermilion
teams on station to engage."
      The battle fortress had become a tremendous armored ultratech warrior
standing, straddle-legged, in space, awaiting its enemies. They swooped at it
eagerly.
      "The enemy's within range of our main gun, sir," Kim said.
      From Vanessa: "Fighter ops reports all Veritechs clear of the line of
fire."
      "Transformation complete, Captain," Sammie told Gloval.
      "Fire!" Gloval growled.
      The safety shield had been retracted from the main gun's trigger. Lisa
pressed the red button hard.
      Tongues of starflame began shooting back and forth between the booms that
constituted the gargantuan main gun, whirling and crackling like living serpents
of energy.
      The blizzard of energy grew thicker, more intense. Then it leapt away,
straight out from the booms, merging and growing brighter until suddenly there
was a virtual river of orange-white annihilation, as broad and high as the ship
itself.
      The hell-beam tore through space. The first ten heavyweight warships from
Khyron's contingent flared briefly, like matches in the middle of a Veritech's
after blast. In a split second their shields failed, their armor vaporized, and
they were gone.

      Khyron's handsome face was distorted like a maniac's. "We must press the
attack! Move the next wave in!" The Zentraedi warrior's code could forgive
audacity-even direct disobedience-from an officer who won. But defeat might very
well be unforgivable and earn him the death penalty.
      More heavy ships-of-the-line moved up, firing plasma cannon and
annihilation discs. The SDF-1 shook and resounded from the first hits. There
were a few gasps on the bridge, but Gloval and the bridge crew concentrated on
their jobs.
      The enemy dreadnoughts' blue-fire cannon volleys rained on the SDF-1 as
Khyron's second attack wave bored in.
      The three green-white discs of the dimensional fortress's pin-point
barrier system, each bigger than a baseball infield, slid along the ship's
surface like spotlight circles. The disaster of the spacefold equipment's
disappearance had left the vessel unable to protect itself completely; the pin-
point system was the stopgap defense developed by the resident Robotech genius,
Dr. Lang.
      Now, the female enlisted-rating techs who operated the pinpoints sweated
and flickered their eyes from ship's schematics to threat-display screens to
readouts from the. prioritization computers. In a frantic effort to block enemy
beams they spun and twirled the spherical controls that moved the pin-point
barrier shield loci across the ship's hull.
      The circles of light slid and flashed across the battle fortress's
superalloy skin. Enemy beams that hit them simply dissipated, changing the
locicircles into a series of concentric, rippling rings for a split second. Then
the circles came back to full strength, racing off to intercept another shot.
      No one had ever done that kind for work before, and the three young women
were good at what they did-experts by necessity. But sometimes, unavoidably,
they missed...

      The SDF-1 shuddered at another impact. "Starboard engine has been hit,"
Claudia informed Gloval without looking up from her console.
      Gloval said nothing but worried much. Even now, a decade and more after
the SDF-1's original appearance and crash landing on Earth, nobody understood
very much about its enigmatic, sealed power plants-not even the brilliant Lang.
What would happen if an engine were broached? Gloval didn't spare time to worry
about it.
      The bad news was coming fast. "Industrial section hit." "Sector twenty-
seven completely nonfunctioning."
      Claudia looked to Gloval. "The pin-point barrier is losing power."
      Gloval didn't permit himself to show his dismay. Now what? he thought.
We've fought so hard, endured so much, come so close. "Keep firing the main
battery!" he said, aloud.
      Lisa knew how to read him so well after all these years. Look at him, she
thought. It's hopeless! I know it!
      "Lisa, didn't you hear the order?" Claudia was yelling, a little
desperately.
      "Yes," Lisa said resolutely. She pressed the trigger again.
      Another unimaginable flood of utter destruction leapt out to devour the
second Zentraedi wave.

      In her command center, Azonia watched a dozen proud Zentraedi warships
vanish from the tactical display screens.
      "That imbecile Khyron! What does he think he's doing? He has no authority
whatsoever for this attack!"
      Yaita, her aide, said laconically, "No, Commander." Then, "Therefore, what
are your orders?"
      In an event of this magnitude there was opportunity for the right junior
officer to get herself noticed, perhaps even mentioned in dispatches to Dolza's
headquarters. Interfering with the unstable battle lord risked a confrontation,
perhaps even combat, but by nature Yaita was a risk taker.
      Azonia, even more so. "I shall have to force Khyron to break off his
attack myself."
      Yaita said, "You mean to divert part of the fleet blockade? But the enemy
vessel might find a way to break through!"
      "It can't be avoided," Azonia said coldly. "That ship must not be
destroyed. Its Protoculture secrets are the key to the Zentraedi's ultimate
victory."

      Vanessa relayed the information, "The aliens are bringing up
reinforcements, Captain; nearly two hundred heavy warships." She looked up from
her console. "Analysis indicates that's too many for us to handle."
      "The barrier's weakening rapidly," Sammie said.
      "We're losing power," Kim added.
      Vanessa watched her tactical screens, ready to give the grim details as
the enemy closed in for the kill. But she suddenly had trouble believing what
she was seeing. "What's going on? The reinforcements are breaking formation-
spreading out and closing in on the other enemy ships!"

      Khyron watched his trans-vid displays furiously as Azonia's fleet swept in
to close with his own reduced forces. "What is that woman up to now?"
      The Micronian vessel was nearly his; he could feel it.
      I will not be thwarted again!
      A projecbeam created an image of Azonia in midair over his head. "Khyron,
you fool! Dolza has given you no authority whatsoever to destroy the Earth
ship!"
      Khyron felt that insane wrath welling up in him once again, a fury so
boundless that his vision began to blur. He growled like an animal through
locked teeth.
      Azonia was saying, "As commander of this force, I am ordering you to cease
this attack at once and withdraw to your assigned position-or you will find
yourself facing Zentraedi guns!"
      Studying the tactical readouts, Grel said, "Captain, her entire arsenal is
already being aimed at us."
      Khyron crashed his first on the map console. "That blasted meddling idiot
of a woman!"
      He may have been called Khyron the Backstabber by some, but he'd never
been called Khyron the Suicide or Khyron the Fool. Azonia had the rest of the
armada to back her in this confrontation.
      Khyron had no choice. With Azonia's ships blocking their way, his vessels
reduced speed, and the SDF-1 began to put distance between itself and its
enemies.
      "They're escaping!" Khyron's voice was a harsh croak. "And so Azonia robs
me of my triumph. But I swear: I shall not forget this!"
      Grel had heard that tone in his commander's voice before. He smiled
humorlessly.
      If Azonia was wise, she would begin guarding her back at all times.
      The immense Robotech knight that was the SDF-1 descended to Earth's
atmosphere, toward the swirling white clouds and the blue ocean.
      "I don't understand it," Claudia said. "They screened us from their own
attack."
      "I know, but we'll worry about that after we get back to Earth, Claudia,"
Gloval answered.
      "Reentry in ten seconds," she told him.
      "Steady as she goes, Lisa," Gloval ordered calmly. All the equations and
theories about how the reconfigured SDF-1 would take its first grounding in
Earthnormal gravity were just that: theories. Any one of an almost infinite
number of things might go wrong, but there was no alternative. Soon the ship's
crew and inhabitants would find out the truth.
      "Atmospheric contact," Claudia reported.
      The giant warrior ship descended on long pillars of blue-white fire that
gushed from its thruster legs and from the thrusters built into the bows of
Daedalus and Prometheus. "Order all hands to secure for landing," Gloval
directed.
      Elsewhere, the strain was beginning to tell. Power surges and outages,
overloads and explosions, were lighting up warning indicators all over the
bridge.
      "Starboard engines have suffered major damage from the reentry, sir,"
Claudia said. "And gravity control's becoming erratic."
      "The explosions have caused some hull breaches, Captain, and we're losing
power quickly," Lisa put in.
      "This is going to be some splashdown," Gloval muttered to himself. At
least the loss of atmosphere didn't matter anymore; in moments they'd either
have all the sweet atmosphere of Earth to breathe or they wouldn't need air ever
again.
      Claudia counted off the last few yards of descent. Vast clouds of steam
rose from the ocean as the waters boiled from the heat of the drive thrusters.
Then the ship hit the water.
      At first, the ocean parted around it, bubbling and vaporizing. Then it
came rushing back in again, overwhelming even that tremendous heat and blast.
SDF-1 sank, sank, the waves crashing against its armor, then racing away from
it, until at last it disappeared from sight beneath the churning water.
      Moments passed, and the sea began to calm itself again. Suddenly, a spear
of metal broke the surface; then three more: the long tines at the tips of the
booms of the ship's main gun. The booms rose, shedding water, and then the
bridge. The SDF-1's shoulder structures came up, and then the elbow housings,
until at last Daedalus and Prometheus were up, their flight decks shedding
millions of gallons of water.
      The calculations were right; SDF-1 was an immense machine, but it was
quite buoyant and seaworthy. It gleamed brightly as the seawater streamed down
its hull.


CHAPTER EIGHT
"There's no excuse for sloppy discipline-not even victory," Colonel Maistroff
was fond of lecturing us. Maybe so, but I never saw a haircut win a battle.
The Collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter

Gloval and his bridge crew gazed out at the serene ocean. The Terrible Trio was
intoxicated with joy.
      "Home again-after so long!"
      "It's just beautiful!"
      "Home-"
      Sammie, Vanessa, and Kim, arms around one another, turned to the others.
"Welcome back!"
      Claudia was brushing tears away, and Lisa just stared at the sea, not
knowing exactly what she felt.
        Gloval lit his pipe; regulations be hanged. "Now, how about a little fresh
air?"
      Major access hatches began cranking open all around the Macross City area;
light and wonderful sea breezes flooded in. Blinking and gaping, the inhabitants
of the city began to congregate in the air locks and on the outer decks.
      When they finally believed what their senses were telling them, the
cheering began-the backslapping and hugging and kissing and laughter. People
stood in the sunlight and cried or prayed, shook hands solemnly or jumped up and
down, sank to their knees or just stood, staring.
      Kim's voice came over the PA. "We've touched down in the Pacific Ocean.
The captain and crew extend their gratitude to the citizens of Macross for your
splendid cooperation during a difficult and dangerous voyage. It's good to be
home."
      A big hatch dropped open just below the bridge. Ben Dixon was the first
one out onto the open deck, laughing and turning somersaults, leaping into the
air ecstatically.
      More Veritech pilots and crew people rushed after him. Rick and Max stood
watching Ben carrying on. "He'd make a pretty good acrobat, wouldn't he?" Max
commented.
      Rick smiled. "Probably, but-look at that blue sky. That's no EVE
projection! I can't say I blame Ben a bit."
      Ben was pointing into the sky. "Look! They're giving us a fighter fly-by
to welcome us!"
      So it seemed; twenty or more ships that resembled VTs, bearing the
familiar delta markings of Earth's Robotech Defense Forces, came zooming in in
tight formation to pass over the SDF-1.
      But the three pilots felt their joy ebb as they were struck by the same
thought: The Zentraedi were still out there, millions of ships strong.

      An endless series of details kept Gloval busy for the next few hours,
including the recovery of the Vermilion and Ghost fighters who'd flown escort
during the SDF-1's final bolt to safety.
      But at last he put aside other duties, satisfied that subordinates could
take care of the remaining details, and repaired to his cabin to complete his
compilation of log excerpts.
      The Earth authorities would soon have all the facts as he knew them.
Gloval wondered if the leaders. of the United Earth Government would believe all
that had happened to the SDF-1 in the months since it had disappeared. Sometimes
Gloval himself had trouble.
      He reviewed the long tape he'd compiled to amplify the other materials.
Starting with the initial Zentraedi attack, when so much of Earth's military
force had been obliterated and the dimensional fortress had activated itself,
the log covered all the important incidents of the running battle with the
aliens.
      There'd been the ghastly aftermath of the spacefold jump and the almost
insurmountable problems of getting tens of thousands of Macross refugees settled
in the ship. The Daedalus Maneuver, Lisa Hayes's inspiration, had allowed the
humans to win their first resounding victory amid the icy rings of Saturn.
      Lisa saved the day again, this time on Mars, by destroying the alien
gravity mines that had been holding SDF-1 on the Red Planet's surface. The
ship's most recent crisis began when radar was disabled by enemy fire, leading
to a foray by a Cat's-Eye recon ship-piloted by Lisa Hayes, of course.
      Gloval didn't like to think too hard about the fate his command would have
suffered if he hadn't been lucky enough to have had Lisa with him. Certainly
there were skilled and courageous men and woman throughout the SDF-1; examples
of extreme bravery and ingenuity were too many to mention. But it seemed that
Lisa's devotion, valor, and special loyalty to the SDF-1 and to Gloval made her
the pivotal figure in almost every action the ship fought. It made it that much
more difficult for Gloval to see how few real friends Lisa had, how empty her
life was of anything but service and duty. Of course, he had no right to
interfere with her personal life, but he couldn't help being worried about her.
      The most important thing Gloval had to present to the United Earth
Government was an enigma: The molecular and genetic structure of the Zentraedi
was so formidable that some of them could even survive unprotected in the vacuum
of space for short periods of time; their sheer physical strength was a match
for that of Battloids and other human Robotech mecha-yet they had nearly
collapsed at the sight of two relatively tiny humans sharing a kiss.
      Moreover, the Zentraedi didn't seem to know anything about repairing their
equipment. It was as though they were a servant race using the machinery given
them by some higher power, yet they boasted of being the mightiest warriors in
the known universe.
      Gloval shook his head, hoping the Earth authorities would have additional
information or analyses that would shed some light on the mysteries surrounding
the war.
      He worked for hours, inserting updates and clarifying things that
warranted it, condensing wherever he could. Twice he dozed briefly, then got
back to work, making an occasional status-check call to the bridge. The relief
officer on duty, Lieutenant Claudia Grant, assured him all was well.
      A quarantine area had been established around the battle fortress-not
surprising, Gloval supposed-and a communication blackout had been imposed for
the time being. The crewpeople took that fairly well-they were used to military
discipline-and even the civilians had been too delirious with joy to be very
upset by it so far. Gloval could see why his superiors might want to maintain
radio silence until he'd appeared to give his full report, but he hoped the need
for it wouldn't last much longer.
      The civilians were still celebrating, but they wouldn't be satisfied with
that indefinitely.
      He brought the tape to a close, puffing on his briar as he dictated. "I am
convinced the Zentraedi have more firepower than we can even imagine. The
situation is extremely critical, and I believe that a central issue in this war
they've forced on us is this mysterious `Protoculture' they keep mentioning. I
therefore suggest that-what? Come in!"
      The rapping had been gentle. Lisa entered with a pot of fresh coffee. "I
thought you could use some about now, sir."
      "Thank you; it smells wonderful." She came in, and the coffee's aroma
filled the cabin, cutting the aroma of the pipe tobacco.
      She poured while he glanced up at an ancient brass ship's clock on his
wall. "I did not realize what time it was."
      He put the pipe aside. The ashtray lay next to a detailed analysis and
history of living arrangements and social organization in Macross City and the
SDF-1 during the voyage. The SDF-1 held far and away the largest human
population ever to travel in space, and that on a voyage of very long duration.
The data on how people had coped with their living conditions and somehow
managed to make things work would be very important, Gloval suspected. There
would have to be a lot more humans in space for long periods of time, sooner
than anyone expected.
      Gloval threw back the curtains, looking out the high, wide curve of
viewport at a Pacific dawn. He'd forgotten how many seemingly impossible colors
there could be in such a sunrise-the purples and reds and pinks. He'd forgotten
how the water broke the light into a million pieces and the sky ignited.
      "Here you are, sir," Lisa said, handing him his cup, prepared just the way
he liked it. They gazed out at the peace and powerful beauty of the dawn,
      "I never thought I'd see anything as beautiful as this ever again," Lisa
said. It was a moment of such tranquillity, such oneness with the planet that
had been their goal for so long, such satisfaction with a protracted, seemingly
hopeless mission accomplished at last, that she did her best to lock it in her
heart and senses and memory-a treasure that she could relive occasionally.
Sparingly.
      "You're right," Gloval said at length. "I feel the same way. You know, I
have a confession to make."
      Lisa sipped her coffee, watching the sea, saying nothing. Gloval went on.
"I had a premonition when I took command of this ship, the feeling that
something terrible would happen. It's difficult to explain, but it was a
conviction that something would happen to us that would change us forever."
      She studied his face. "And it seems that you were right.".
      He was staring at the sea and the rising sun, though she doubted he was
really seeing them. "This ship still has its secrets, Lisa, but what are they?
We must find out; I can't escape the feeling that everything depends on it.

      It was strange to see the flight deck crews working in conventional
coveralls and safety helmets again after months in vacuum suits, strange to
think that most planes would need a catapult launch from the SDF-1 and the
flatdecks now in order to get up airspeed.
      Theoretically, the transport that was waiting for Gloval and Lisa didn't
need a launch; it was a VTOL job, capable of lifting off like a helo. Still, it
had the reinforced nose and landing gear of a naval aircraft, and SOP
recommended that fixed-wing aircraft receive cat launch.
      Gloval walked toward it with Lisa at his side, his attached case weighted
with documents, tapes, photographs, reports, and evaluation reports on those
reports. His feet scuffed against areas of missing nonskid surface on the flight
deck, flaps of it having been peeled loose by the violence of SDF-1's
homecoming.
      Scores of crewmen were just completing an FOD walkdown of the flight deck,
pacing its length in a line abreast running from port to starboard. Foreign
Object Damage was a thing much to be feared on a carrier; no scrap of debris
could be left to be sucked into a jetcraft's air intake.
      The weather remained fair, but now a thick odor rose from the sea. The
superheated steam and hard radiation produced by the dimensional fortress's
touchdown had resulted in a considerable fish kill, even so far out at sea; the
sun was warming the foul-smelling soup that lapped around the hulls of the
carriers and the approximate hip level of the SDF-1's "torso." Still, the stench
came from far below and was easy to endure, mixed as it was with the trade winds
that carried Earth's inimitable air to people who had been breathing reprocessed
gases for months now.
      Gloval was tight-tipped and silent, feeling strange premonitions like the
one he'd mentioned to Lisa. The United Earth Government's replies to his
messages had been terse, noncommittal. It seemed he had another desperate job of
convincing to do.
      Lisa emulated her captain, saying nothing and betraying nothing by her
expression as she followed him up the boarding ladder into the transport. A crew
member closed the hatch, and the transport's turbines increased their howl.
      The plane had already been boxed-aligned on the catapult and fitted with
an appropriate breakaway holdback link that was color-coded for its particular
job. The transport's downswept wings bobbed minutely as the catapult crew got
ready to launch.
      When the cat crew had gone through their ritual, the transport shot away,
taking lift from the sudden flare at the bow, off the angled flight deck, in a
cloud of catapult steam.
      Kim stretched, arms behind her head, gazing down at the carrier deck from
the SDF-1's bridge. She sighed. "Well, there they go; at least they got a clean
launch."
      She was standing at the vast sweep of the bridge's forward viewport with
Sammie, Vanessa, and Claudia, following the transport's climb.
      Little Sammie shook her long, straight locks of blond hair back from her
face. "I wish I were going, too," she said forlornly, resting her chin on the
viewport ledge.
      Claudia unwillingly told herself that it was time to scold a little, not
sympathize; these last few hours or days before the SDF-1 crew was relieved
might be the most demanding of all where discipline was concerned.
      So she chided, "What're you talking about, Sammie? D' you know how cold
Alaska is this time of year? Or any time of year? You should be glad you're
staying where it's warm."
      "Well, I'm not," Sammie said bravely.
      "At least we'd be off the ship," Vanessa pointed out, adjusting her
glasses self-consciously. She and Kim nodded supportively and made low "uh huh!"
sounds.
      Claudia was suddenly stern. "All right, that's enough of that! First off,
the captain and Lisa are on a classified mission, which means we don't talk
about it any more than we have to for duty purposes. And we don't mention it at
all outside this bridge, do you roger that transmission?"
      The Terrible Trio nodded quickly, gulping, in unison.
      The hatch slid aside as a voice startled them. "Good morning, ladies! I'd
like-"
      The greeting was cut off by a sharp whap! of impact. The bridge crew
turned in surprise, Sammie letting out a small cry. Claudia maintained her
composure, but it wasn't easy.
      "Oh! Ouch! Uhhhh!" Colonel Maistroff was in the hatchway, rubbing his
forehead, his cap knocked back cockeyed on his head by the impact, holding
himself up with one hand against the frame.
      Everyone there knew Maistroff, and not for any cordial reason; one didn't
make allies of the bridge crew by crossing Captain Gloval.
      Claudia fluttered her eyelashes and said disingenuously, "Colonel, are you
all right? That hatchway's terribly low! I recommend you duck down when coming
onto the bridge, sir. Captain Gloval always does."
      There was something in the expressions of the bridge crew that said that
they resented Maistroff's taking this liberty; it was his right to act as if he
were Gloval, but they were not required to play along with the pretense.
      Maistroff rubbed a growing knot over one eye, making a low grating sound
so that subordinates wouldn't hear him groan in pain. "Thank you for that
warning, Lieutenant Grant; you're only about ten seconds too late."
      He stopped rubbing his forehead and squared his cap's visor away. The
Terrible Trio trooped past him, in step, on their way to their duty stations. "I
just came up to officially take over command of this vessel in Captain Gloval's
absence."
      Claudia held all her personal feelings in check; she'd had a taste of what
command was now and was willing to give even Maistroff the benefit of the doubt.
"Yes, sir; I'd heard that you would. I'm sure you'll enjoy the experience."
      He glowered at her. "Mmm. I don't think that `enjoy' is quite the
appropriate word, miss. But I do expect to run a tight ship." He moved past her,
going to the forward viewport.
      Claudia tried to get a grip on herself. Tight ship! She'd had the feeling
he'd say that. As though Captain Gloval runs a loose ship! As if Captain Gloval
isn't the best skipper in-
      "No more slipping around the rules;" Maistroff was saying. "What this
bridge needs is a good dose of discipline." Gazing grandly out the forward
viewport, he drew a long cigar from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket.
      It was plain that he was savoring the moment. Perhaps he had saved the
stogie all this time since the SDF-1's accidental departure so that he could
smoke it on the bridge as master. Maistroff made a production of biting off the
end, rolling the cigar between his fingers, and moistening it front and back
between his lips.
      His indescribable pleasure in the moment was broken by a high-pitched
voice. "There's no smoking on the bridge, sir!"
      "What?" Maistroff whirled on Sammie, who was out of her chair and didn't
look in the least daunted by his scowl.
      "It's on page two of the ship's SOP rule book-standard operating
procedure, isn't it, sir?"
      Claudia couldn't for the life of her figure out whether Sammie was serious
or was having her little snipe at the colonel. Apparently, neither could
Maistroff.
      He turned back to the viewport, holding the cigar as if somebody else had
put it in his fingers, not willing to throw it away but unable to do much of
anything else with it. His back was ramrod straight, and his cheeks flushed a
bright red.
      "Ah, of course. I was only holding it. I had no intention of lighting it."
He gritted his teeth but refused to take official recognition when he heard
female giggling and tittering behind him.
      "Excuse me, Colonel," Claudia said. "Will there be anything else, sir?"
      He turned to her, trying to put down his anger, cold cigar clenched in his
teeth, hands clasped behind him. "What? What?"
      She said gently, "I was officer on the last watch, sir. Am I relieved?"
She saluted.
      He was doubly red-faced to have forgotten so simple a thing as relieving
her of the command. "Oh!" He answered her salute. "Sure, you go right along,
Lieutenant Grant. I'm sure we'll be able to operate just fine until you get
back." He smiled indulgently.
      As Claudia gathered her things, Maistroff went to inspect the rest of the
bridge and incidentally try Gloval's chair to see how it felt. Making sure that
he wouldn't hear, Vanessa whispered to Claudia, "Y' better check in later to
make sure the bridge is still here!"
      The Terrible Trio stifled their laughter. Claudia smiled. "You hang in
there, girls."
      Reflecting that Maistroff didn't know what real opposition was like but
would find out if he crossed the Terribles, Claudia left the bridge.


CHAPTER NINE
Hey, I was managin' a couple of other class acts when I signed Minmei, y' know?
I mean, I wasn't just chopped liver, kapish? I mean, I had the Acnes, who had a
big, fat bullet: "I'll Be a Goo-goo for You."
Anyway, Minmei-doll hits the scene, and I can't even get my other acts arrested!
"Minmei! Minmei!" People don't wanna hear anything else.
The public-go figure.
Vance Hasslewood, Minmei's personal manager, interviewed on Jan Morris's on-ship
TV show, "Good Morning, SDF!"

The city of Macross hadn't seen fireworks since that fateful day when the
Zentraedi first appeared in the solar system. There had been plenty of
explosions, all right, but not simple skyrockets and colored bursts.
      Now, fireworks flashed high over Prometheus's flight deck. Canopies and
marquees were set up, and an old-fashioned town festival was in progress.
      Strings of firecrackers banged and snapped on the nonskid, and streamers
and confetti flew in squalls, carried by the sea breezes. Many had chosen to
wear costumes, and some wore fantastic, gruesome giant masks that covered them
from head to foot. There was dancing and laughter; a sort of communal
drunkenness with joy.
      On an improvised speaker's platform, Mayor Tommy Luan held his hands high.
"Our troubles are finally over! Let's make this party last all week!"
      The stocky little mayor's good friend, Vern Havers, a lean, mournful-
looking man with a receding hairline, clung to the side of the platform to call
up anxiously, "But what about packing? Shouldn't we be getting ready to leave?"
      "Vern, this isn't a day for packing! We have plenty of time for that!
Don't you think that the Macross survivors deserve a celebration after all we've
been through?"
      The mayor looked up at the looming SDF-1, its silent guns throwing long
shadows across the deck. "Besides, once we leave this ship, we'll probably never
see it again."
      Vern hadn't even thought about that, but it made sense; SDF-1 would have
to take up its job of guarding Earth; the rebuilt Macross City would of course
be dismantled.
      Like many others, Vern had dreamed of returning to Earth, had lived for
it, all these months; but now, like many others, he felt strangely sad that a
unique time in his life was ending. He hoped there could be some kind of open
house or something so people could see what the citizens of Macross had
accomplished before all their handiwork was swept away.
      "Well," he said, "if you put it that way, I suppose you may be right."
      The mayor was literally hopping up and down, from his own swelling
emotions. "Of course I'm right! Now, let's party!"
      Vern resigned himself to the inevitable. It was good to be back on Earth,
but he was beginning to realize how difficult it would be to get used to
uneventful peacetime life.
      Elsewhere in the milling, boisterous crowd, the three Zentraedi spies were
trying to absorb what they were seeing around them.
      Gaiety like this was unknown among their people; certainly the frivolous
consumption of food and drink, scandalous mingling of males and females, and
pointless merrymaking would be a court-martial offense among the warrior race.
      Konda was absorbing something else-his third cup of an intriguing purple
liquid with ice cubes floating in it-when Bron, gawking at all the goings-on,
jostled his elbow.
      Konda, vexed when some of his drink spilled, gave the bigger spy a shove.
"Clumsy! Can't you be more careful?"
      Bron looked hurt. Konda said, "I'm sampling something called `punch,' and
you interrupted my experimentation."
      Bron looked at the beverage dubiously. "It seems to me you've imbibed more
than is necessary for a mere effects test, Konda."
      Konda pushed the cup into Bron's hands. "Here! You try it! I know where to
get more, and the requisitioning procedure is puzzlingly informal." He hiccuped.
      Bron sniffed the stuff suspiciously; then, after a final glance at Konda
to make sure he showed no sign of toxic reaction, he downed the punch in two big
swallows. It was cold but somehow had a warming effect. He gagged a little but
felt a pleasant sensation course through him.
      "I don't know what's in this stuff," Konda said with a foolish grin, "but
it sure is getting me charged up!"
      Oh my goodness! thought Bron. "You...you mean it's got some kind of
Protoculture in it?"
      Exasperated, Konda was considering clouting Bron in the head for being
such a dummy, when Rico rushed up to them angrily. "Why aren't you two making
noise like the rest of these people? You want them to notice us? Well then,
pretend you're having fun!"
      Rico, too, held a cup of the punch; it was all but empty, and he looked a
little bleary-eyed. He threw one fist up and yelled, "Yay-yyy!" so loudly that
he quite startled his companions. "We finally made it back! We're home again!"
      "Hurrah! We beat the enemy!" Konda added helpfully. "Hurrah for us! Hurrah
for Earth!"
      "Down with the Zentraedi!" Bron burst out, doing a little jigging dance
step. That punch beverage, whatever it was, had him feeling rather, well, happy.
"Up with the Micronians! Down..."
      He realized the other two were staring at him. Bron covered his mouth with
his hand in anguish. "Oh, my! I didn't know what I was saying! Konda, Rico-
please don't report me!"
      Just then a young woman dressed as a medieval princess and carrying two
cups of punch swept by. She saw the three standing together, one without a cup.
She put her extra one into Konda's hand and clinked glasses with them, grinning
behind her silvery domino mask. "To home and friendship!" Then she was gone in
the crowd.
      The three spies looked at one another for a moment, then echoed, "To home
and friendship," and clinked cups as the celebration swirled around them.

      With most of the off-duty crew and virtually all the civilians up at the
party, SDF-1's passageways were empty, giving the ship a haunted feel. Making
her way toward the VT pilots' living quarters section, Claudia Grant tried to
put that fool Maistroff out of her mind and concentrate on enjoying her brief
time off watch.
      For the first time in months, the Veritech pilots weren't flying constant
patrols or combat missions, and SDF-1 was being manned by a virtual skeleton
crew. So her free time meshed with Roy's for the first time in a long time.
      The love affair between Claudia Grant and Lieutenant Commander Roy Fokker,
as passionate as it was romantic, had been terribly strained by the demands of
the SDF-1's desperate voyage. But now there would be time to be together-the
very best thing about the dimensional fortress's return, as far as Claudia was
concerned.
      She signaled at the hatch to his quarters but got no response. Rapping on
it with her knuckles was no more effective.
      Claudia wasn't about to miss her chance to see him. Perhaps he'd left her
a note. She tapped the hatch release and entered as the hatch slid aside.
      Roy Fokker-leader of the Veritech Skull Team, heroic ace of the Robotech
War-lay snoring softly, dead to the world, his long blond hair fanned out on the
pillow. At six foot six, he hadn't yet found a military-issue bunk that fit him;
his feet and the covers stuck off the end of the bed.
      It had been said of Roy that "he doesn't fly a jet; he wears it." But
right now Roy looked like nothing so much as a sleepy kid.
      For months we never have the chance to be alone, and when the opportunity
finally arrives, he sleeps through it! But she couldn't be mad at him. He'd been
on duty, usually in the cockpit of a fighter, just about every waking hour since
the spacefold jump.
      Poor dear; he must be exhausted. "Oh, well..." She pulled the covers up
over his shoulders, then turned to go.
      "Hey, hold up!" She turned to see Roy sitting up in bed, blinking the
sleep away, smiling. "You just gonna run off?"
      She grinned at him. "I figured the Skull Leader needs all the beauty sleep
he can get."
      "You were wrong. C'mere."
      He grabbed her wrists, his big hands engulfing hers, and pulled. Claudia
gave a laughing yelp as he dragged her down next to him, then relaxed against
him in a kiss that took away all the pain and sorrow and weariness of the long
voyage home.

      Back in the midst of the festivities on Prometheus's flight deck, Rick
Hunter stood waiting next to an aircraft. He was wearing his old flying circus
outfit of orange and white trimmed with black, and his silken scarf.
      The plane was the fanliner sport ship won by Lynn-Minmei when she'd taken
the Miss Macross title. This was to be its maiden voyage in the atmosphere of
Earth.
      It was a sleek, beautiful propfan design by the illustrious Ikkii Takemi
himself, with powerful, pinwheel-like propellers in a big cowling behind the
cockpit. It reminded Rick very much of his own Mockingbird, which depressed him
because that in turn reminded him of the time he'd spent with Minmei, stranded
together in a remote part of the SDF-1. During that time she'd come to mean so
much to him, but now...
      "You're a lucky guy, Rick, to be flying Minmei home," a ground crewman was
saying. "You not only get to leave the ship, but you spend time with a
beautiful-huh?"
      Rick heard it, too, and looked around. The roar of the crowd had
increased, and there was cheering and applause.
      "Like I said," the ground crewman went on, "you get to spend time with a
beautiful celebrity."
      Minmei's entrance was worthy of her star status-her superstar status, as
far as the crew and passengers of the SDF-1 were concerned. She was being
chauffeured across the flight deck in a glittering new Macross City-manufactured
limo, the crowd parting before her. They held up signs with hearts and fond
sentiments on them or waved autograph books somewhat hopelessly.
      Flower petals and confetti and streamers rained down on her car; people
pressed up against the glass to smile, wave, and call out her name-to feel close
to her, if only for a moment.
      "Y' know, she's the only one who's been given permission to leave the ship
so far, even for a short time," the crewman continued. "Hope you enjoy the
ride."
      Minmei sat quietly in the exact middle of the limo's rear seat, hands
folded in her lap, watching the people throng around her car and pay homage. She
wore her old school uniform: white blouse and necktie, brown plaid blazer, plaid
skirt. Audience research indicated that her public liked to see her in attire
that emphasized her youth.
      Her manager, Vance Hasslewood, sat next to the chauffeur, happily
surveying the crowd. "Well, this is quite a turnout for you, Minmei."
      Minmei gave a little sigh. "Yes, I suppose these mobs are the price one
must pay for fame."
      Hasslewood and the uniformed chauffeur exchanged a wry, secret look.
      "Could we go a little faster? I'm late as it is," Minmei added. The driver
sped up a bit, honking his horn, and Minmei's adoring public had to move out of
the way quickly.
      I wonder if she's changed much, Rick thought as the limo screeched up
beside the little sport plane. Minmei had promised that she and Rick could still
see a lot of each other once he joined the Robotech Defense Forces, but between
his duties and her skyrocketing career as the SDF-1's homegrown media idol, that
promise had been forgotten.
      The chauffeur held the rear door open for Minmei while Vance Hasslewood
went to confer with a liaison officer from the SDF-1 Air Group.
      "Hello, Minmei." Rick smiled. "It looked like you had a lot of trouble
getting through that crowd back there."
      She giggled, her eyes shining in the way he remembered. "Those are my
loyal fans. They follow me everywhere. I just love them!"
      She turned to wave to the people being held back by a cordon of security
guards. "Hello, hello! Thank you for coming down to see me off! I love you all
very much!"
      Apparently she was unaware that a lot of the people, the majority of them
perhaps, were simply there for the party; maybe she didn't even realize that
there was a celebration going on. Rick shook his head, laughing; Minmei was
sweet and charming, but she still lived very much in a world of her own.
      The fans were clapping, stamping, and whistling for her, waving their
signs and banners. Vance Hasslewood looked on approvingly, eyes hidden behind
tinted glasses.
      "Thank you!" she called, throwing kisses.
      "Boy, they really like you," Rick remarked.
      "I know," she said matter-of-factly. "Rick, when can we take off? I'm
really anxious to see my parents."
      "Well, I guess we can take off any time; the engines are all warmed up."
      He led her to the boarding ladder. "Just climb into the rear seat-careful,
now-and sit down, strap yourself in."
      She got into the fanliner and settled her shoulder purse next to her,
taking up the safety harness. "Thanks, Rick. It seems like you've become a lot
nicer now than when we first met."
      Huh? Minmei was still living in her own world, he saw-revising her
memories of the past according to her preferences, forgetting whatever was
inconvenient or troubling or replacing it with something that freed her from
introspection.
      So now she'd decided that Rick had been unkind to her. Perhaps she'd
forgotten that he'd saved her life several times...forgotten that they'd held a
mock wedding ceremony and she'd worn the very white silk scarf that he now had
around his neck as a bridal veil.
      Perhaps she'd forgotten their kiss, there in the remotest part of the
ship. Certainly she was now surrounded by people who would go along with almost
anything she said or chose to think, people not eager to remind her of her past
life and ties. She was free to be completely self-absorbed.
      As he stood on the boarding ladder looking down into the cockpit at her,
he saw her in a new light. "Maybe I've grown up, Minmei."
      Her brows met, and she was about to ask what he meant; but just then Vance
Hasslewood, standing at the foot of the boarding ladder, thrust his face up into
Rick's. "Young man! Your name; what is it, hah?
      Rick threw him a sarcastic salute. "Lieutenant Rick Hunter, sir."
      "Well, Lieutenant Rick Hunter, I expect you to take good care of Minmei!
She's a very busy person, and she must get back to the ship on time."
      Minmei surprised both men by jumping in on Rick's side. "Don't worry,
Vance! I feet perfectly safe! Rick's a very good pilot!"
      Hasslewood backed off a bit. "Er, yes, I'm sure he is, but he's so young,
I, uh-"
      Rick wondered just who and what Hasslewood really was. Certainly, Minmei's
astounding popularity had been very lucrative for the man, and he was very
proprietary about her. But what else was there to the manager-client
relationship?
      Nothing romantic, Rick was pretty sure of that; even at her most career-
hungry, Minmei wouldn't have fallen for an abrasive hustler like Hasslewood. But
how had Minmei gotten permission for even a brief visit to her parents when the
SDF-1 was virtually quarantined?
      To be sure, Rick's confidential orders were specific enough: Make sure
that Minmei had no access to outside media interviews. Just the family visit,
and then right back to the SDF-1, whatever that took.
      Rick had thought about Minmei's brief liberty privilege and could only
come up with one explanation: Her talents and appeal had been a major factor in
keeping up morale and fighting spirit during the long return voyage to Earth.
And no matter what the public information people were saying, the war wasn't
over and there was still a threat of invasion. If Minmei could do for the
general population of Earth what she'd done for the people on SDF-1, she would
be a tremendously important resource. That gave her and, in turn, Hasslewood, an
awful lot of leverage.
      Right now, though, Rick wasn't worrying about infiuence or power. He stuck
his face into Hasslewood's, cutting him off. "How about standing back? We're
taking off now."
      Hasslewood just about fell over his own feet, retreating. "Sure, kid;
don't get touchy! Have a good trip, Minmei! Hurry back!"
      Rick pulled on his goggles and headset, lowering the cockpit's front and
rear canopies.
      Vance Hasslewood mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, watching as
Rick increased the propfan RPMs. The manager prayed silently for a quick,
uneventful flight; all his personal marbles were riding in that rear seat.
      Rick turned the fanliner's nose and taxied. The sport plane wasn't
equipped for cat launch, but it was so little and light that there was more than
enough runway for a takeoff. With Daedalus's bow turned into the wind, the
little ship fairly leapt up off the deck.
      Minmei sighed happily, looking down at the SDF-1, savoring the freedom of
the flight. "Ahhh! It's been a long time!"
      "It sure has," Rick murmured, bringing the plane onto its course for
Japan. A vivid, seductive fantasy had begun running in the back of his mind, of
being forced to land with Minmei-marooned on some idyllic desert island,
perhaps; of things being the way they once were.
      "I forgot how I felt about her."
      "What?" Minmei asked, leaning forward to peer around his seat.
      He hadn't meant to say it aloud. Flustered, he hastened, "Oh, nothing,
nothing!" But his face was reddening, and she looked at him oddly.
      He tried to concentrate on his flying as she settled back in her seat. But
that little fantasy just wouldn't let him alone.


CHAPTER TEN
We weren't deaf to the innuendo, of course. Claudia and the Terrible Trio and I
heard all the sniping about "Gloval's Harem," though people were very careful
not to say anything around Claudia after she decked a cat crewman.
There is a loneliness to command, it's no myth. But there's also an area around
the commander-where you're not in charge but not part of the rest of the ship's
complement, either-that's often a difficult place to be, too.
Lisa Hayes, Recollections

The United Earth Government's command complex was like a landlocked iceberg-only
a fraction of it was visible aboveground. In fact, the communications towers,
observation and surveillance structures, defensive emplacements, landing pads,
and aircraft-handling facilities constituted less than half a percent of the
cubic area of the enormous base.
      It was still a highly classified installation. The fighters escorting the
transport plane bearing Gloval and Lisa wouldn't have hesitated for a moment to
open fire on any unauthorized aircraft that entered its restricted airspace and
failed to respond to their challenges.
      Changing the angle of its engine blast, the transport eased in for a
vertical landing. Lisa, glancing out her viewport, saw Battloids pacing on guard
duty.
      Once the plane's authenticity and clearance were verified, its landing pad
became an elevator, lowering it deep beneath the bleak, subarctic landscape.
      Lisa and Gloval released their seat belts and gathered their things.
      "I hope they're prepared to listen," Lisa said. "Captain, we've got to
convince them! Surely they'll listen to reason!"
      "That would be nice for a change," Gloval growled.

      The Ikkii Takemi-designed fanliner rolled and soared, glinting in the sun.
      "Woo-hoo-ooo!" Rick exulted. Piloting a Veritech through deepspace had its
appeal, but there was nothing like feeling control surfaces bite the air and
making a light stunt plane do exactly what you wanted it to.
      "Having fun, Minmei?" He laughed again, and she joined in. He adored the
sound of her laugh.
      Maybe, he thought, he could just set down on some little island and say he
wanted to check out the engine. Then he'd have a chance to talk to her, would
have her full attention for a while.
      While he was turning the idea over in his mind, a familiar voice came over
his headset. "Veritech patrol to Minmei Special. Hey, Lieutenant! It's Ben and
Max!"
      "Huh?" Rick saw them now, back at five o'clock. The fighters had their
variable-sweep wings extended all the way for the extremely low speed needed to
keep pace with the sport plane. He was a little embarrassed that they'd managed
to sneak up on him.
      "We understand you have a VIP aboard," Ben went on.
      "Some guys have all the luck," Max added suggestively.
      "We're returning to base; have a nice date," Ben finished, laughing. The
Veritechs waggled their wings in salute, then peeled off onto a new course.
Their wings swept back to an extreme angle as they picked up speed, punching
through the sound barrier.
      They were doing better than Mach 2 and still accelerating when Rick lost
sight of them. "So long, wise guys," he called over their tac net. "See you
later."
      "Ben and Max are silly, but it does sort of feel like a date."
      He felt his pulse race. "Yep."
      She inhaled the cold, clear air, watching the glitter of the sun on the
canopy. "It's great to get away for a while, but when I get back, I have a whole
lot of work to make up. You should see all the things they want me to do!"
      Show biz again! "I suppose it fills your time," Rick snapped, vexed.
      She hadn't noticed his tone, ticking off her projects on her fingers. "Oh,
yes! I've got to do a television show, and then I'm cast in a play. Why, I'm
even supposed to do a movie!"
      "Mmm," Rick tried to sound elaborately bored. She still didn't notice.
      "That's going to be really great," Minmei gushed. "I expect to work really
hard. This is my first movie, y' know. Say! If I speak to the director, I might
be able to get you a small part, hmm?"
      That made him smile. Maybe she did think about others after all,
notwithstanding the fact that he thought movies were a rather brainless
occupation and definitely inferior to flying a fighter.
      "Maybe some other time, Minmei. But, hey, where d' you get all your
energy? Flying heel-and-toe patrols is one thing, but I'd be exhausted trying to
keep up with a schedule like that one. Minmei?"
      He hiked himself around to look over his seat at her. "Minmei, are you all
right? Speak to me!"
      For a moment he was afraid the cockpit had lost pressure and looked to his
instruments frantically. Then he saw what had happened. "Well how d'you like
that? She's asleep."
      Her chin was resting on her chest, and she was breathing softly. Again,
Rick felt a wave of that fierce protectiveness he'd felt toward her when they
were stranded. And tremendous affection rose up in him as well.
      He turned back to his piloting with a fond smirk. I hope she wakes up long
enough to say hello to her parents.

      The streamlined tramcar, mounted on twin magnetic-lift rails, plunged
deeper and deeper into the gigantic headquarters installation.
      Aboard, Captain Gloval sat with arms folded across his chest and cap visor
pulled down over his eyes, as if asleep. He would have loved a meditative pipe
but knew how unpleasant that would have been for Lisa.
      Lisa shifted nervously on the padded passenger bench. "Will it take long
to reach the Council chambers?"
      Gloval lifted his visor. "Just a little longer. The shaft goes down almost
six miles." He didn't remark on his disdain for all this burrowing and hiding-
Earth's governing body skulking at the bottom of a hole in the ground like
frightened rabbits! When the Zentraedi were capable of blowing an entire planet
to particles!
      "By the way, that reminds me," he went on. "Have you heard anything about
this Grand Cannon?"
      Lisa's face clouded; the words sounded so ominous. "No, what is it?"
      "It is a huge Robotech weapon that's been under construction here for
almost a decade now."
      Gloval gestured to the illuminated schematic of the base that was
displayed by the tramcar's access doors. The elaborate details of the sprawling
underground complex were mostly represented in coded symbols for security's
sake; but the essential layout was in the shape of a gargantuan Y The blinking
light representing the tramcar was moving down one arm of the Y, heading for the
vertical shaft.
      "The Grand Cannon uses Earth's gravitational field as its main energy
source," he told her. "In fact, the shaft we're traveling in at this moment is
the barrel of the weapon."
      Lisa looked around uncomfortably. "You mean, if this base were attacked
right now and Command decided to fire the cannon, we'd be blown away?"
      Gloval chortled. "Well, I'd like to think they'd clear the barrel first."
      He knew she was astute enough to see the major disadvantage of the great
gun: Even with the Y arrangement and the titanic rotating gear, the Grand
Cannon's field of fire was very limited-and even United Earth Command hadn't
come up with a way to tilt and traverse the planet Earth to bring the weapon to
bear on inconvenient targets. Arrangements to overcome the problem were part of
the plan, of course, but...
      Gloval had been one of the loudest voices against the project; wars, he
maintained (with history on his side), aren't won by defense but rather by
offense-by an SDF-1 that could go out and confront the enemy, not by a Grand
Cannon in a hole in the ground.
      He had gone head to head with Lisa's own father during that argument,
taking the opposite side from a man who had been a valued friend and a comrade
in arms until then. It had been the beginning of a rift that had only widened
and deepened in the years since.
      It made him sad to reflect on those days gone by-they had saved each
others' lives...they were bonded by more than mere blood. Yet Admiral Hayes had
become an opponent, almost an enemy.
      Henry Gloval knew the way of the world and of highest-echelon politics; he
was as shrewd as anyone who played the game. But there was still something in
him, something bred in the bone, that found it bewildering and saddening that
there could be such a falling out between men who'd served together in war.
      I suppose it's just as they say, he thought. I'm a peasant at heart, and
there's no changing that.
      He shook off his brief distraction. There was an Isaac Singer story he'd
taken to heart-"The Spinoza of Market Street"? Perhaps; in any case, the point
was that the virtue lay in behaving in accordance with one's ideal, not
necessarily in being it.
      And one of Henry Gloval's ideals was a steadfastness in friendship. So he
asked Lisa pleasantly, "Your father never brought you down here before?"
      "A few times," Lisa answered, "but I was never allowed to come down the
main shaft. Now I understand why."
      "Yes, this Robotech project was top secret. Only a few outside officers
had access. It made the old-time Los Alamos reservation look like open house!"
He chuckled; there were fond memories of those days among the bitter.
      "And no civilian visitors," he finished, "not even an admiral's daughter."
      Lisa wore a puzzled look. "But then, why did they let Father in?"
      Gloval said staunchly, "Who else was there? He was the visionary. He
pushed for the creation of this complex when no one else thought it was
necessary."
      She looked around again, looked to the vast schematic on the wall. "My
father was responsible for all this? I didn't know that!"
      Gloval drew a deep breath. "Your father was always decisive." How could he
talk to her of friction and resentment? He couldn't.
      "When I was serving under him in the Global Civil War, a problem came up
about inadequate rations for the troops. When Admiral Hayes didn't get
satisfactory action from headquarters, he led our entire Combined Action Group
in a raid on the logistical depot. Camo face paint; real guerrilla stuff!
      "He personally sat on the log-command three-star general while we got
something to eat. There were a lot of brave and deserving men and women who had
their first real meal in a long time that night."
      Lisa was laughing heartily, one hand at the base of her throat. "My father
got away with that?"
      Gloval was laughing again. "It's true. The general thought sappers had
infiltrated the base, kept sending down orders for us to find them. There wasn't
a woman or a man in that entire unit who wouldn't have done anything, anything,
for your father, Lisa. Would've followed him to hell if he'd given us the word."
      Lisa was still laughing, shoulders shaking. But her laughter no longer had
anything to do with the story about her father. The sudden freedom from the SDF-
1, the astonishing size of headquarters base, the very emphatic and yet somehow
empty joy of being home again had cast a certain familiar pall over her. It was
strangely overwhelming; there was nothing she could do but laugh.
      Lisa Hayes had realized a long time before that a life in the military
didn't exactly make for happily-ever-after, particularly for a woman.
Nevertheless, there was a warmth of that moment, something between people who'd
served together, something no outsider could have ever shared.
      "It's good to hear you laugh again, Commander." Gloval smiled slowly. "I
think this is the first time I have heard you laugh since you escaped from the
enemy, no?"
      Lisa said, "Ahh," and "Umm," trying not to think of a particular VT pilot,
trying to keep the warmth and the laughter alive, doing her best not to be
vulnerable to desires and attractions and yet be open to Gloval's confessions. A
small part of her wondered if male subordinates of female flag-rank officers
went through this.
      "But I wonder if we'll feel much like laughing after this meeting with the
governing council," Gloval went on. "It's crucial that they be made to
understand that the aliens are only interested in the battle fortress and its
secrets, not in our world."
      Gloval tilted his cap forward on his brow again. "I hope you've thoroughly
prepared your arguments, Commander Hayes."
      Her chin came up; her eyes shone. "Ready to go, Captain," Lisa said,
managing a smile as she was reminded of the loneliness she felt.
      All her life, it had been so difficult for her to establish a relationship
with men her own age, even men in the military. But it was not surprising,
really; she had been surrounded by men like Gloval, men like her father. How
many men like that could there possibly be? One in a hundred thousand? In a
million?
      Hard to match, in any case.
      Gloval was saying, "Mm-hmm, that's good."
      Lisa replied, "I'm sure we'll be able to convince them. After all, we're
the only ones who've had close contact with the aliens!"
      Yes, Gloval reflected, it would seem so cut and dried to her; Lisa's
father was one of the most powerful people on Earth, but despite that-perhaps
because of that-Lisa herself was completely naive about political machinations.
      He knocked a bit of ash out of the bowl of his pipe and tamped down some
new tobacco, as was his habit when he was thinking. Just as he struck one of the
old-fashioned kitchen matches he so loved, a surveillance eye in the wall lit up
anti a feminine computer voice said, "ATTENTION! SMOKING IN THIS CAPSULE IS
FORBIDDEN! PLEASE EXTINGUISH ALL SMOKING MATERIALS IMMEDIATELY!"
      Gloval yanked his briar from his mouth guiltily. "Ah? Can't I smoke
anywhere? If it's not my bridge crew warning me, it's these machines!"
      Lisa was clearing her throat meaningfully. "Captain, are you worried about
the SDF-1? Sir, is something going to happen to us?"
      Gloval's aching conscience made him leap on the question, "Why do you
ask?"
      Lisa only smiled and said, "When something's bothering you, I've noticed,
you always pull out your pipe and make a big production about lighting it."
      Gloval lowered the pipe slowly and, not caring who might be listening on
some bugging device, said, "Hmmph! I must confess I'm very worried about this
meeting. I'm not sure these-" he made a gesture with his head to indicate his
disdain for anyone who would protect themselves underground while ordering brave
men and women to die "-not sure these men will listen to us with open minds. And
Lisa, it's vital to our future that they do so, do you understand?" Gloval
spread his broad, brown peasant's hands on his knees and looked down at them.
      Lisa nodded slowly. She was Admiral Hayes's daughter, used to having
people view her as an access road to the highest levels of decision; that was
one of the things that set Lisa Hayes so far apart from her contemporaries.
      She'd seen power politics in excelsis all her life, had sickened of them
and the unspeakable people drawn to them.
      After Karl Riber had died she felt she would never heal from that hurt.
But surely there were others out there, people who were kind and patient and
true? The image of Rick Hunter suddenly came to her. Though she refused to admit
it to herself, Rick Hunter had come to mean very much to her.
      "What will happen if we can't convince the Council?" she asked Gloval.
      He answered in a grim, level voice. "Then the Earth will go to war against
the aliens."
      Before, he had always spoken of triumph and the need to win; this time,
with only Lisa to hear his confession, Gloval mentioned nothing about that. Lisa
knew him well enough to know what that meant: Captain Gloval's estimation of the
human race's chances against the Zentraedi were very bleak indeed.
      The tramcar came to the bottom of the Y's arm and began the vertical
descent to the innermost chambers of the United Earth Defense Council.


CHAPTER ELEVEN
Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?
Early twentieth-century song title
"Minmei? Minmei, wake up; you're almost home."
      She stirred a little; it was a voice she liked, she knew, and it was a
message that was wonderful beyond compare. Minmei yawned charmingly against the
back of one hand, trying to stretch but restrained by something. Her head was
filled with the marvelous images and memories that the word "home" conjured up.
      Minmei opened her eyes, recalling that the restraint was the fanliner's
seat belt. Behind her, the steady vibration of the propfan engine drove them
along. "Look!" Rick said, pointing.
      "Mount Fuji!" she shrilled, happy beyond words. The mountain wore a crown
of snow despite the fact that it was midsummer-something that happened very
rarely. Minmei took it as a good omen and a welcome home.
      Rick cruised slowly past Fuji, giving Minmei a chance to look. Air traffic
was being rerouted to give him an unobstructed course; he wondered again what
secret deals had been struck just so Minmei could see her relatives and wondered
too how soon the Macross City survivors would lose patience with their
confinement.
      He banked the little aircraft, heading for Yokohama. Though he was happy
that Minmei would soon have the joy of reunion, he was despondent that their
time alone together was nearly half over. He tried to picture her family and how
they would react to their daughter's status as SDF-1 superstar.
      He trimmed the ship and shook his head. There are billions of people on
this planet. Why did I have to fall in love with public property?
      He took on a bit of altitude; the island chain lay beneath them like so
many gemstones.

      In the deepest vaults of the Alaskan base, Lisa Hayes and Henry Gloval sat
at a simple, unadorned desk in the middle of a vast hearing chamber. The walls
of the chamber were several dozen yards thick; though the pressures of the Earth
itself were enormous down there, the room itself was as comfortable, in terms of
temperature and air pressure, as any surface garden.
      There was a multimedia console, perhaps ten yards away, at the base of the
wall before them, and all around were display screens as big as billboards. Lisa
and Gloval were still arranging documents and papers on the table, preparing to
give their testimony.
      Though he said nothing about it and gave no outward sign, Lisa knew that
Captain Gloval was absolutely furious. He and his First Officer had been denied
the courtesy of a face-to-face meeting with Earth's governing body and had been
shown, instead, to this interrogation chamber.
      Lisa knew he didn't blame her, but she couldn't meet his eye. She knew
that her own father was one of those responsible for this shameful, cowardly
treatment.
      Suddenly all the screens came to life. There were a half dozen extremely
magnified faces glaring down Lisa and her captain. All the faces were male,
middle-aged to elderly, and all but two were in military uniform.
      It confirmed Gloval's worst misgivings. Lisa had to remind herself to
breathe. Military running the government? This wasn't what we were fighting for!
      Before her, on the center screen, was the towering face of her father.
      "Welcome home, Captain Gloval," said Admiral Hayes. "It's been a long time
since you reported in person."
      Gloval snapped his hand to his forehead in salute, and Lisa followed suit.
Others might forget their vows, their obligations; but the one thing that
sustained Gloval was the certainty that while he still lived he would never
renege on his sworn word. Even if it meant rendering military courtesies to men
he no longer respected.
      It was a code of conduct few outsiders could have understood; a samurai
maybe. Gloval had understood and willingly accepted his oath of allegiance to
the new United Earth Government, back when the alternative was racial
annihilation. He meant to live up to that oath just as long as he was able.
      So he rendered military courtesy crisply.
      "Yes, sir," replied Henry Gloval.
      The huge eyes of the projected image, as blue as Lisa's, turned to her.
"You too, Commander."
      "Yes, Admiral," she said quietly. She gave no outward sign that her heart
was breaking.
      After her mother's death, her father had been her only emotional mainstay,
until Karl Riber and, later, Claudia, Captain Gloval, and a very few others. And
now, Admiral Hayes didn't even deign to break formality. An embrace and a few
tears weren't military, perhaps, but she'd hoped for them; and, to be sure,
she'd come prepared with some of her own.
      But instead, the screen face said, "Good. Now, why don't you both have a
seat and we'll hear your report?"
      "Yes, sir." Lisa and Gloval cut their salutes away smartly, precise and
correct. They both sat while Lisa gathered her briefing data, then she stood
again. Gloval felt a sudden burn, since she would have to bear the brunt of
their inquiry. But the structure of the meeting was traditional and dictated by
custom: The First Officer made the presentation because the Captain was
sacrosanct and not subject to cross-examination outside of a court-martial.
      "We must know everything from the beginning," said a white-haired man with
a snowy handlebar moustache. He was a former political hack who had oiled his
way into a direct commission in the Judge Advocate General's office and made his
rise from there. Lisa took one look at the ribbons on his tunic and knew he had
never seen a single moment of combat.
      She had two decorations for courage under fire as well as numerous other
campaign ribbons and medals, but she bit her lip and said, "Of course, sir."
      Lisa arranged the papers in her hands and looked straight into the image
of her father's face. He didn't look away. All around her were august visages;
it was like being in an observatory with televisor screens running from floor to
ceiling apex.
      Lisa gazed at her father coldly.
      "This report presumes that everyone present is familiar with the details
of the situation up to the time of the Zentraedi's appearance in the solar
system. Supplementary reports will be made available to you."
      She glared at her father for a second, then went back to her report, happy
that Gloval was at her side but ashamed of her own family. She turned instead to
a commissioner whose face was displayed to her right, a man who looked like
Clark Kent in those ancient Superman comics.
      She cleared her throat, looked at the overbearing faces around her, and
suddenly felt strong; strong as only people with simple truth and dedication to
duty on their side can feel. She could stand up to any of them.
      "The following are the abbreviated details of the miscalculated spacefold
jump undertaken by the Super Dimensional Fortress One while under
unprecedentedly intense attack from hostile alien forces and its consequent
actions in returning to Terra."
      That was quite a mouthful, but Lisa took pride in how fascinated and
intimidated those enormous, concave faces looked.
      These were men who had used the emergency of the Zentraedi's appearance to
take control of Earth. Along the way they had evidently forgotten how terrible
and overwhelming the enemy was that currently prowled the dark beyond their tiny
planet.
      Lisa let herself feel a little vindictive; she figured they had it coming.
"At that time, the strength of the alien fleet was estimated at nearly one
million ships of a size three or more times larger than our Terran Armor class,"
she said with a certain relish.
      And before anybody could say anything, Lisa Hayes added, as she stared her
father in the eye, "That number has since increased and our best intelligence
evaluations indicate the Zentraedi committment to this war to be in excess of
two and a half million ships-of-the-line."
      Nobody said anything, but there was clearly a mental echo running round
the sad little rabbit hole of the United Earth rulers: TWO AND A HALF MILLION
SHIPS???!
      Chew on that! Lisa thought to herself as she went on to the next page,
watching out of one eye as the great and the mighty of Earth squirmed in their
seats.

      Yokohama was picture-postcard perfect under a blue sky dotted by slender
wisps of white cloud.
      Minmei tugged Rick along by the hand as they headed for her parents'
restaurant. She stopped in the middle of the esplanade, looking out at the
glittering ocean.
      "Just smell that beautiful sea air!" She drew in a great breath of it.
"Nothing smells as good as Yokohama!"
      She took her hands from the guardrail, went on full point, pirouetted, and
then did a few jets. "It makes me want to sing, and dance, and carry on!"
      Rick, trying not to feel like a secret agent but aware of his
responsibility, caught her by the upper arm. "Minmei, would you please stop
acting like this? Everybody's looking at you."
      Shaking off his grip, she spun on him, putting her face up to his
furiously. "Listen, I'm happy to be home, and if I feel like singing and
dancing, I will! Hmmph !"
      Rick was about to mention their obligation to the SDF-1 and the secrecy to
which they'd both been sworn for this mission, when Minmei spied a tall, slender
structure nearby.
      "Look! There's the New Yokohama Marine Tower!" she squealed, pointing down
the esplanade. She took on the reserved voice of the tour guides she'd heard so
often while she was growing up.
      "`When it was built, the New Marine Tower, which replaced the first, was
the tallest structure in the world; over twenty-eight hundred feet high! It's an
engineering masterpiece."'
      She did another jet. "It's the same age as me!"
      Rick's patience was fading. He doubted that the tower had very much longer
to live if its life expectancy was tied in to Minmei's.
      "It looks it," he commented.
      She thumped him hard on the chest with her fist. "Doesn't anything impress
you, Rick Hunter? I want you to like my city!"
      It was another one of Minmei's masterful emotional flip-flops: She won him
over again in a single moment, as he stared into those enormous blue eyes while
she tossed her head, sending ripples of light through her jet-dark hair.
      Does she know she has this effect, or is it all unconscious? he wondered.
He'd never dared ask the question.
      She had her hand in his. "I just know you're going to like my mother!
She's the nicest, friendliest woman in the whole world! Rick, I'm not kidding!"
      She tugged him along. "Come on!"
      Who am I to resist? he thought, yielding to the inevitable.
      A few minutes later, they came to a torii that spanned the street,
inscribed with ideographs. "Hey, this is the local Chinatown!" Rick remarked.
      Minmei shook her head in dismay; how could such a brilliant pilot be so
dumb about other things? "I know, silly. I'm Chinese; this is where I live. Come
on; let's go!"
      She grabbed his hand again and dragged him along, under the torii and into
Chinatown.
      People stared at them a bit, curious about the trim young man in the
circus flier's outfit and the enchanting young woman who seemed to radiate life
and exuberance. "Now, the grocery store is right over there," Minmei was saying,
"right next to the gift shop. And the bakery is still-Rick, have you ever tasted
mandarin root? Oh, and I'm so glad they haven't changed the street signs!"
      The signs were in the shape of smaller torii. "You haven't been gone that
long," he reminded her. What did she expect? Funeral bunting on every corner?
      "Right," she said, barely having heard him. "I hope my house is still the
same. Just a minute now..."
      He'd stopped as she slowed to a halt.
      "Look!" She was pointing to a building facade covered with ideographs and
intertwined symbols, gold on scarlet, with a very conspicuous dragon in the
midst of it. "We're here!"
      She turned to Rick excitedly, and he found himself returning her smile in
spite of himself. "It's the Golden Dragon, our restaurant, see? Just like the
White Dragon is Aunt Lena's in Macross!"
      "It's very nice," was all Rick could find to say.
      Minmei was close to tears of joy. "I hope everybody remembers my face."
      Rick sighed. "I keep trying to tell you, you haven't been gone that long!"
      "So? Maybe I've changed a lot." She struck a pose; he recognized it from
her glamour photos and feared the worst.
      Minmei gave a carefree laugh and went dashing into the Golden Dragon. With
no alternative, Rick followed after.
      "Chang! Chang!" she was shouting into the face of a startled and rather
nervous-looking Chinese gentleman dressed in a white waiter's tunic and matching
Nehru hat. "D' you recognize me? Look! Who am I?" She twirled before him.
      Chang, his eyes the size of poker chips, said something in a language Rick
didn't recognize and charged off into the kitchen, crying, "Look! Come look,
come look!"
      He was back in a moment, dragging a brown-haired, kind-faced woman whose
features bore a resemblance to Minmei's. "Chang, why are you shoving me? What in
the world-stop pushing-oh!"
      "Don't you recognize me, Mother?"
      She had spied Minmei and stopped, wordless-perhaps close to cardiac
arrest.
      "Does that mean you do?" Minmei smiled.
      "Minmei...we were sure you'd been killed!"
      "No; I'm home," she said brightly.
      Minmei's mother rushed over to throw her arms around her daughter, nearly
knocking her down. "I can't believe it! My darling little girl is home! She
wasn't taken from us!" She was racked with sobs.
      "Well, I was, really," Minmei said, pulled a little off balance by her
mother's tight embrace around her neck. "But they brought me back."
      Her mother suddenly had her at arm's length again. "Back from where? And
who's this?"
      "This is Rick Hunter, Mother. He's the boy who saved my life."
      Minmei's mother suddenly clasped Rick's hand, bowing over it solemnly,
again and again. "Thank you; thank you, son!"
      Rick scratched his head with his free hand, not knowing what to say. Among
other things, he wasn't at all sure he liked being referred to as a "boy"-
especially by the young woman he cared for so much.
      "Minmei! We thought you were dead!" A thick-bodied, angry-looking man had
appeared from the kitchen. He had dark eyes and hair as black as his daughter's.
      "How could you not contact us and let us know you were alive?" But even
though he was scowling, her father touched her face tenderly.
      Meanwhile, Rick was having some very troubling thoughts of his own. The G2
Security officers who had briefed him for this oddball mission had been very
emphatic that he not discuss any details of the situation on the SDF-1; even
Minmei had agreed to be circumspect about revealing any information about the
vessel or its mission.
      But these people behaved as if the ship had been lost with all hands even
though it had been back for over twenty-four hours now.
      Rick took the briefing officers' instructions to heart, deciding to say as
little as possible-and to see that Minmei did the same, though that promised to
be a chore-until he had a clearer idea of just what was going on here on Earth.


CHAPTER TWELVE
Gloval's ship and crew had been tested in the flame and come through. The
Robotechnology and the civilian refugees, likewise, had undergone a make-or-
break trial.
No one had foreseen that an even more severe strain was to be put on Gloval's
own oath of allegiance.
"The Second Front," History of the First Robotech War, Vol. LXVI.

The giant face of a council member looked down at Lisa as she set down her
briefing book, her summary complete.
      "That was a very comprehensive report, Commander Hayes," the Council
member, General Herbert, said. "But come now, don't you think you've
overestimated the enemy's strength by quite a lot?"
      Herbert disappeared, and the image of Marshal Zukav, silver-haired and
silver-mustached, took its place. "Yes, I can't help but wonder why these aliens
didn't destroy the battle fortress if they had such overwhelmingly superior
numbers."
      Lisa, who'd seated herself, came to her feet again. Gloval said nothing,
glaring up at the magnified faces around him, content to let his First Officer
draw out the Council's attitudes and arguments before he made his stand.
      "I've already stated what we believe to be their motives in my report."
      Herbert was back. "You expect us to accept that report as the truth?"
      Lisa growled, gritting her teeth, her hands bunching into fists, trying to
keep her temper.
      Then her father, Admiral Hayes, was staring down at her. "That will be
all, Commander; we've heard quite enough. You may resume your seat."
      "Admiral, I-"
      But Gloval was on his feet now, with a calming hand on her shoulder. She
held her peace.
      "Gentlemen," he addressed the Council, "what about the authorization for
the requests that were attached to that report?"
      Now Zukav glared down at him again. "The proposal to negotiate with the
enemy and the plans to relocate the Macross City survivors?"
      Herbert broke in, "We will discuss your requests in private session. You
and your First will stand by!" There was a loud comtone, and all screens went
blank, leaving Lisa and Gloval in a sudden silence in the dim, domed chamber.
      Lisa's fists were trembling. "Ohhhh! I can't believe they treated us like
this!"
      Gloval lowered himself into his chair, head thrown back, eyes closed. "I
do. I think we've lost the fight."
      "But-how can you know that already?"
      "There's something going on here that we don't know about, Lisa. Their
minds are made up."
      She gazed around at the darkened screens. "I wonder what they're planning
to do with us?"

      Minmei's father slammed his fist on the table, making the teacups jump.
"No! You're not going!"
      "That's right!" her mother added. "After more than a year we finally
discover that you're not dead; how can you think we'd let you leave?"
      "To go entertain troops on some warship." Her father sneered.
      Minmei was on her feet, hands on hips. "Hah! Is that what you think I'm
doing?" She stamped one little foot. "I'm not just some run-of-the-mill USO
singer, you know! I'm an important person back there!"
      Her father shouted, "Well, you're not back there! You're here, and I'm not
letting you return, and that's that!"
      She threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut, shaking her fists. "No-o-o-
o!" Then she went on. "I've got to go back! I'm doing a TV show, I've got a
record coming out, and I'm going to be starring in a film! Isn't that right,
Rick?"
      Rick was completely taken by surprise at the sudden shift of focus to him.
"Uh, um-"
      "Ridiculous! Your family comes first!" her father barked.
      Rick was wondering about that, too. When he and Minmei were stranded, she
had talked at length about all the love and mutual support there was in her
family. It looked like a little celebrity could change a for of things.
      "I want to be a movie star!" she pouted, stamping both feet this time,
just as her cousin Jason did when he threw a tantrum.
      Her mother was weeping into a snow-white napkin. "How could you hurt us
like this? You know we've always counted on you to get married and take over the
Golden Dragon and run it with your husband."
      Married? Run the restaurant? Those were new wrinkles! Rick suddenly felt a
little queasy at the very thought of giving up flying, even for Minmei. Maybe
they weren't destined for each other, after all.
      "What about you, young man?" her father snapped. "What d' you think about
all this hogwash, eh?"
      "Huh? That is-well-"
      Minmei was furious. "I don't see why you're asking him! His opinion
doesn't count here! I'm the one making the decision! It's my life, and I'm going
back to the ship; I can't turn my back on thousands of loyal fans and all the
people I work with!"
      Her mother sniffed and said, "But you're turning your back on us."
      Score one for Mom, Rick thought; that shot had hit home, stopping Minmei
in her tracks, at least for the moment.
      But just when she might have yielded, a new voice interrupted. "Hey,
what's all the screaming about down here? I can't even concentrate on my
studies-hey! Minmei!"
      He was about Rick's age or a little older, tall, with straight hair as
black as Minmei's that fell past his shoulders. He'd stepped down out of the
stairway-a slim, athletic-looking fellow, handsome but somehow sullen. Still,
his face lit up when he saw her.
      She flew to him, hugging herself to him. "Kyle! Oh, I can't believe it!
You're here! I thought I'd never see you again!"
      He laughed and held her close.
      She spoke in a flurry. "We thought you died on Macross! We never found you
in the shelters, or later on the SDF-1, so your parents and I assumed-"
      He shrugged. "After my father kicked me out of the house for being in the
peace movement, I figured it wasn't such a good idea to stick around a military
town. So I left the day before Launching Day."
      Rick was looking at him jealously. Kyle had a sort of inner balance, a
calmness-unflappable and very self-possessed.
      "When I tried to get in touch with you," he was telling Minmei, "they told
me that everything on the island had been destroyed and that it was off limits
for good. Radioactive or something." His face clouded with the memory, a
sensitive and strong face.
      "It was terrible." She nodded sadly.
      He took her shoulders. "Well, I'm glad you're here; I'm glad somebody
survived."
      "Oh, but your mom and dad are doing just fine, running the White Dragon!"
      "What?" His grip tightened on her shoulders for a moment, powerful fingers
digging in until he realized what he was doing and eased off. "They're alive?"
      She gave him a smile warm as a hearth fire. "Sure, silly; they're on the
ship."
      "Ship? What're you taking about?"
      She tched and explained, "The spaceship."
      "You mean you didn't know?" Rick asked, wondering just how much covering
up he was going to have to do.
      Kyle was shaking his head happily, baffled but laughing. "No."
      "Most of us survived, even though we lost a lot of people," Minmei told
him. "This is Lieutenant Rick Hunter; he's one of the fighter pilots from the
ship."
      Kyle said, "Oh. Hello." It sounded like he was greeting the lowest known
life form.
      Rick rose anyway, trying to be polite. "Hi."
      "Rick," Minmei gushed, "this is my cousin Lynn-Kyle; he's been like a
brother to me. Kyle, Rick is the one who saved my life."
      "It was a privilege." Rick shrugged.
      Kyle's expression was full of anger and resentment. "I thought soldiers
were expected to aid civilians in times of emergency."
      Rick cocked his head to one side, trying to figure out what Kyle's beef
was. "Hmmm."
      "But we appreciate your efforts, anyway," Kyle told him with a frown.
      Minmei slipped an arm through Kyle's elbow. "No, no: When Rick saved my
life, he hadn't become a soldier yet."
      Kyle was looking him up and down with narrowed eyes. "So you decided to
join up later, eh?"
      Minmei's mother and father were watching the whole exchange without
interfering; Rick wondered just what he'd gotten into the middle of. "That's
right."
      Kyle held his chin high, gazing down his nose at Rick. "What d' you
think's so good about the military?"
      Rick showed his teeth in a snarling smile. "Free bullets, free food...and
it sure beats working for a living."

      "It's getting late," Gloval said grimly just as a comtone sounded.
      Hours had gone by. In the interview chamber at the bottom of the Alaskan
base, the screens flashed to life again. Gloval and Lisa looked up expectantly,
wondering what the result of the deliberation was. The wall clock read nearly
midnight.
      General Herbert gazed down at them. "Captain, Commander-sorry to keep you
waiting." He didn't sound sorry at all. "The Council has been going over your
report, and we have found most of it to be accurate."
      "And what about my requests?"
      "Captain Gloval, all negotiations with the aliens for an end to
hostilities are flatly rejected."
      Gloval spat, "You think we can win against a force like that?"
      "We don't know whether we can win or not. The point is, we don't
understand the invaders' thinking. We scarcely understand their Robotechnology.
How can we begin peace talks with them?"
      Gloval was about to interrupt, but Herbert pushed on. "We have no way of
knowing if they would participate in good faith or simply ignore any treaty
commitments and attack again when it suited them."
      "But-you must realize-" Gloval began.
      Then Admiral Hayes's image was front and center. "Captain, we think our
Grand Cannon will protect us as long as we stay prepared and alert. We will not
negotiate away that advantage."
      "Very well," Gloval snapped. "I understand, sir. But what about resettling
the fifty thousand or so Macross survivors?"
      Herbert fielded that one, seeming irked that he would even ask the
question. "They've all been declared dead, so having them leave the SDF-1 is out
of the question, Gloval."
      Gloval shook his head slowly. "I don't understand."
      Lisa shot to her feet. "Just what is it you're saying?"
      Herbert's answer was acid. "Do you think we made an official announcement
that we're at war with aliens? Why, there would have been worldwide panic and
probable insurrection by the peace factions!"
      "They'd have been screaming for immediate unconditional surrender,"
another Council member, Commissioner Blaine of US-Western, added.
      Admiral Hayes's image held the center spot again. "We invoked a strict
media blackout from the day the SDF-1 disappeared, using the excuse that a
guerrilla force of anti-unification terrorists had attacked Macross Island and
destroyed it after the ship left on its maiden test flight. Now, how could we
let the tens of thousands of Macross inhabitants who know what a tremendous
threat we face return to Earth?"
      "It's impossible!" Zukav threw in. "The government would be overthrown!"
      Are they crazy or am I? Gloval asked himself.
      For ten years, throughout the rebuilding of SDF-1, the world government
had used the threat of alien invasion to justify their staggering defense
budgets and its own ever-expanding influence.
      But when the Zentraedi finally appeared with power so far beyond anything
humans had envisioned (except for a few hardheaded realists like Gloval), the
Council had, in effect, become completely paranoid: They lied to the populace,
hid in a hole in the ground, and simply prayed the menace would go away.
      All for the sake of their political power base, all so that they could
rule a little longer.
      Gloval's voice rose a few decibels. "We're going to have a riot on our
hands if we don't allow those people to get off the ship! They've been through a
lot and endured it gallantly, but now they're safely back home and their
patience is wearing thin!"
      Herbert answered that. "Keeping them under control is your responsibility.
And anyway, if, as you stated in your report, the aliens are so curious about
our customs, then carrying an entire city within the SDF-1 should ensure that
their attention is focused on it, don't you think?"
      "It's crucial that you draw the enemy forces away from this planet!"
Kinsolving, a bloodless-looking man with eyes like glass pellets, said from one
side.
      "At what price?" Gloval roared.
      He felt very close to surrendering to his rage-perhaps going back to the
SDF-1 and launching a little revolution of his own.
      But he knew he wouldn't, knew he couldn't fire on innocent men and women
who believed the Council's lies and who would rise to oppose him-knew he
couldn't break the oath of allegiance he'd sworn.
      He'd seen enough civil war; he knew he couldn't start another.
      Admiral Hayes was saying, "Captain, we're not insensitive to your
situation, but we must have time to strengthen our defenses and increase our
knowledge of Robotechnology. And you're the only one who can give it to us."
      Lisa cried, "Father, this is too much to ask of all those civilians!"
      Hayes's huge projected face glared down at her icily. "Commander Hayes, we
may be father and daughter, but during these proceedings I expect to be
addressed by my rank, is that understood?"
      "Yes, sir," she spit out the words.
      "And what if the aliens decide not to follow the battle fortress?" Gloval
posed the question. "What if they at tack the Earth instead? You can fire your
Grand Cannon until you broil away the planet's atmosphere and make the
surrounding land mass run molten, but you still won't be able to destroy all
those ships!"
      Hayes answered, "Your own analysis indicates that that's highly unlikely;
the invaders are interested in your ship. You will receive your sailing orders
in the morning. That is all."
      Again the screens went blank.
      Gloval picked up his hat tiredly. I guess that's the end of that.
      "Captain, how are we ever going to be able to explain this to the people
on the ship? Not just the survivors; the crew-they've been in constant combat
for more than a year!"
      Gloval had no answer. In the corridor outside, he asked, "Lisa, wouldn't
you like to spend some time with your father while you're here? As family, I
mean? I can authorize a brief leave..."
      They came to an elevator to begin the long trip back to the surface. Lisa
kept her eyes lowered to the floor. "No, sir. I have no particular interest in
seeing him right now."
      "I understand, my dear," said Gloval as the elevator doors closed.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The patterns of behavior observed so far indicate that either all these humans
are demented or else the three of us suffered head injuries upon first landing
here.
Preliminary observation of the Zentraedi spies Rico, Bron, and Konda

"I really don't think this is getting us anywhere," Lynn-Kyle said in his soft,
reasonable voice.
      Hours of argument had gone by, but the five-Minmei and her parents, Rick,
and Lynn-Kyle-were still gathered around the table. "Minmei's made her
decision," Kyle went on, "so why don't you let her go?"
      Minmei clapped her hands, eyes dancing. "Oh, Kyle, you're wonderful! I
knew you'd say that!"
      "Just a minute!" Minmei's father said angrily.
      His wife was quick to head off the brewing confrontation with Kyle and
keep the debate on track. "You're the last one we'd expect to send Minmei away
from her home, Kyle."
      "Especially with no one to watch over her," the father added. Rick almost
said something about that: Listen, I saved her from fifty-foot-tall aliens and
death by starvation and thirst! What d' ya call that, a passing interest?
      But it didn't seem like the time.
      "I thought I would go with her," Kyle said casually, "and live with my
folks."
      Minmei was ecstatic. "Hurray, Lynn-Kyle! I knew you'd find some way to
come to my rescue!"
      Rick made a bored sound.
      "Well, I guess that's all right," Lynn-Jan said slowly, deciding it might
be for the best to let his daughter get this foolishness out of her system. His
wife, Lynn-Xian, looked relieved, saying, "It would make me feel a lot better."
      "No problem," Kyle said with a charming smile. "It's just temporary,
anyway."

      The transport hurtled through the frigid night air, bound for the SDF-1. A
full squadron of fighters was flying escort around it.
      Gloval knew now that it was no longer a matter of honor; he wouldn't be
given the chance to divert or disobey orders now that the Council had made its
decision.
      Lisa, sitting. in the window seat, opened an envelope that one of her
father's aides had given to her. She read:

My dearest Lisa,
      I know that you're angry about my decision regarding the SDF-1, but it was
unavoidable under
the circumstances. I want you to try to understand and realize I'm concerned
about your welfare. The battle fortress is a very dangerous place, and I'm
working on getting you reassigned to another ship, or possibly here to
headquarters, before it's ordered to move out into space once more-

     Without finishing the note, she tore it into tiny tittle pieces.

      From another direction, the speedy little fanliner cut the sky, bound for
the ship. It was handling a little less nimbly than before; Lynn-Kyle was seated
in the back with Minmei in his lap.
      "You mean to say you don't have any girlfriends?" she was asking him
coquettishly, batting those big blue eyes.
      He looked at her fondly, but he seemed to be one of the few people immune
to her manipulation. "Well, I've been traveling around so much, I haven't had
time."
      "If you did have a girlfriend, I'd probably be jealous."
      He chuckled. "What d' you have in mind? You want me to stay single
forever?"
      "Well, not exactly," she said slyly.
      It sounded like a game they'd played often, Rick thought. "Then what do
you want?" Kyle coaxed.
      She knuckled his shoulders, giggling. "Oh, nothing; I'm just teasing."
      Rick lost patience with all the cuteness; he couldn't take any more of it.
"Hey! It's hard enough to fly this crate, overloaded like this, without all that
jabbering back there! How about buttoning up until we land?"
      He was also bothered by the idea that he might have exceeded orders. There
were no provisions for him to bring an outsider aboard the SDF-1; but, on the
other hand, the briefing officers were very emphatic that Minmei was important
to the war effort and must be returned, and Minmei couldn't come back without
Kyle, so...
      Minmei was giggling again. "That boy's always kidding," she confided to
Kyle.
      That tears it! "Guess again," he told her. "It's no joke!"
      He banked sharply; Minmei let out a squeal and clung closer to Kyle. Rick
poured on the speed, impatient to be rid of the two of them.
      Lynn-Kyle held his cousin close and smiled triumphantly.

      "That's not fair!" Kim Young cried, hearing Gloval's heartbreaking news.
      "It's like we're prisoners here!" Sammie added.
      Gloval stood his ground, unmoving, betraying no emotion. He'd thought it
best to let his trusted bridge crew in on the news first, in the privacy of the
bridge; they were the ones who would form the core of what he was coming to
think of as his crisis-management team, helping him ensure that things didn't
fall apart aboard SDF-1. They had to be given time to get over the shock before
they could help the entire ship's population cope with it.
      Claudia was the first one to get things in perspective. "Orders are
orders, even if there are a lot of idiots at central headquarters who have no
idea what they're doing!"
      Lisa nodded to herself; she knew that was the kind of woman and officer
Claudia was.
      Still, Sammie insisted, "But there must be something you can do, Captain.
Please tell us you're not going to accept this quietly. You will change their
minds, won't you?"
      "Won't you, Captain?" Kim added pleadingly.
      Gloval cleared his throat in the way he did when he'd heard enough and
expected to be obeyed. "Your lack of discipline is only compounding the problem,
so get back to your duty stations immediately. I appreciate your concern, but
right now I have to begin deciding how to break the news to the Macross
survivors and the rest of the crew."
      He stood up from his chair, brushing past them. "You will excuse me."
      Shifting her glasses nervously, Vanessa couldn't help calling a last
desperate objection after him. "Captain, can't you-"
      Gloval cut her off stiffly. "That will be all, Vanessa."
      "Yes, sir," she said contritely.
      "Try to understand," Gloval said softly over his shoulder to them just
before the hatch closed.
      Vanessa removed her glasses to wipe away a tear of anger. "But-it's not
fair!"
      "That's absolutely true," Lisa said, speaking up for the first time. "But
you can't blame the captain for something headquarters did. Everybody has a
right to gripe, but you should at least be mad at the right people."
      "Okay, okay-the captain needs our support, right?" Claudia said soberly.
      "Yes. He knows he can't possibly succeed without it," Lisa answered.
      The bridge hatch opened, and the relief watch started filing in. Kim let
her breath go with a rasp. "All this talk isn't going to change anything, and
I'm hungry," she declared, careful to mention nothing specific in the outsiders'
presence.
      Sammie took the cue. "Let's go into town and eat lunch!"
      Vanessa nodded energetically. "Yeah, let's go down to the White Dragon;
I'm starving."
      At the White Dragon, the front doors slid aside. Minmei's aunt Lena
quickly went to greet the first customers of the lunch rush, bowing hospitably.
The restaurant was braced for a busy day; people were boisterous, in a mood to
continue their celebrating even though a lot of them were getting restless and
edgy with the delay in disembarkation.
      It didn't disturb her husband Max very much; "People will always have to
eat," was his motto. But Lena knew a certain sadness. In spite of the dreadful
things the SDF-1 and Macross had gone through, the rebuilt restaurant held a
wealth of happy memories.
      "Welcome," she said, "welc-oh !"
      A ghost had come through the door, surrounded by a cloud of brilliance
from the brighter EVE "sunlight."
      Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, Kyle, is it really you?"
      He took a step closer. In the well-remembered, soft, clear voice, he said
gently, "Yes, Mother; I'm home. And I've missed you very much."
      Dimly, she was aware of the traffic passing by on the street outside and
of Minmei and Rick Hunter waiting a few paces back. Minmei was barely keeping
herself from weeping. Rick was straightfaced, showing no emotion; but he envied
the Lynn family their connectedness and their warmth, Minmei's tantrums
notwithstanding.
      When he thought about it, Rick realized that the closest thing he had to
family was Roy Fokker and-to a slightly lesser extent-his wingmen, Max and Ben.
So Rick endeavored not to think of it.
      Lena walked haltingly to her son. "Kyle, is this a dream? I can hardly
believe my eyes! Oh, my baby!" She cupped his face in her hands.
      "No, it's not a dream, Mother; it's me."
      Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I've missed you so." Lena threw herself
into his arms.
      "Gee," Minmei said, wiping away moisture from her eyes. "I'm so happy, I'm
gonna cry."
      Lena truly noticed Rick and her niece for the first time. "Oh, dear! This
is no way to welcome you two home!"
      Minmei was snuffling and sobbing openly now. "Aw, don't worry about us,"
Rick said.
      Lena said, "Now, now; come in!" She kept her hold on her son's shoulders
as he took another step into the White Dragon. Minmei had assured him that in
virtually every detail it was an exact duplicate of the old place, the one that
had been destroyed on Macross Island. But this was astounding!
      There was a clatter of bowls and a rattle of chopsticks over by the pickup
counter. Lynn-Kyle essayed another of his gentle smiles. "Father. I've missed
you, too. You're looking well."
      Max snorted gruffly, looking the boy over. Gathering the last of the bowls
with an irritated grunt, he vanished back into the kitchen.
      Lena went to plead with him. "Now, dear! Please don't be so-"
      But Kyle had caught her wrist, pulling her back. "Mother, don't get upset,
I beg you. Father's always been that way around me, you know that."
      Washing up the last of the dishes, Max scarcely knew what he was doing;
his mind was far away, on the years and the rift between himself and his son. "I
always knew he'd come back," he muttered to himself, words drowned out by the
jetting water and the other sounds of the kitchen. "No alien sneak attack
could've killed him."
      He had to stop, to dry his eyes and blow his nose. "What else could I
think? He is my son."
      And he couldn't help but surrender to the proud smile he'd kept hidden.

      The three Zentraedi spies crouched before the display window of a sushi
and tempura shop not far away, gazing hungrily at the appetizing dishes there.
Their mouths watered, and their jaws ached with hunger. Rico's face and hands
were pressed flat against the glass.
      "So d' you suppose that stuff is food?" Konda asked aloud.
      Bron had a hypnotized grin on his face, eyes never leaving the display.
"Mmm, well, something sure smells good here, and I'm getting pretty hungry."
      The tiny supply of concentrate capsules they'd brought with them was long
gone, and they hadn't eaten since the free food at the party on Daedalus's
flight deck the day before.
      The other two made ravenous sounds of agreement. Thus far, they hadn't
been able to figure out how to requisition food on the SDF-1; Macross City was
filled with an astounding variety of things, all of which seemed to change hands
through a system based on pieces of paper.
      But how to get the paper? The humans' system of distribution and ration
allocation seemed the maddest thing of all about their society.
      The three took a few steps back to stare in fascination at the window and
consider their problem. "So who's goin' in to get our rations?" Konda posed the
question.
      "That's easy," replied Bron, hitching his belt up. "I'll go."
      "No, I'll go!" Rico insisted. Before the other two could raise the
question of tactics, the smallest spy backed up a few steps and, with a running
start, slammed his shoulder into the plate glass.
      The glass heaved and shattered, pieces of it raining down inside the
display case and out on the sidewalk. By some chance, Rico wasn't hurt at all.
      The owner, a sturdy-looking woman in her forties wearing flat slippers and
an apron over her working clothes, came charging out onto the sidewalk. She held
a heavy, long-handled ladle in one formidable-looking fist.
      "Hey, what's going on out here-Oh!" She watched dumbfounded as Rico,
squatting on his haunches, claimed his right as winner of the food and had the
first portion. Konda and Bron were looking on avidly.
      But Rico spit out the stuff that was in his mouth and spit again, making
horrible faces. "Inedible! Plaugh!"
      She shook her ladle at him. "What's wrong with you? Of course it's not
food. Don't you know the difference between real food and a plastic window
display?"
      She took a step toward him, and Rico fell over backward on the seat of his
pants, intimidated by the implement she held-from the confidence she showed, it
was obviously a lethal weapon, perhaps a Robotech device. Konda and Bron skipped
back, ready to do battle but more inclined to run from such a fearsome opponent.
      She set her hands on her hips, looking down at Rico, who waited miserably
to be set upon and wounded or killed. But she said, "If you're trying to eat
that, I guess you really must be hungry."
      She'd thought that arrangements for feeding everyone in the SDF-1 had
missed nothing, but perhaps these three loonies were a special case-incapable of
coping with even the least contact with bureaucracy. There were always going to
be those who fell through the social safety net, she decided, even on the SDF-1.
      She wasn't the kind to let people go hungry, and what's more, she was
filled with the joy of the return to Earth and the promised end to her
hardships. She pointed to the door of her restaurant.
      "C'mon inside, you three, and I'll fix you something to eat. And I mean
real food!"
      She went inside, and the three spies looked at one another.
      "She's going to give us food? Just like that?" Bron said blankly. "Just
because she sees we're hungry?"
      "How can a chaotic system like this possibly function?" Konda wondered,
rubbing his jaw.
      "I don't care, just as long as it functions for another half hour or so!"
proclaimed Rico, scrambling to his feet.
      It was insane, against all logic. And yet, knowing how it felt to be very,
very hungry and have someone act toward them in this absurd but very welcome
manner, they had to admit that there was something about it-something admirable.
Something that struck a chord deep within them.
      It was completely unlike the Zentraedi; it even smacked of a kind of
weakness. But it stirred up new and confusing response patterns.
      "Hey, wait for us!" Rico yelped, scuttling along after her. Konda and Bron
crowded each other for second place.


CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In recent years, Karl Riber hadn't come so often to mind-not more than once or
twice a day, sometimes.
Occasionally, I wonder why I stayed in the service, since it was war that took
us apart, war that had made peace-loving Karl volunteer for duty on the Mars
Sara Base, that got him killed in that raid.
I was only a teenager, and a rather young one, when he left. When he died, I
thought someday the pain would go away, the years would wear it out. I know
better now.
Lisa Hayes, Recollections

Lisa and her watchmates showed up at the White Dragon with Max Sterling bringing
up the rear. Max knew that Rick claimed to dislike them, especially Commander
Hayes; but Max didn't share his feelings.
      He even suspected that Rick protested too much, was too loud in his
denunciation of Lisa; Max had seen them together and knew there was more there
than met the eye, more than either of them was willing to admit. But far be it
from the self-effacing Max Sterling to make any comment.
      As for Kim, Sammie, and Vanessa-the ones Rick had dubbed the "bridge
bunnies"-Max was delighted to have their company. He thought it good luck to
have run into them and been invited along and figured any VT jock who wouldn't
jump at the chance to have four good-looking women for company ought to report
immediately for a long talk with the flight surgeon.
      "Looks kind of crowded, doesn't it?" Kim was saying, just as they realized
someone was signaling them. He had a big roundtop all to himself, the only
unoccupied table in the place. The bridge bunnies thought it was a sign from
providence, and Lisa made no objection to joining him.
      "Talk about a case of perfect timing," Rick said as Max ran around trying
to hold all the women's chairs at once. "Minmei's long-lost cousin Kyle was in
Yokohama. And she wouldn't come back without him."
      Lisa's face clouded with disapproval. She knew Rick's orders, and bringing
an outsider was tantamount to disobedience. Still, if that was the only way Miss
Macross would rejoin the ship, Rick had probably done the right thing, she
admitted, even though she couldn't see why the staff people-especially the
civilian affairs and morale officers-were so determined that the girl be catered
to.
      Besides, she knew from her visit to the Alaskan base that there would be
no leak of information about the SDF-1's return or Minmei's visit, not even from
Minmei's parents. The damned Council gestapo would apply pressure to make sure
of that.
      "So it's a big reunion," Rick was grousing. "Everybody in the neighborhood
came in to see him."
      "Gee! What a hunk!" Sammie gushed.
      Her two cohorts were quick to agree, sounding as if they were about to
swoon. Lisa looked over to where Kyle stood with Minmei and his mother, greeting
people and exchanging pleasantries with that gentle reserve of his.
      Lisa gasped. He-he reminds me so of Karl!
      Gentle, peace-loving Karl, her one and only love, gone forever.
      The Terrible Trio were into their act. "Kim, you shouldn't stare; not so
hard!" Sammie giggled.
      Kim sniggered back, "Oh, sure! And I suppose you saw him first?" Sammie
dissolved in laughter.
      Max seated himself, tossing a forelock of long blue hair out of his eyes,
and polished his glasses on his napkin. Vanessa asked Rick, "What did you say
her cousin's name was again?"
      "I think I said Kyle," Rick grunted.
      The Terrible Trio had practiced enough to say it as one, so that everybody
in the place could hear: "OH! WELL, HE'S SURE GOOD-LOOKING, ISN'T HE?"
      Maybe "bridge bunnies" isn't such a bad name for them, after all, Max
mused, putting his glasses back on and taking another look at this Lynn-Kyle.
      "Gee, Minmei looks so happy," Kim sighed.
      Rick had something sour to say on the subject, but at that moment Mayor
Tommy Luan sauntered up to the table, his usual effervescent self.
      "Well, well, well, Rick, m' boy! So these are some of your friends, eh?
Why don't you introduce me to the ladies, hmm?"
      Rick wondered if there was ever a time when Tommy Luan wasn't campaigning.
But before he could comply, Minmei's cousin was there, with Minmei trailing
behind like a faithful pet.
      "Hello, Mr. Mayor; glad to have you back on Earth. I'd like to introduce
myself: My name is Lynn-Kyle. Welcome to my family's restaurant."
      Minmei, clinging to his arm, added, "Hi!"
      Rick heard a little sound escape Lisa and saw that something about Kyle
made her very distraught. The Terrible Trio fell all over one another greeting
Kyle, and Max mumbled some adequate response.
      The mayor said heartily, "Well, Kyle, even if you don't like the army,
you'll have to admit there are some lovely ladies in the military!"
      Lisa gasped. He even had the same convictions as Karl!
      "Oh, uh, did I say something perhaps I shouldn't have?" Tommy Luan asked
with elaborate innocence. "Well, young people should get to know one another."
He sauntered off. "'Scuse me."
      Max had the distinct impression that the mayor was wearing a satisfied
smirk-as though he'd succeeded at something. But what?
      "Was the mayor implying you have something against the service?" Sammie
piped up.
      Kyle shook his head, the long, straight midnight hair shimmering. "It's
not just the military. I don't like fighting of any kind."
      Sammie rested her chin on her hands and batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh,
really?" For a guy this dreamy, she'd have sat happily listening to him do
Zentraedi halftime cheers. Minmei gave Sammie a suspicious scowl.
      "Fighting produces nothing!" Kyle declared. "It only results in
devastation and destruction!"
      Max was studying Kyle with an unusual directness. "Are you saying that
everyone in the service enjoys destroying things?"
      Rick couldn't help jumping in, even if it offended Minmei. Maybe even
because it would. "Well, I didn't join the Robotech Defense Forces because I
like devastation and destruction."
      Divine as Lynn-Kyle might be, even the Terrible Trio had to nod and murmur
their agreement with that. Minmei intervened, afraid that things were about to
get out of control.
      "Hey, relax, everybody! We're celebrating Kyle's return, after all. I've
got it: They're broadcasting that show I taped yesterday. What about turning on
the television?"
      That met with general acclaim; if Minmei was the darling and idol of the
SDF-1, she was an empress among her friends and neighbors. In another moment the
sixfoot screen showed her in the center of the spotlights, microphone in hand-
not that the sound crew couldn't have used directionals, but she preferred it as
a prop. She wore a stunning new Kirstin Hammersjald creation.
      The crowd in the White Dragon was cheering and stomping and whistling, as
was the crowd in the taping studio. Rick strained to catch a little of the song:

     I spend the days alone,
     Chasing a dream-

      All at once the entertainment special disappeared in an avalanche of
zigzag static, to be replaced by Colton Van Fortespiel.
      Everyone in the SDF-1 knew Van Fortespiel, the SDF Broadcasting System's
supervising announcer and the only TV anchorman on record to wear dark
wraparound sunglasses on camera. His appearance sent a signal of fear through
the room; unscheduled announcements of this sort usually spelled trouble for the
dimensional fortress.
      For this reason, and the sunglasses, Van Fortespiel was sometimes called
the Boogieman. The Boogieman was wearing earphones today, too, and speaking into
a jumble of mikes that took his voice over the various sound-only circuits,
intership comlines, and alternative TV channels.
      "We interrupt our regular programming for this very important news
bulletin."
      The White Dragon resounded with angry resentment. The crowd had felt at
home, safe, and had been eagerly watching Minmei; the people wanted no part of
any more disaster reports. They were yelling for Minmei's show to be resumed.
      "At a news conference moments ago," the Boogieman continued, "Captain
Henry Gloval disclosed to the press that permission for any survivors to leave
Macross has been denied."
      There was a moment of stunned silence as Van Fortespiel shifted his sheets
of copy, until a grandmotherly woman howled, "What does he mean," `denied'? Does
that mean we're stuck here? For how long?"
      Others were raising objections, too, but most were shushing them to hear
what else the Boogieman had to say.
      "Rumors circulating throughout the ship's upper echelons today indicate
that this prohibition may only be temporary."
      A man in a brown sport coat shook his fist at the screen and hollered, "We
finally make it back to Earth and now they're telling us we have to stay aboard
this junk heap?"
      A redhaired woman, holding a frightened little girl who wore an RDF
insignia on her rompers, wailed, "How much more do they think we can endure?
When will all this ever come to an end?"
      There were plenty of angry voices to second that. "Yeah; we demand an
explanation!" bellowed a guy in a black T-shirt.
      But the Boogieman was already returning them to their normally scheduled
programming. In another second, Minmei, smiling winsomely in the spotlights, was
finishing.

     -here by my side!

...and taking a bow. The crowd in the restaurant didn't spare her a clap or a
whistle.
      Kim murmured, "They spent all that time and this was the best announcement
they could come up with to break the news?"
      Max and Rick traded puzzled, worried looks: What's she talking about?
      Sammie gulped. "Look, they're not taking it very well. I sure hope this
doesn't turn into an all-out rebellion!"
      The man in the brown coat said, "Hey, look; we've got those military
officers right over there! I say let's get some kind of explanation out of 'em!"
      A number of the men there went along with the idea, and in a moment the
five RDF members seated at the table found themselves surrounded.
      The brown sport coat shook a fist in Rick's face. "C'mon, Lieutenant! Tell
us what's goin' on!"
      Rick sputtered and stammered, as surprised as anyone. "Well, uh, I guess I
don't really know..."
      "Stop this!" Lisa snapped. "Stop it right now! How dare you treat us this
way? We risked our lives-and plenty of us died!-to get you back here safely!"
      Some of the crowd paused at that, but the man in the brown sport coat and
a number of others weren't buying it.
      "What d' ya want, gratitude?" He sneered. "When we lost everything we had
because of your SDF-1? And now you're making us prisoners here?"
      He slammed his fist on the table; the Terrible Trio jumped, startled and
frightened. "Well? I want a straight answer!"
      Lisa tried again, more calmly. "Please, it's just a temporary measure.
Just give us-"
      He cut her off. "For what, more of the same old promises? We're tired of
lies! We're tired of being held here like convicts! Now we take matters into our
own hands!"
      Whoever the brown sport coat was, he was a rabblerouser of considerable
talent. He had almost all the men and quite a few of the women with him, talking
about justice and fighting for their rights. And for Lisa the agonizing thing
was that she knew that there was a lot to justify their reaction and that her
father had been one of those chiefly responsible for doing this to the Macross
survivors.
      Some loudmouth was yelling, "Why don't we show 'em we mean business? Let's
take these punks and force 'em to get us off this ship!"
      Lisa stood, gathering the others in by eye. "Let's go."
      A broken-toothed man clapped a big paw on her shoulder. "Hold it!"
      She tried to stare him down. "You'd better let me go." He shook her.
"Siddown!"
      But a hand closed on his shoulder. "Okay, that's enough."
      It was Max Sterling. Rick, halfway out of his chair to help Lisa, did a
bit of a double take. Max had been sitting beside him a moment before. What'd he
do, teleport over there?
      Max's voice was still mild, but his face showed a certain intensity Rick
had seen only during combat. Look out, tough guy! Rick thought to the broken-
toothed man.
      "Take your hand off her. Now."
      Max had barely gotten it out when the man threw a punch, screaming, "Shut
up!"
      Max ducked, but not far. Rick had seen him do this before; Max's
incredible reflex time and psychomotor responses let him deal with such things
by split seconds and fractions of an inch.
      Max avoided the clumsy haymaker and delivered a jolting left, snapping the
other's head around, stepping back neatly as he began to collapse.
      Other members of what had now become a mob saw what had happened and began
to converge on Max, snarling and getting ready to fight.
      Max glared at them, unruffled. "You'd better get back."
      Somebody shrieked, "Let's get 'em!" and Rick found that he couldn't get to
Max because the mob was closing in on him, too. A man in a green turtleneck
threw a wild left. Rick bobbed under, came up, and planted a solid uppercut,
sending him staggering back. Two more men closed in, swinging hastily and
inaccurately. He avoided them, backpedaling.
      Max was taking on a very muscular young man who had plenty of power but
not much style. Max warded off a roundhouse with an inside block, getting a
quick hold on that arm. Max's fist went ballistic under the guy's chin, lifting
him right off his feet. It was the brawler's good fortune that his tongue was
well back in his mouth, or his teeth would have snipped it off.
      The muscular one landed sprawling across a table; it crashed down,
slamming him on the back of the head as he landed on his butt on the floor.
      Lynn-Kyle had neither advanced to help his cousin's friends nor withdrawn
from the scene. Rick got one brief look at him: Kyle was standing as rigid and
indifferent as a stone idol.
      Rick stopped another vigilante with a short, hard shot to the sternum,
then rocked him back with a left cross.
      Things had gone very well for the two VT pilots up to now, but more and
more men were getting ready to wade into the melee as soon as an opening
occurred. On the outskirts of things, Lisa and the Terrible Trio were doing what
they could. Quite a number of self-appointed public prosecutors never got to mix
it up with the pilots because a chop across the neck or a kick to the kneecap
put them out of the fight for good.
      But the odds against them kept growing. With no chance for a breather and
no escape route, Rick and Max knew things would probably swing the other way
shortly. There was no helping that, and the brawl had gone too far to be stopped
now; they fought on. Rick was accomplished in hand to hand, quick, well trained,
and in good shape, but Max Sterling was simply unleashed lightning.
      It was then that Max, blocking a punch so that he had his foe's arm in a
firm lock, threw the man through the air. Only this fellow, thrashing and
kicking madly, was lofted straight at Lynn-Kyle, who had been watching the fight
impassively. Behind Kyle, Minmei let out a kind of squeak and ducked for cover.
      Kyle never even moved his feet; he simply bent aside and struck, sending
the unfortunate man flying through the air again, away from his cousin and
himself.
      The vigilante crashed into the table the muscular fellow had overturned,
shattering it on impact as a result of the amazing force Lynn-Kyle's move had
imparted to him and somehow contriving to land on his face.
      Two of the brawler's friends were at his side instantly. "You all right?"
one of them asked idiotically when it was obvious the man was not all right.
      The brawler looked up woozily. "Who is that guy? He's an incredible
fighter!"
      "His name's Kyle," said the other buddy, "and that was nothin' but luck!"
He straightened. "But I'm gonna fix him."


CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"I'll tell ya somethin' about your Lynn-Kyle," Max said. "He might be anti-
military, but he's no pacifist. What'd ya think, Gandhi could do spin kicks?"
The Collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter

Kyle waited, serene and unmoving.
      "No! No!" Lisa breathed, seeing them close in on him. It would be too much
like having gentle Karl Riber beaten up. But there was nothing she could do; it
was all she and the Terrible Trio could do to hold their own against the
peripheral crowd members.
      Rick wondered later if Max Sterling knew all along-or had at least
guessed-what was to happen next and had deliberately thrown that first opponent
Kyle's way. Max, in his supremely humble way, assured Rick that such a thing was
preposterous. Rick might have believed him more if he hadn't seen the things Max
could do in combat.
      The first two were a pair of stumblebums; barely moving at all, Kyle
disposed of them contemptuously with foot sweeps, evasions, leg trips, and
beginner's class shoulder throws.
      That drew the attention of the men waiting for another crack at Max and
Rick; more and more of them came at Kyle.
      Minmei's cousin seemed to have chosen a particular spot on the floor and
decided to defend it-not from preference but rather as an exercise of will and
proficiency. Certainly, the fight didn't seem like much of a challenge-at least
at first.
      There was a lot of aikido in his style, plus bando, some judo, uichi-ryu,
and a lot of stuff Rick couldn't identify. It wasn't until he was pressed very
hard that Kyle used his feet, and after that there were teeth and blood on his
area of the White Dragon's floor.
      Defending himself on several fronts, Kyle didn't seem to notice the
roughhouser closing in behind him. Lisa happened to see it, and she had the
weird impression that he knew what was coming and chose to undergo it as a sort
of test, as if he wanted to be hurt.
      Be that as it may, the big bruiser got Kyle in a full nelson, and somebody
else tagged him good and hard on the mouth. Kyle didn't seem to feel it much; he
shrugged down out of the hold with some fluid move, sidekicking the man who'd
done the punching so that he went down and stayed down.
      Then Kyle whirled and brought the flat of his hand in an unsweeping blow
along the face of the one who'd held him. The man reeled back, face leaking
crimson but not as badly hurt as he would have been if Lynn-Kyle had been truly
angry.
      Kyle had taken just enough of the pressure off Rick and Max so that they
were doing okay again. They'd both taken more than a few shots and at one time
or another had, between them, squared off with just about everybody on the other
side of what had become a minor war. The opponents were bouncing back more
slowly now, and many of them were out of it for good.
      As for Lynn-Kyle, he was a whirlwind, leaping over and ducking under, spin
kicking but never surrendering the spot he'd chosen to defend in the middle of
the White Dragon. He jumped impossibly high, out of the way of a powerful kick,
got his opponent in a wristlock, and rammed him headfirst into a man who was
attacking from the opposite side.
      It was an amazing demonstration, like some martial-arts fantasy, marking
the beginning of Lynn-Kyle's legend on the SDF-1. But it should be remembered
that for the most part he was facing antagonists who'd already been around the
dance floor once or even twice-and in some more insistent cases three times-with
Rick and Max.
      At one point, Rick put away a shaven-headed tough who'd been trying to
gouge his eyes, working fast, jabbing combinations with knuckles that were long
since lacerated and bleeding. He turned and saw Kyle, leaping high, lash out
with the sword edge of his left foot and down another opponent.
      Rick wiped blood from his face. "Hey, Kyle! Why don'tcha hand him a
pamphlet?"
      Rick went back to his own fight. Kyle made no response but wondered if the
VT pilot knew how deeply that jape-and the dissonance of this violence-upset
Kyle's inner harmonies.
      The fight didn't so much end as slow to a halt; at last there was no one
to come at them again. Rick was left sitting on the floor, huffing and puffing,
bone-weary and sore all over. Max was panting, too, leaning against a wall,
blood seeping from a swollen, split lip, his ribs starting to ache where
somebody's knee had gotten a piece of him.
      Lisa and the Terrible Trio were standing by the line of brawlers they'd
taken out of the action, having neatly composed some of them as if for sleep.
Lynn-Kyle stood squarely on the spot he'd chosen to defend in the middle of his
family's restaurant.
      "You okay, Rick?" Max panted.
      Rick was too tired to do anything but nod slowly, tonguing a tooth that
felt like it had been loosened. He felt a certain dread: There were some
inflexible laws aboard the SDF-1, mandated by the insanely unlikely
circumstances of so many civilians and service people thrown together in such
close quarters for such a long time.
      Many of those laws had to do with "No Fighting with the Townies!" Rick
figured Gloval was going to be mildly crazy about all of this. Then it occurred
to Lieutenant Hunter to think about the bigger picture, about what was happening
all over the super dimensional fortress in the wake of the Boogieman's
announcement.
      We'll be lucky if there is an SDF-1 by tonight! he realized.
      Lisa and the Terrible Trio were dusting their hands off, making a few
first-aid suggestions to the people they'd taken out of the action. It occurred
to Rick that without them, he and Max and even Kyle would have gone down,
martial arts notwithstanding. Minmei was gazing at Kyle with stars and hearts
and flowers in her eyes.
      "Oh, Kyle, I'm so proud of you! Are you okay?" She threw her arms around
his neck.
      Lynn-Kyle only nodded and made a soft, "Mm hmm."
      "`Okay'?" Rick sniggered tiredly, and spit out a gobbet of blood.
      Max had come upright, staring at Kyle strangely. "They barely laid a hand
on you." Kyle only looked down at the floor like some demure maiden.
      Men who had been in the fight were helping each other to their feet,
staunching blood flows, helping hobbling friends. One tucked an injured hand
into his shirtfront with much pain, wiped the blood from his broken nose, and
said grudgingly, "He's the best I've seen or fought against. That's the truth."
      "Yeah," said Max Sterling reflectively. "He's got moves I never saw
before. Doesn't make sense." He went over toward Kyle, and Rick hauled his
aching body to its feet, prepared to back up his friend if the ultimate slugfest
were to begin.
      There was a sudden, particular something in Max's manner now: an acuity,
an unveiled dangerousness, that the aw-shucks everyday Sterling demeanor usually
shrouded.
      But Max only stood looking at Kyle, and Kyle back at Max. Max said after a
moment, "You're a pretty well-trained fighter for someone who doesn't like to
fight."
      They stood measuring each other. On the one hand was quiet, bespectacled
Max, with his natural gifts, miraculous coordination, and speed so superior that
he could afford to be humble in all things-already a Robotech legend. Unassuming
and kind unless some evil threatened. Max the placid and benign, truer to what
Kyle aspired to be, in a way, than Kyle himself.
      On the other hand was Kyle, seemingly apart from any worldly consideration
or motivation, his incredible martial-arts skills just a reflection of things
that relentlessly drove him for spiritual transcendence. People sought him,
virtually courted him, sensing that he'd passed beyond everything that was
superficial, and wanting-what? His attention and approval? His friendship? He
didn't have them to give.
      But people wanted it more than anything. Kyle's gift was a kind of cold
invulnerability that brought him close to being superhuman for the most dire and
yet formidable reasons, reasons that combined the very best and the very worst
in him.
      Those who knew certain spiritual and fighting systems could see the
symptoms in him: all things lay within his grasp, excepting only that which he
wanted most. So his innermost passions had been brought under control by an act
of will, the dark side of his nature subdued in a battle that made lesser
contests, mere physical duels, seem childishly easy.
      And that made for a powerful fighter who was without fear and who would
give obeisance to the very best conventional values-while his inner being fought
an endless war.
      Some of the people who were in the White Dragon that day later swore that
the very air between Max and Kyle crackled like a kind of summer lightning or
perhaps the terrifying glow between two segments of a critical mass being
brought too close together.
      But Kyle lowered his eyes to the floor and said softly, "It was just
something that had to be done, I guess." His head came up, and he looked about
at the men he'd bested. "I'm sorry." A trickle of blood ran from the corner of
his mouth down to his chin.
      Minmei was deciding how best to show her concern for Kyle, when Lisa
stepped up to him, holding a scented, daintily folded little handkerchief in her
hand. This was the woman who'd kept a rioter from pouncing on Kyle two minutes
earlier by bringing down a chair on his head.
      "You're bleeding! Maybe this'll help."
      He drew away from it as if it carried plague, but his voice was still soft
and measured. "Please don't bother. I'd rather not have help from any of you
people. But thank you, anyway."
      She was shattered. "I see."
      Minmei was quick to see her opening and use it, snatching the handkerchief
from Lisa's upturned palm. "That's right; Kyle dislikes servicemen."
      Lisa stared at the floor and hoped the hot red flush of anger in her
cheeks didn't show too much. Servicemen?
      "Let me help," Minmei said, dabbing at the wound on his cheek.
      Kyle hissed in pain. "It hurts if you press too-hard."
      She drew a quick breath. "Oh, Kyle, please forgive me!"
      Punches and kicks hadn't seemed to bother him that much. "Is he for real
or am I crazy?" Max muttered.
      Rick shrugged; if he hadn't just seen Kyle take care of some of the more
hard-core rowdies aboard the SDF-1, he would have said Minmei's cousin was a
complete wimp.
      If it was an act, it was brilliant. The bridge bunnies were oozing
sympathy for Kyle, and somebody was going to have to stick a stretcher under
Commander Hayes if she got any more emotional over his well-being, while Minmei
glared at ail the other women jealously and shielded Kyle from them as much as
she could. Miss Macross stroked her cousin's arm with a proprietary air.
      Rick turned to Max, feeling the swelling on his own forehead and the
throbbing of assorted contusions suffered in the riot. "Max, if you're asking
me, the answer is yes!" Rick told him.

      Azonia, mistress and overlord of the Zentraedi, surveyed the strategic
situation from the command post of her nine-mile-long flagship.
      Matters were coming to a head. She was determined that this would be the
proof of her abilities. A stellar chance! Once she defeated these Micronian
upstarts, the universe would be hers. Supreme commander? That would lie well
within her grasp, and farewell, Dolza!
      Or perhaps she would become the new Robotech Mistress. Others had played
that dangerous game, only to lose. But none played it as well as she, Azonia was
confident.
      She was less than happy at the moment, however, having just been informed
that Khyron, the mad genius of war, had again disobeyed her orders.
      Azonia rose to her feet from the thronelike command chair on the bridge of
her own vaunted, combat-tested battleship, fury striking from her like lightning
as though she were a goddess who could smash worlds.
      And, in fact, Azonia was.
      "What? Are you saying Khyron left the fleet's holding formation in
violation of my orders?"
      The communications officer knew that tone of voice and was quick to
genuflect before her, then touch her forehead in abasement. "Yes, Commander."
      She was tall even for a Zentraedi woman, some fifty-five feet and more.
Her mannishly short hair had been dyed blue, not because she cared for
meaningless fads but rather so she would not be thought unaware.
      She had exotic, oblique eyes that were piercing beam weapons of intellect
that had served Azonia's rise beyond her contemporaries to the very pinnacle of
Zentraedi command. "That is all," she said coldly.
      "Yes, Commander." The messenger withdrew quickly and very gratefully;
beheading the bearer of bad news was a not-uncommon Zentraedi custom, which
among other things served to keep the lower orders in their place. She was glad-
and lucky-to have her life.
      But Azonia had dismissed the messenger from her mind completely; her
concentration was all for the problem at hand. Technical readouts and displays
told her all the details she needed to know: The Backstabber, with a strike
force from his infamous Seventh Mechanized Division had, by Robotech fission,
detached a major vessel-form from his own flagship and was proceeding at flank
speed toward the spot where the Micronians had landed their stolen starship.
      Azonia touched a control almost languidly. Close-up details showed
streamers of fire and ionization trailing from Khyron's craft, its outermost
skin glowing red-hot; he was making his entry into the Earth's atmosphere at a
madly acute angle, risking severe friction damage.
      Azonia had sufficient experience to know that Khyron and his attack troops
were sitting out a roller coaster ride in an oven, all in the name of a possible
extra few minutes of surprise.
      It was so audacious. It was so willful, so disdainful of anyone's
criticism or interference. So Zentraedi. Azonia resumed her throne, chin on
fist. "Khyron, what have you come up with this time, eh?"
      She was in some small part envious, sorry that she wouldn't be there for
the fight. With Khyron in charge, there was sure to be a splendid battle,
bloodshed-that highest glory that was conquest.
      On a previous venture, Khyron had been yanked from his objective at the
last moment by Breetai's manual override return command, which had caused the
Backstabber's war machines to return to the fleet despite his countermanding
orders. Khyron had apparently taken steps to ensure that it couldn't happen to
him again.
      By now the Earthlings would be hearing the peal of Khyron's thunder.
Azonia, eyes slitted like a cat's, savored the moment, knowing she couldn't lose
either way. If the Backstabber won, the credit would go to her as armada
commander, she would make sure of that; if he lost and was unfortunate or unwise
enough to return to the fleet, she would have the pleasure of executing him
herself.
      Azonia savored the thought. Violence and death and a certain sensual
cruelty were things to command any Zentraedi's emotions. Khyron was becoming
quite intriguing.
      Azonia watched the displays with feline glee. Decorate him, kill him; she
was equally eager to do either one.


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There before him were the Micronians, doing everything that was anathema to the
Zentraedi. But the lure of the forbidden was always strong in Khyron, and so
there were certain things about Micronian behavior that, I think, he found
tremendously seductive-not the weakling things, of course, but rather the
sensual.
Is it any wonder he loathed and hated them, could not bear to have them even
exist?
Grel, aide to Khyron

She'd been through this drill before, but it didn't make it any easier. Donna
Wilhelm, an enlisted-rating tech who was relief-watch fill-in for Sammie, tried
not to lose her composure and let her voice quaver.
      Her fingers clenched at the edges of the console, so hard that it felt
like she might crease it. "Captain Gloval, unidentified cruiser-class spacecraft
closing on our position at Mach seven."
      She was the one Claudia had chewed out for daydreaming; Donna was exacting
now, more practiced. She'd learned the lessons anybody under Gloval learned, and
as a result she was capable of manning her station through hell's own flames.
Which looked like it was about to become a job requirement.
      Donna hadn't heard footsteps, but Gloval was suddenly at her shoulder,
massive and calm, whacking his briar pipe against the heel of his shoe to knock
out a bit of dottle. "Punch it up, please."
      "Yes, sir. Altitude twelve thousand." Donna lit up her part of the bridge
with tactical displays. It was a given that this could be the minute in which
every soul aboard died.
      But that couldn't excuse sloppiness in the discharge of one's obligations.
There was a pure, white-hot kind of bushido, an ultimate calmness in matters of
overwhelming importance, a very privileged eye-of-the-storm serenity, that the
people on the bridge of SDF-1 were expected to have.
      Once you'd been a part of it, it was just impossible to settle for
anything less. Donna had learned it in a school that permitted very few errors
and no inattention, under Gloval, Lisa Hayes, Claudia Grant, and the others.
      So now Donna did her duty, up to SDF-1 standards, which is to say without
flaw and with the guts of a cat burglar. "Eleven thousand," she updated. "If it
maintains present course, it'll touch down approx ten miles from the SDF-1
magnetic bearing three-two-five."
      It couldn't be anything but trouble; the war was on again, and if peace
had seemed too good to be true, that was because it was. But Gloval's broad hand
patted Donna's shoulder for a moment, transferring what felt like an infinite
calm even while he was calling orders to other bridge personnel.
      "Order up a B status encrypted comline to headquarters immediately! And
one of you find Commander Hayes and get her up here on the double! Somebody else
tell Ghost and Skull teams to get ready for a hot scramble!"
      People were doing all of that, and still the bridge was as quiet as a
well-run switchboard. Gloval told Donna Wilhelm, "Well done. Give me updates
every fifteen seconds, understood? And if you see I'm not listening, come stand
on my foot."
      Then he was gone, and the SDF-1 bridge was quietly chaotic with a general-
quarters combat alert. Arm Hammerhead missiles and Deca missiles and Scorpion
missiles; power up to main gun batteries; secondaries; to all firing positions.
Hot scrambles, ready on go, aye.
      Donna looked at her screens and got ready to relay the first update to
Gloval. Over a year ago, her family had been one of those that were simply
vacuumed up in the catastrophic first encounter between Zentraedi and human. Now
her father was an emergency team specialist, her mother supervised an elite EVA
squad, and her younger brother was dead, one of Ghost Team's KIAs back in that
big blitzkrieg in Saturn's rings.
      So Donna did her duty. The aliens had followed SDF-1 to Earth; the aliens
would follow the SDF-1 everywhere, hound the ship and hound those within it
until this fight was settled one way or the other. Only, there was one thing
that the aliens didn't seem to understand: The SDF-1's crew would never
surrender now.
      No matter; it was war again. And the Zentraedi didn't know that they
themselves were refining, like precious metals in some torturous crucible, a
counterforce within the human race that was their match-in willpower if not in
firepower-and more.
      Much more.

      In the vast command center under the Alaskan wilderness, an operator
called out over his headset, "Confirmed enemy craft continues descent, sir. Will
touch down at point K-32, R-56 Bravo."
      The duty officer, Brigadier General Theroux, leaned forward, staring up at
the immense display screen. "Are you certain? Are you positive that that craft
is confirmed as the enemy?"
      "That's affirmative, sir."
      Theroux got to his feet, squaring away his cap. This was Command's worst
fear made real. The Grand Cannon wasn't yet ready to fire, and even if it had
been, the approaching alien warship wasn't in its range. Until the planned
network of unique dish satellites was in place to redirect the Grand Cannon's
superbolts as needed, it was virtually useless.
      Theroux opened an emergency com channel, sure that the ruling council
would want to reconsider standing instructions under the circumstances. But he
could reach only General Herbert and Marshal Zukav.
      "And the enemy is headed straight for the SDF-1," Theroux finished his
brief situation report.
      General Herbert's face blinked at him out of the screen. "And? You mean
you haven't carried out Special Order Seventy-three yet?"
      Theroux said desperately, "But sir, that will only-"
      "Carry out your duty!" Zukav screamed, florid-faced, from another screen.
"Do it this instant or I'll personally see you hanged for mutiny!" The screens
blanked.
      That will only goad them into attacking the SDF-1, and the SDF-1 is a
sitting duck, Theroux had been about to say. But Herbert and Zukav knew that as
well as he. It was as if they wanted the battle fortress obliterated.
      Brigadier General Theroux forced his thoughts away from that line of
contemplation. He had his orders.
      He addressed his launch control officer. "Very well, then: execute Special
Order Seventy-three. Launch missiles immediately."
      And as techs were acknowledging and carrying out the command, he murmured,
"And heaven help us."

      "We are now monitoring all base com signals and telemetry," Claudia
reported.
      "Very good," Gloval said. While he had no direct orders not to eavesdrop
on his superiors, it went against all operating procedure. But he had so few
things working to his advantage in this crisis; if a man with cloven hooves,
smelling of brimstone, had appeared on the bridge at that moment, it's very
likely that the captain would have struck a bargain with him.
      Claudia looked over to Lisa, who seemed lost in thought even though her
boards appeared to be registering a lot of activity. "Lisa?" Claudia called
softly. "Lisa! Girl, what seems to be the problem? You've been in some kind of
daydream ever since you got back. Tell me, is it Kyle?"
      For a moment Lisa looked like a startled deer. Then she became very
defensive, even though she should have been used to her best friend's teasing by
then. "Claudia, you know that's just not true!"
      "Ahem," Gloval said softly, materializing behind them. "Ladies..."
      They both got back to work, but Claudia was chuckling and an angry red
spot appeared on each of Lisa's cheeks.
      Kim shattered the gentle, joking atmosphere for good. "Captain,
headquarters had just launched defense missiles. Our instruments show
approximately fifteen seconds to impact."
      Gloval settled into his chair. "Fifteen seconds, understood." What in
blazes can those fools be hoping to accomplish? Conventional weapons are totally
useless against the Zentraedi.
      "Prepare to send in the Veritechs," he said.

      With the disappearance of Dr. Lang and the SDF-1 and the destruction of
its orbital force in the wake of the initial Zentraedi attack, Earth's defense
command had been forced to fall back on older technologies, at least until their
Grand Cannon was completed.
      Even the production of VTs was impossible, since most of the necessary
fabricating and power-plant replicating devices were on the battle fortress; the
earthly RDF fighters who'd greeted the ship on its return were just that,
ordinary fighters, even though they looked like VTs. The only real Robotech
weapons now in the Council's possession were the handful of Battloids that had,
predictably, been preempted to guard the Council's own Alaskan warren.
      The huge, silvery missiles that rose up from the planet's surface now,
recently manufactured and bearing the kite-like delta insignia of the Robotech
Defense Forces, were nevertheless primitive in comparison with Robotechnology.
But the order to fire was in place, and the workings of command structure spun
and reacted automatically.

      Khyron's great cruiser moved more slowly in the thick lower atmosphere. He
didn't even bother trying to evade the missiles or shoot them down; he relished
the shudder and thunder of their harmless detonations against his vessel's
massive armor. He loved toying with his prey, loved to pretend that slaughter
was battle.
      Hellish fire washed across the ship's armor and swirled away behind it,
like foam off a killer whale, having no effect.
      Behind the big transparent bubble of his command post, Khyron looked down
contentedly at the activity on his warship's bridge. Grel, his second in
command, growled in a fierce, deep Zentraedi guttural, "Khyron, what about a
counterattack?"
      It was Khyron's pleasure to speak differently from his fellows, to be
unique in all things. His accent was overrefined, almost foppish, though the
Zentraedi lacked such a concept except in his case. But few people had ever
dared call the Backstabber on it, and all of those had met with grief.
      "A brilliant idea, Grel! But just what are we counterattacking?"
      Greys thick brows met as he pondered the question. "You mean," he said
slowly, "that this planet is not the actual main objective."
      Khyron's handsome, sinister face lit with a predatory smile. "You're
beginning to see the light." Another glorious victory for Khyron! And oblivion
for the hated SDF-1; things were going perfectly.

      "Veritechs, you have permission to engage the enemy," Lisa said. "Fire at
will."
      A swarm of angry VTs swooped in on the descending alien, lances of bright
blue energy stabbing from their pulsed laser-array cannon, another of Lang's
developments.
      "SDF-1 to United Earth Command," Lisa transmitted. "Our fighter squadron
has initiated contact." Chew on that, you burrowing moles!
      The VTs were in close, flown by veterans who knew where to aim and how to
avoid the bigger ship's clumsy cannon volleys. They did only minor damage on the
first few passes; but there were dozens of them, so more serious damage would be
inflicted if they were allowed to have their way.
      Gloval was counting on something he'd noticed before: There were
definitely differing factions among the enemy, sometimes working at cross-
purposes. One faction seemed to be commanded by an injudicious hothead, and this
attack smacked of him-or her.
      Gloval was right. Even as the enemy cruiser closed on the dimensional
fortress, fighter bays opened and alien mecha poured forth to battle for the
skies. For this engagement, Khyron had elected to use a mix of his best fighting
machines; the VTs swooped in to find themselves facing stubby triple-engine
fighters with fuselages like narrow eggs: tri-thrusters-Botoru pursuit ships,
agile and spoiling for a fight.
      But no more so than the RDF fliers, who were now on their home planet,
their backs literally to the sea. There was nowhere to run, no thought of
surrender, and no battle plan needed except to make the aliens pay very, very
dearly for each moment they spent in Earth's atmosphere.
      "I'm getting heavy contact reports and increased readings of enemy
activity, sir," Claudia relayed.
      Out where war mecha jousted with spears of pure ruin for the fate of the
SDF-1 and the human race, lines of fire and counterfire crisscrossed
ferociously, taking a heavy toll on both sides.
      Despite a steady rain of blasts from the SDF-1's primary and secondary
batteries, Khyron's cruiser swung in a low pass toward the battle fortress.
Gloval wasted no time wishing that the all-powerful main gun could be fired.
That wasn't possible; damage to the main gun mechanism suffered on reentry
hadn't been repaired yet. So the battle would have to be won another way.
      More VTs were ordered to the flight decks, Rick's Vermilions among them,
and every weapon on the ship concentrated fire on the invader. Gloval spoke
quickly to engineering, preparing for other, desperate measures.
      The SDF-1's fire was punishing Khyron's ship as even the VTs couldn't, but
that didn't matter to the Backstabber; he needed only a little longer. His
cruiser passed overhead, all batteries firing, the two heavyweight ships
hammering away at each other with all they had, inflicting appalling damage.
      At the same time the cruiser released more mecha, a virtual hail of
Battlepods that dropped down toward the SDF-1. The pods and the tri-thruster
pursuit ships kept up a heavy fusillade. The VTs did their best to turn back the
assault drop, but they were simply outnumbered; there would be many empty bunks
down in the squadron quarters that night, if indeed the SDF-1 lasted at all.
      Leading his troops in his own tremendously powerful officer's Battlepod,
Khyron saw the carnage and grinned like a lunatic.
      "Keep firing and don't stop until we've destroyed every last one of the
miserable Micronian vermin!"


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
And so the stage was set by the eternal mandala, the yin and the yang-the good
that is in evil, and the evil that is in good. Human betrayal, Zentraedi
disobedience of several trends, and yes, that fanatic courage of the aliens-
these al! played their part that day.
Jan Morris, Solar Seeds, Galactic Guardians

Claudia turned to call to Gloval. "A mixed group of fighting vehicles is
approaching our decks, sir. The Veritechs couldn't hold them."
      "I want Vermilion ready for immediate launch," Gloval snapped.
      Lisa found herself seeing Rick's face and shook her head to regain her
concentration. "Yes, sir."
      As his ship and Max Sterling's were raised to the flight deck, Rick
thought, Well, here we go again. And haw many will die this time? Damn all
Zentraedi! You want death?
     Come on, then; we'll give you death!

      Claudia updated, "Enemy breakthrough heaviest now at blocks three, seven,
niner, and sixteen."
      Gloval turned and called, "Get the tactical corps mecha out on deck.
Double-check to make sure all civil defense mecha are in position and have them
stand by for possible redeployment!"
      Everybody knew what that meant: Gloval was practically admitting that the
aliens might penetrate to the very interior of the ship itself-perhaps to
Macross City.
      Lisa shuddered, but she kept on at her work, seemingly calm and self-
possessed. "Vermilion Team, stand by at block number three for protection and
await further orders." From that position a number of the dimensional fortress's
functioning gun turrets and missile tubes could provide some cover for them
until Gloval decided where to commit them.
      "Roger," Rick acknowledged.
      Almost all the other VT teams were either in the air or waiting to be
lifted to the flight deck, but that didn't seem to be daunting the enemy. More
and more alien mecha were dropping, an unbelievable assault force. That cruiser
must have been packed cheek by jowl with them! Lisa thought.
      She saw Vermilion forming up on an outboard pickup. Enemy fire was
sizzling down all around them, bluewhite beams that vaporized the nonskid and
scored the armor deeply.
      Rick's voice came on again. "Hey there, Commander Hayes! How many of these
things do we have to shoot down before they stop coming at us? Ten thousand or
twenty thousand? Or two million, or what? Just checking, you understand."
      A sudden volley hit right near his VT and almost got it; she could hear
the shock and adrenaline in his voice as he cried out, "God damn you!" at the
aliens.
      Lisa looked stunned. "Hold position," she said slowly, feeling her skin go
cold and her heart pounding so hard she could feel it all through her. She
watched her screen, hypnotized, waiting for the next salvo to claim him.
      "Await...further orders..." she managed. She saw Rick's face before her,
in a cockpit, but then suddenly Karl Riber's-or no, it was Lynn-Kyle's, wasn't
it? What was happening to her?

      There was such a thing as personal initiative, and junior officers-
especially team leaders-were expected to recognize a time when it was their duty
to exercise it.
      "Well, I'm getting these fighters out of here before it's too late!" Rick
snapped, as much to himself as to Commander Hayes. "All right, Vermilion; follow
me!"
      There was no time for a catapult launch, even if the cat crews had been
able to function in that firestorm. None could, and many of the brave crews were
down for good.
      The VTs rolled behind Rick, engines shrilling; only Robotechnology gave
them power to reach sufficient airspeed in the short space available. Rick's VT
howled out into the air, followed by Max, Ben, and the rest.
      Even so, they hadn't gotten away fast enough. The fifth VT took a direct
hit while lifting, crashed to the deck again, burning out of control because
overworked damage and firefighting crews were fully occupied elsewhere. From the
explosion, it was clear that the pilot had died instantly.
      But the deck would have to be cleared for more launches and for eventual
landings, assuming any Veritechs came back this day. A courageous cat crew
officer named Moira Flynn climbed into a cargo mover. Braving the flames, the
exploding VT ordnance, and the withering enemy fire, she began bulldozing the
wreckage to the edge of the deck, to dump it into the sea.
      Lisa could barely spare an instant in which to watch the launch of
Vermilion; there were a thousand other things that demanded her attention. But
she shut her eyes for an instant. Please let him be all right! But Rick's face
was superimposed in her mind with Karl's, with Kyle's...
      Out on the flight deck, a bulky Gladiator attack mecha from the tactical
corps-a smaller, cruder version of the Battloids-fired its chest cannon, missile
racks, and straight-lasers. It suddenly found itself confronted by a quintet of
Battlepods that dropped to the deck almost simultaneously, blowing the Gladiator
away; both human crewmembers were dead practically before they knew what was
happening.
      More pods landed, firing the heavy guns mounted on their plastrons and, in
some special cases, missile launchers, particle cannon, and other offensive
armaments.
      Two more Gladiators came forward to seal the hole in the defensive lines,
braving the enemy rounds to throw out a wall of fire of their own. The
crewmembers loved life as much as anybody, but they were unswerving in the
defense of their ship and their planet. They opened up with gatlings and
missiles and lasers. The Battlepods kept coming until the mecha were at point-
blank range.
      Another Gladiator went down. Amid the smoke and confusion, the third found
itself out of ammunition and standing toe to toe with a pod.
      The Gladiator crew reacted at once; as the pod sprang at it, their war
machine swung an armored fist, caving in the lower half of the Zentraedi's
plastron. The Gladiator ducked, and the pod crashed to the deck a little beyond.
      Unarmed, the RDF mecha turned to grapple with the next pod, but it leapt
high in the air like an immense grasshopper, all guns firing. The Gladiator
collapsed in on itself, becoming a fireball.

      Rick lined up another bogey, one of the small, fiendishly fast Botoru
pursuit ships. The enemy fired a poorly aimed stream of the annihilating energy
discs that were one of its armaments, then flared like a meteor before the
Vermilion Leader's volley.
      The battle was the biggest fighter ratrace yet, all the more frantic and
hysterical because it swirled through the relatively small area around the
battle fortress. Speeds were therefore much lower than usual, but distances were
so short and maneuvering room so limited that everything happened in split
seconds.
      One dogfight got mixed up with another. Pilots from both sides collided,
shot friend instead of foe, lost sight of their prey only to find a bandit on
their tail.
      Lisa's voice sounded in Rick's headphones. "Proceed to enemy penetration
at block number seven."
      Only Max and Ben were left now. They managed to make it over to the
designated defensive block, where they were witnesses to something out of an
old-time Western movie.
      Civil Defense mecha had been rushed up to serve as reinforcements for the
tacticals. The thickset war machines, like walking dreadnoughts, stood straddle-
legged on the deck, blasting away at the massed enemy.
      Excalibur Mark VIs and Gladiators, drum-armed Spartans with their huge
circular canisters of missile launchers, and multi-barreled Raider Xs swinging
their beam cannon this way and that-they all stood shoulder to shoulder against
the main Zentraedi onslaught as enemy fire took them out of the line one by one.
      The pods were closing in fast; the enormous losses they'd suffered seemed
to have no effect on the size of the fleet. They had advanced to a point where
none of the SDF-1's primary batteries-and only a few of the remaining
secondaries-had a line of fire on them; the batteries were primarily for air
defense.
      The RDF mecha were standing their ground, laying down fire with everything
they had. They knew that if their line collapsed, there would be nothing to stop
the aliens from getting into the ship-and winning the war.
      It was truly the hour of the attack mecha, with even the VTs taking a back
seat. They made their stand as the Zentraedi closed the distance by leaps and
bounds. The killing in the skies had numbed him, yet Rick thought this was one
of the most savage scenes ever seen during the war.
      As Vermilion came in to see what they could do to help, two foremost
Raider Xs went up like cans of firecrackers. The pods bounded past the wreckage
to close in on the last of the defenders.
      Khyron was gleeful, nearly mad with the joy of war, as he led the final
charge, addressing the cannon of his Officer's Pod to a new target. In minutes,
the ship would be his; and with it, the universe.
      In the meantime, three of the accursed VTs made a close strafing run,
destroying the leading line of pods. But other pods would soon be there to deal
with them; even Veritechs couldn't keep Zor's ultimate creation away from Khyron
now!
      Khyron was distracted by two lumbering Excaliburs that were closing in on
him, their power low, missile racks exhausted. He blew them both away in the
same moment with the tremendous derringerlike cannon that were arms of the
Officer's Pod.
      The VTs were making another pass, and the enemy mecha were being
outrageously stubborn-but the final conclusion should only take another minute
or so.
      But just then Khyron heard an alarm signal on his instrument panel. He
read his indicators, turned, and craned to look up into the distant sky. "What's
this? No! Impossible!"

      Grimly, without looking up from her data displays, Claudia said, "Captain,
a second enemy attack force is on the way down now, from another ship. They
appear to be a new type of mecha."

      Leading her combat drop, Miriya looked approvingly at the bitter struggle
raging all around the dimensional fortress. Behind her came a full battalion of
her Quadrono Battalion's powered armor mecha.
      Azonia was still reiterating instructions over the com net, a rather
offensive bit of interference, Miriya thought. "Miriya, the purpose of your
operation is to thwart Khyron's plan. Therefore, do not fire at the enemy or
damage the dimensional fortress."
      Azonia had done some thinking in the interim and had consulted several of
her personal informants. It seemed Khyron was playing a game truly his own;
everything pointed to his intention to take the SDF-1 for himself.
      And Azonia would win no approval from her superiors or the Robotech
Masters if that were to happen; quite the opposite, in fact. Thus: Miriya and
her Quadrono Battalion were launched to stop him.
      So a Zentraedi warrior is expected not to fire at the enemy, eh? Miriya
smiled to herself maliciously. "Well now, it's too bad I never heard that order
because my communications gear is malfunctioning, Azonia!"
      Her own personal mecha-suit was the one that had so dazzled the RDF during
her insertion of the three spies. It was supercharged, more maneuverable and
powerful than any other in the Zentraedi fleet. Now she zoomed down like a
lightning bolt, blowing an unsuspecting VT out of the air with a double stream
of the annhilation discs, destroying another a split second later.
      "I love it when a good plan works out well," she said languidly. And the
good plan in this case was her own-the one that had gotten her another crack at
the enemy and, if she was lucky, a little scuffle with Khyron's incompetents as
well.
      The Quadrono armor hit thrusters, rocketing for the deck.

      Azonia ranted at the com pickup in her flagship bridge command center.
"Khyron, come in immediately! Can you hear me? You are in violation of your
orders! Therefore, stop this attack at once!"
      Perhaps he would claim that his equipment wasn't working properly. That
was the damnable thing about the Zentraedi armada, and for that matter their
whole instrumentality. With a few exceptions like that bitch Miriya's, Zentraedi
war machinery had a far from flawless operational record.
      It was only right that warriors care only for war; maintenance and
mechanics were work for slaves. But there never seemed to be nearly enough of
those, at least ones of any use.
      Azonia swore under her breath and waited to see what would happen.

      But Khyron wasn't opposed to answering her. He was merely completing his
latest maneuver, having leapt his pod high to come down directly over two of the
last enemy attack mecha, a pair of Raider Xs, blowing them to bits with the
derringer cannon.
      "Violation of my orders?" he mocked her. "But I haven't done anything to
these despicable Micronians, at least not yet!" He was firing to all sides. "But
in the centuries to come, if any of them are left alive, they will speak the
name of Khyron with terror!"
      "Don't play games with me!" Azonia shouted. "Turn back at once or I'll
have you shot!"
      The last of the enemy mecha were down, and Khyron was about to lead his
forces to the ultimate plunder, when the odds suddenly changed. Aircraft
elevator platforms ground up into view to either side despite the fact that the
last of the SDF-1 combat aircraft had long since taken off.
      They were loaded, instead, with every MAC II Destroid cannon the desperate
defenders had managed to get to the trouble spot, arriving in time only because
of the attack mecha's courageous last stand and Vermilion's skillful flying. Six
of the stumpy, waddling gun turrets were on either elevator, port and starboard.
      Mounting six pulsed laser-array cannon and four supervelocity
electromagnetic rail-guns apiece, the MACS had the pods in a perfect cross fire-
and opened up.
      What had been imminent victory for the pods became instead a disastrous
firestorm.
      The rail-guns fired solid slugs at a velocity that delivered incredible
kinetic energy on impact, velocities so high that making the slugs explosive
would have been redundant. Zentraedi combat armor was no protection, and
Battlepods collapsed in on themselves like crushed eggs or came apart in
fragments, only to explode instants later.
      The MACS' pulsed lasers swept back and forth at the massed alien war
mecha, quartering the sky with grazing fire that raked the flight deck, and
caught them as they leapt or while still on their feet. Pods went up like
exploding oil-well rigs or expanding spheres of shrapnel and flame.
      Khyron had instantly leapt his pod away to comparative safety upon seeing
the MACs appear. He would have gone truly berserk with frustration and wrath at
that point, but his own life was now at stake.
      There would be no quick taking of the objective, and SDF-1's deck was
being swept clear of his troops. More, Miriya's hated Quadronos were hovering
above, out of range but capable of intervening at any moment. But on whose side?
In some ways she was as capable of duplicity as Khyron himself.
      And then, of course, there was Azonia's promise to have him shot.
      He gave a low, bestial growl as he landed his Battlepod on a safer area of
the deck, opening his command channel. "All right, men! Cease firing! We're
returning to the fleet!"
      His mission exec, Gerao, came up over the net, sounding shocked. "Ex-
excuse me, mighty Khyron; would you please repeat that? We're going back now?"
      Khyron could see from his instruments that Gerao was fairly well in the
clear and could reach the cruiser quickly. The cruiser was exactly where he'd
directed that it be: submerged in the ocean not far from SDF-1.
      "Yes." Khyron sneered. "I have just received a direct order from Commander
Azonia. "But don't forget to get your souvenir, my friend."
      "My souvenir?" Gerao's tone said he'd understood Khyron's hidden meaning.
"Why, no, sir. I certainly won't forget that!"
      Khyron began regrouping his forces for the shameful withdrawal. But part
of him burned fusion-bright.
      If Khyron couldn't have his victory, he would at least have his revenge!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
No one, gunner or VT jock or attack-mecha crewmember, could recall a more
intense fight. Certainly they all earned their pay that day, and a lot more than
money besides. Many paid the final price of freedom.
It is interesting to note, however, that although everyone on the VT teams had
seen intense combat, it was the men and woman of the air-sea rescue teams [whose
units had also suffered heavy casualties] who, upon entering the various pilots'
hangouts, found that they would not be allowed to pay for their own drinks,
period.
Zachary Fox, Jr., VT: the Men and the Mecha

The giant saucer shapes that were Zentraedi amphibious-assault ships dropped
from Miriya's cruiser to retrieve Khyron's surviving Battlepods.
      At Khyron's order, the first of his retreating units kangaroo-hopped from
the SDF-1's deck into the sea to get well clear of the fortress's guns and
fighters before making their rendezvous. He'd lost enough of his vaunted strike
force without having them and their pickup ships shot out of the sky.
      Now it was Zentraedi mecha that fought the holding action as RDF attack
machines and VTs pressed them ever harder and turned the kill ratios around.
Battlepods bobbed and churned through the waves as the great saucers descended
for the rendezvous point.
      Overhead, the fighters were still going at it with the Botoru tri-thruster
pursuit ships while the SDF-1's gun batteries took more and more enemy ships out
of the fight as the tactical and civil defense attack mecha took over mop-up
operations on deck.
      Elsewhere, Gerao reached Khyron's cruiser as it rose from its submerged
position. He gave quick orders as his pod was being brought aboard, preparing to
take command and wreak Khyron's vengeance on the Micronians.

      Vanessa called out, "Captain, that first enemy cruiser has reappeared!
It's on a collision course with us!"
      Gloval thumbed the bowl of his empty pipe absentmindedly. "It looks like a
suicide maneuver. Lisa, Claudia! Prepare the Daedalus for its Attack mode,
immediately!'.'

      Up on deck, Vermilion Team had its Veritechs in Battloid mode.
      Rick concentrated on control, letting his helmet's receptors pick up his
thought-commands and translate them into the Battloid's instant, fluid
movements. The Battloid traversed its autocannon from one target to the next,
firing depleted transuranic slugs that had awesome, armor-piercing capabilities.
The powered gatling consumed ammunition at an amazing rate, and the Battloid had
to transfer fresh boxed belts of rounds to it frequently from integral reserve
modules built into various parts of its body.
      The reloading took only moments, but in the middle of a firelight that
could be a long time. Rick found himself on empty as a pod dashed at him. He hit
the thrusters built into the Battloid's feet and launched himself at it, just as
its cannonade blew up the deck where he'd been standing.
      He had no choice but to attack it hand to hand before it could get a bead
on him. All around him, Battloids were locked in similar close-quarters fighting
against the pods, up and down the SDF-1's decks.
      But the alien Battlepod crewman was shrewd and quick. The pod lashed out
with one foot and sent Rick's Battloid flying backward with a tooth-rattling
jolt. The Battloid crashed to the deck, its pilot dazed.
      He shook his head clear just in time to send the Battloid rolling to the
side. He avoided the pod's next fusillade, rolled again, and brought the
Battloid to its feet dexterously. And now, the chain-gun was reloaded.
      Rick fired a long burst, taking the pod dead center; he watched it
dissolve and fly into pieces, an expanding, blazing sphere. But out of the
ballooning explosion zoomed a new enemy, one of those strange alien mecha that
had been mostly staying out of the fight up until now.
      Whoever was flying it was either a masterful pilot or crazy or both. The
battle-armored figure came through the fireball in one piece, though, and nearly
bowled Rick over. Its weapons came close to downing Max on one side and Ben on
the other as the two Vermilion wingmen dove for cover.
      The lightning-fast attacker was gone before they could fire at it, since
the SDF-1's surviving batteries were hopelessly slow in tracking it. The three
Vermilion fliers got their Battloids to their feet, shaken but unharmed.
      "Let's finish this thing!" Rick said in clipped tones. At his command,
Vermilion went into Veritech mode, skimming the deck, turning pods into
expanding balls of incandescent gas with intense autocannon fire.
      The last few pods leapt high, thrusters cutting in, trying for a slim-
chance vertical escape while the remaining Botoru pursuit ships dove to try to
cover them. The lower battle and the upper became one as the mecha swirled and
fought. Rick peeled off to go after two escaping pods.

      "So they think they have won, eh?" Khyron mused, his pod standing in the
shelter of a superstructural feature of the dimensional fortress's flight deck,
hidden and waiting.

      Rick bagged the pods, and Ben and Max went back down to take care of an
insistent pursuit ship that was still strafing the SDF-1. They returned to
Battloid mode, blasting it into ten thousand pieces.
      Meanwhile, Rick had picked up two more tri-thrusters on his tail. He led
them down to deck level, and Max and Ben bagged them from behind with streams of
high-density slugs.
      "Nice shooting!" Rick said, relieved. Then he saw what was coming up fast
behind him. "No!"
      It was the strange alien attack mecha, the one that had nearly nailed him
moments before. He braced himself to be hit, perhaps killed, then and there. But
it zoomed past, gaining altitude rapidly, pulling away as if the VT were
standing still.
      Rick realized that it matched the description of that souped-up Zentraedi
who had done so much damage to Roy Fokker's Skull Team just before the Skulls
recovered the stolen pod in which Lisa, Rick, Ben, and Max had made their escape
from the aliens.
      Rick cut in auxiliary power, going ballistic, determined to end the warped
cat-and-mouse game.
      In her special suit of Quadrono powered armor, Miriya laughed scornfully.

      Khyron's cruiser was close enough to the SDF-1 that the ship's turret guns
were making serious hits on it now. The remaining Battloids on the deck were
also keeping up a steady volume of fire at the suicide ship. But that was of no
matter; in moments, the battle would be over.
      In his massively reinforced command center, Gerao braced for collision.

      "Veritechs, be ready to get clear on my command," Claudia said, having
taken over some direction of fighter ops while Lisa readied the Daedalus
Maneuver.
      Miriya swept by, only a few feet off the deck. Rick was right on her tail,
chasing her high and low, around and around.
      She went into another climb, but the irritating Micronian stayed with her
in the six o'clock position, chopping away at her with autocannon fire.
      Not that it concerned her very much; Miriya was sure she could turn on him
and kill hilm whenever she chose. But she monitored the coming impact of the
enormous ships closely. "Khyron, do not fail!"

      "Daedalus attack in five seconds," Claudia marked. "Four..."
      The Terrible Trio braced for collision; the enemy cruiser blocked the sky,
growing larger every instant.
      In one horrifying moment, Claudia realized that Lisa was paralyzed.
      Lisa saw Rick's face, saw poor dead Karl's, saw Kyle's. Over and over, so
obsessively that she failed to see the cruiser's bow filling the bridge's
forward viewbowl.
      "LISA!"
      Claudia's shout brought her back at the very last moment. Her hands were
reacting even before she could order her thoughts, flying across the controls.
She heard herself responding calmly, "Executing Daedalus attack now." It was as
if someone else were speaking.
      They felt the SDF-1 shift, its bouyancy radically altered, as the
supercarrier Daedalus was lifted clear of the water-a battering ram the size of
a hundred-fifty story building. There was the rumble of the dimensional
fortress's foot thrusters firing to keep balance. The sea boiled all around
them.
      The astoundingly powerful Robotech servos lifted the huge flatdeck clear
of the sea, thrusting it at the incoming enemy like a titanic warrior throwing a
slow-motion punch.
      Gerao saw the carrier's prow coming; it was far too late to do anything
about it. He triggered his personal ejection mechanism, to flee the ship while
he still could, leaving the rest of his crew to perish.
      The Daedalus's hurricane bow and can-opener prow had been reinforced by
Lang and his technicians to the point where they were all but invulnerable, even
against Zentraedi armor. Daedalus punched through the cruiser's hull, keelside
and forward, as if skewering it. The carrier burst through armor, structural
members, bulkheads, and systemry, smashing everything that was in its path as if
it were passing through rotted wood and plasterboard.
      The cruiser's velocity carried it into the blow, and the SDF-1's
incomparable power lifted Daedalus and the enemy vessel high. The supercarrier's
prow emerged from the cruiser's upper side, protruding more than fifty yards
beyond.
      Lisa, still monitoring the attack and shaken by her near failure, hadn't
noticed that protrusion. She was alarmed that the cruiser's residual momentum
was grinding it forward toward the SDF-1 like a wild boar coming up a hunter's
spear to deal death before it died.
      "Emergency missiles: Fire!" she said, hitting the switch.
      High above, the carrier's bow swung open and a thousand missiles screamed
out of their launchers. But instead of seeking targets within the enemy vessel,
as they were programmed to do and as they had done in the Battle at Saturn's
Rings, they boiled out into the open sky.
      Here and there they found a damaged, limping Battlepod or a disabled
Botoru tri-thruster, obliterating them; but the majority climbed, searching for
targets and rose up at-a Veritech.
      He juked and hit his countermeasures and jamming gear, giving his ship
everything he had while simultaneously screaming over the command net.
      "Lisa, this is Rick! I'm in direct line of our missiles! Abort firing!
Destruct! Destroy them!"
      She'd barely begun when he was yelling, "Mayday! Mayday, I'm hit!"
      The jolt to his wing and another to the rear stabilizers, as well as the
sudden, uncontrollable spin, let him know that there was no hope of keeping his
VT in the air. He was preparing to eject when another missile hit the fuselage
forward of the wing-just below the cockpit.
      Above the VT that pursued her and slightly farther away from the missile
barrage, Azonia gave her powered armor suit maximum emergency power, dodging and
diving. The explosions of the missiles that had hit Rick's ship had set off
fratricide explosions in other missiles, causing them to destroy one another and
upsetting the guidance systems of many more.
      She turned, dove, shook off the last of the missiles chasing her, and came
back past the SDF-1 in a low pass that clipped the tops off the ocean swells
heated by the dimensional fortress's thrusters. Her jamming equipment, the
surface clutter, and her own speed and maneuverability had somehow saved her.
Unscathed, she flashed into the sky once more as the missile barrage died away.
      Khyron's cruiser was beginning to glow and tremble from massive interior
damage and ruptured power systems. Claudia and the others moved fast to pull the
Daedalus free and back away. They were barely clear when the cruiser's engines
overloaded and it became a globe of blinding light, rocking the SDF-1 in the
water.
      "The follow-up missile attack on the enemy was a complete success!"
Claudia crowed. "Captain, the enemy ship has been totally destroyed!"

      Looking down from his hovering Battlepod, far out of the radius of battle,
missile attack, and explosion, Khyron pounded his metalshod fist against the arm
of his seat over and over.
      "No! My plans can't have failed! Not again! I won't have it!"
      Azonia's image appeared on one of his screens. "Well, Khyron, it looks as
though your perfect plan was slightly less than perfect. In fact, if it had been
any less perfect, you'd be dead too!" Her jeering laugh let him know that such
an event wouldn't have been so imperfect to her.

      The remaining enemy forces withdrew in their big saucer-like amphibious
ships. Gloval vetoed any idea of pursuit. "Let's not push our luck or theirs,
eh? The battle is over." He rose to go. "Just maintain present position."
      "Yes, Captain," Claudia responded, when Lisa didn't.
      He paused to look back at Lisa. "Oh, and Commander Hayes: I want to
commend you on the excellent job you did this afternoon."
      They all saw her shoulders shaking as she bent over her console, heard the
sobs in her voice as she replied, "Thank you, sir."
      Later, as she sat in her cabin, her head whirled with bits and pieces of
the things that were tearing at her: Rick. Karl. Kyle. Her father. Gloval. And
the fate of all the innocent people on the SDF-1...The cruel faces of the UEDC
councilors.
      And, more than anything, what she should do about it all, because Lisa
Hayes wasn't anybody's crybaby.
      But she spent most of the time thinking about Rick's frightened voice as
the missiles closed in. There's been no word yet of any sightings by the air-sea
rescue teams.
      In the end it was Rick's voice she heard over and over, Rick's face she
saw. Then for a while she did cry, wondering if she would go insane.
      "I didn't know! I just didn't know," she wept. Didn't know she would be
putting him in danger with the missiles, didn't know how deeply it would affect
her and how much she felt for him.
      Didn't know if she could go on, if he were dead.
      She gazed up to where the bulkhead met the overhead. "Please, please don't
let him die!"

      The Barracuda helo swept in low. The pilot radioed back to the search
plane, "Uh, roger, two-niner-niner. I have the dye marker in sight and now have
the chute in sight. But I have no movement, I say again, no movement."
      The helo descended, churning up the water with the backwash of the rotors.
The buoyant VT parachute was below it, lying like a dead sea nettle amid the
yellow stain of the dye marker that had automatically been released by the
wearer's safety harness on impact with the water.
      There was a figure in a flight suit, buoyed by automatic floatation
pockets that had expanded when he'd hit, his helmet having sealed itself to keep
him from drowning. But all the automatic gear was worthless if he'd been shot
while in his ship or coming down.
      Big, sinuous shapes were circling; large dorsal fins cut the water. The
rescue teams got ready for a pickup while the door gunners did a bit of shark
hunting.

      Back at the hospital in Macross City, Rick was taken into the ER,
priority. The medical personnel continued fighting their own battle long after
the killing had stopped.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was very strange. It took such an awful mishap to crystallize something that
had been so murky up until then. I'm not much for romantic fiction or tell-all
autobiographies, but from what I'd read, it's usually something grand and poetic
that brings on a realization like this, not just almost causing somebody's
death.
Lisa Hayes, Recollections

He lay covered by a protective med-bubble, attached to banks of intensive care
machinery.
      The monitor-robot overseeing his millisecond-to-millisecond care recorded:
      "Lt. Rick Hunter. Multiple lacerations, concussion and minor skull
fractures causing temporary encephalographic irregularities. No internal damage.
This unit will continue to monitor. Probable symptoms of delirium."
      Somewhere deep in his thoughts the word registered, echoing.
Delirium...delirium...
      He was off on a midnight roller coaster ride, composed of the various
wonderful and dreadful experiences he had had in wild juxtaposition throughout
the Robotech War.

      He was watching Minmei sing at the Star Bowl, staring at her wistfully.
Then an enormous blue-gray hand reached out of infinite distance and grabbed her
away. Breetai laughed against afield of stars. "You'll never get away!"
      Rick went after them in his VT, through battle and dogfight, only to be
chided by Lisa Hayes, only to crash in Macross again. He relived episodes of his
time aboard the SDF-1, while Minmei cried out for rescue. Basic training,
friction with Lisa, rat-racing against pods and a maelstrom of emotions.
      He and Max and Lisa and Ben were on Breetai's ship again. And at last he
flew his VT to where Breetai sat in the rubble of Macross City, holding Minmei
in the palm of his hand like a trained nightingale.
      But she spurned Rick's rescue, because, "Lynn-Kyle told me I can't go out
with soldiers." And then it wasn't Breetai holding her but a Lynn-Kyle big as
Breetai and wearing the Zentraedi's uniform and metal skullplate and crystal
eyepiece.
      But Kyle self-destructed, and Rick was saving Minmei again in the fist of
his Guardian, as he had the first day they'd met.

      "Observation hour ten," the monitoring robby recorded. "Lt. Hunter still
unconscious. Low-grade fever. Encephalogram remains disturbed."

      Rick and Minmei were stranded inside the SDF-1 once more. They stood
looking out at the endless Zentraedifleet, and suddenly it was Lisa standing
next to him, then Minmei again. The time stretched out to years.
      The Miss Macross pageant and photographers were all mixed into their
solitary time together somehow.

      "Patient progressing steadily," the robby told itself. "Prognosis good.
Anticipated return to consciousness in approximately one hour."

      Rick and Minmei went through their pretend wedding once more. But as he
kissed her, Dolza came crashing through the bulkhead, and suddenly Rick was
standing beside Lisa on the football field-size table in Zentraedi HQ.
      "You shall never have Minmei!" Dolza promised.
      "You belong to my world now, Rick; you belong to the service," Lisa told
him gently, with love in her eyes.

      Then it all dissolved into white light for what seemed like a half second.
But when he opened his eyes, he was lying in a hospital bed.
      Rick sat up, groaning and dizzy. "What a terrible dream that was," he
slurred.
      Terrible, yes, in parts, it occurred to him, as the dream fragments
blurred even as he sat trying to gather them into memory. But some were
wonderful, sending emotional surges through him.
      And some had just plain shocked him.

      The nurse was taking his pulse to verify what the instruments had told
her, which made Rick wonder why they bothered with the instruments.
      He groaned, bored stiff, and wondered when they would let him get back on
active duty; he had the flight surgeons to worry about in addition to the
attending physicians.
      That was assuming, of course, that fighter ops and Gloval would entrust
another VT to a pilot who'd managed to stumble into a barrage of his own side's
missiles and get shot down by them.
      "Oh, brother; what an ace," he muttered, thinking that a slightly
different pronunciation of the word might be more appropriate.
      "Hmm?" asked the nurse. She was young and attractive, with nice legs
displayed by the daring hemline of her uniform.
      But somehow he wasn't interested. "Nothing. Will I live?"
      She dropped his hand and checked his chart. "Basically, you've got a bad
bump on the canopy, flyboy. I think you'd better plan on being our guest for a
while, Lieutenant, at least until we get the results of your tests back from the
lab."
      "How come?"
      She made a wry face. "So the doctors can find out if it's really true that
pilots' heads are made out of granite."
      "Why aren't you telling jokes for the USO?"
      She patted his shoulder. "Cheer up, Lieutenant. You'll be out of here
before you know it."
      She turned to go, and he looked out the window at Macross's beautiful EVE
sky. "I've got rounds to do," she said. She opened the door. "See you later."
      He didn't hear the door close. It took him a moment to realize that he
wasn't alone. "Well, look who's here."
      Lisa stood in the open door, looking down at her feet. Then she looked up
at him miserably.
      "Hey, why the long face? Didja come to bury Caesar?"
      "Hello, Rick." She walked to his bedside, a small bouquet dangling from
her hand. He had a flashback of her face from his delirium but pushed it out of
his mind. "I came to apolo-to say I'm sorry," she confessed.
      "Apologize? Apologize for what, for Pete's sake?"
      She turned to put the flowers in a little vase, arranging them so that she
wouldn't have to meet his stare. "For your being here. We both know it's my
fault that your VT was downed and you were injured."
      He couldn't believe what he'd just heard from the ever-in-control
Commander Hayes. "Lisa, I have nobody to blame but myself. I made a mistake in
judgment and that's it, see?"
      She brought the flowers to his nightstand. "Thanks for your generosity."
      He snorted, "What's happened to that old command confidence? This isn't
like you at all."
      He still sees me as just a martinet, an old lifer! She went to crumple up
the wrapping paper angrily and toss it out. "No, Lieutenant, I don't suppose it
is, at that! Anyway-I've said what I came to say, and now I have to get back to
my duties on the bridge. Get well."
      "Thanks, Lisa. Drop by again?"
      As she closed the door: "I don't think so, Lieutenant. I'll be too busy."

      On the bridge, Claudia stopped trying to pretend she was taking care of
minor duties and turned to where Lisa stood with head bowed over her console,
lost in thought.
      "How is Lieutenant Hunter, Lisa?" Lisa turned around, startled and
downcast. Claudia sympathized. "Come on, baby; it can't be as bad as all that."
      "You're wrong."
      Claudia held folded hands to her bosom. " `And now the sting of Cupid's
arrow strikes home!"'
      Lisa's mouth dropped open. "What?"
      "You needn't be ashamed to talk about it, Lisa. I know what it's like to
be in love, y' know. Roy and I started out the same way."
      "But you two love each other!"
      Claudia put her hands on hips. "Of course, silly. So what's the
difference?"
      Lisa was practically gnawing her fingertips. "I don't think Rick cares."
      Claudia leaned close, towering over her. "It's very simple, Lisa. If
you're in love with him, go after him! You're in love with Rick Hunter, isn't
that true?"
      She sighed, nodding slightly. "What should I do, Claudia?"
      "Be a woman! Stop moping and-" She gave Lisa a light cuff on the shoulder.
"Smile more often!"
      The hatch had slid open, and Gloval was on the bridge. "Let me know as
soon as logisitics has loaded all supplies."
      The two women saluted. "It's already been ordered, Captain," Claudia
replied.
      He studied the two women, so vital to the survival of the SDF-1. "Is there
anything else I should know?"
      "No, sir," Claudia said blithely. "I was updating Commander Hayes on other
military procedures just now."
      "Umm." Gloval stroked his dark mustache. "Well, it's unlikely we'll need
much hand-to-hand combat expertise up here on the bridge, but carry on."
      He turned to go, and Claudia slipped Lisa a wink.

      Rick was listening to Minmei singing on the radio, alternatively recalling
shards of his dreams and putting them out of his mind, when the door opened and
uniforms started pouring through.
      "Hi there, buddy. How goes it?"
      Roy Fokker grinned, Max and Ben bringing up the rear. "Big Brother!" Rick
said happily, sitting up in bed.
      "Y' just can't keep outta trouble, can you? Here." He tossed Rick a gift-
wrapped package that was just about the right size for a new robe he had no use
for.
      Ben cocked an ear to the little radio. "Hey, it's Minmei! That's great!"
He fiddled with the volume control.
      "Aw, can it, Dixon." Rick slapped the thing off.
      Ben stood looking bewildered and hurt. "Whatsa matter?"
      "I just like it quiet, all right?"
      Ben wore his bemused, goodnatured look, scratching a hairstyle that
resemble a fuzzy brown turnip. "Absolutely! Anything you say, skipper! You're
the boss!"
      "So tell me something, y' big loafer," Roy intervened. "When're you gonna
quit playing invalid?"
      "`Playing' isn't the right word, Roy."
      Max grinned. "What you need is a visit from someone like Minmei, to come
over and give you a command performance right here."
      Rick turned on him so angrily that Max clapped a hand over his own mouth.
Then Rick leaned back on his mound of pillows, head resting on hands. "I don't
imagine Minmei's very interested in a washout like me."
      Ben sounded his heartiest. "Well, then maybe you oughta introduce her to a
certified flying ace like myself, Lieutenant." He laughed loudly.
      Rick sat up again, fist clenched. "How about a punch in the nose?"
      Roy was on his feet, one hand on Ben's shoulder. To Rick, he said, "Easy,
tiger; Ben didn't mean anything."
      Big as Ben was, Roy lifted him onto tiptoes without much trouble. "Let's
go, ace, before you make his condition any worse."
      As he dragged Ben off, Roy threw back, "Glad to see you're okay, kid!"
      Max asked Rick, "Has Minmei been here? I thought the flowers-"
      "No; they're from Commander Hayes."
      As Roy paused to open the door, Ben got out, "So what's wrong with that?"
      Roy caught his arm. "I said c'mon!"
      Ben got off a salute and a "See ya later!" before Roy yanked him out of
sight.
      "Well, it was nice of her to bring flowers, wasn't it?" Max persisted.
"Uh, skipper?" Rick wasn't listening, arms folded and chin sunk on chest.
      Max saluted uncertainly. "Well, get well soon, sir. Be seein' ya."
      Out in the street, Roy told Ben and Max, "At this rate he'll be laid up
for months. Guess I'll have to do something to get Little Brother out of this
depression."
      Ben wore an even more baffled look than usual. "But how, Commander?"
      Roy wore a rakish smile. "There's only one kind of medicine that I can
think of that'll cheer him up."

      Variations, his favorite coffee shop, was fairly busy for that time of
day, and so Claudia had a little trouble finding him.
      She gave him her bright, winsome smile as she joined him at a window table
for two. "Hi, hon; what's the urgent summons all about?" She leaned closer to
breathe, "Official business or personal?"
      He showed a roguish smile. "A little of both."
      She looked him over. "This Minmei business you mentioned better be the
official part."
      "Yep. I have a friend who could use some cheering up; I need to talk to
her."
      She considered that. "Easy enough; she's making a motion picture. You'll
find her on the set every day. Now, could we get to the personal part, Commander
Fokker?"
      He leered at her fondly. "How personal d' you wanna get?"
      "Dinner tonight?"
      He was coming to his feet. "You got it, kid, but only if you make your
famous pineapple salad. But I've gotta get going. See you about seven, okay?"
      She watched him rush off again. The SDF-1's new predicament-the work to
reequip and rearm combat units, train replacements, restock all supplies, do all
maintenance and repair work possible-still left them little time together.
      Sure, Commander Fokker, she thought calculatingly. Dinner tonight and,
although you may not know it yet, breakfast tomorrow.


CHAPTER TWENTY
So Sammie gave me this puzzled look and said, "But we know perfectly well how
bad things look, Claudia. But that's exactly the time when we should go into
town and have fun! Didn't you know that?"
All I could do was explain that us old folks are often forgetful and send the
Terrible Trio on their way. Whatever they have, there're times when I could sure
use some.
Lt. Claudia Grant, in a letter to Lt. Commdr. Roy Fokker

Bron, Konda, and Rico looked down at the street-corner huckster's portable
table, transfixed by fear, awe, and the deeper impulses that their sojourns
among the Micronians had awakened.
      "Not available in any store!" the huckster ran through his spiel. "Dancing
and singing just like the real thing! Batteries not included. Wouldn't you love
to have a Minmei doll of your very own?"
      Bron, hands clasped reverently, nodded furiously, proclaiming, "I'd love
to have one of my very own!"
      He was squatting now, eyes level with the table, as were his companions.
The little mechanical dolls in their bright crimson and gold mandarin robes,
black hair bunned and braided like Miss Macross's, didn't actually dance; their
movements were more like penguins'. But that didn't stop the gathered children
and adolescents from scooping them up.
      The huckster, a black-bearded, bald-headed, burly fellow, was doing a
land-office business. Nobody even wanted to look at bare-chested swordsman dolls
or lovable stuffed cutsies anymore. The girls wanted Minmei, the boys wanted
mecha-although sometimes it was just the opposite.
      "It must be Robotechnology!" Rico muttered to his companions. And a secret
weapon, too, he suspected, from its hypnotic effect on him.
      The spies had a hopeless long-distance crush on Minmei and an all-
consuming yearning to have one of the dolls. But money was still a problem, as
it had been since the beginning of their mission.
      "We must seize one of them," Konda decided. "On my signal-now!"
      They came surging up, upsetting the table and knocking the huckster back
off balance as he squawked, "Hey, watch it! Ahh!"
      The crowd milled, and shoved; Minmei dolls slid or were lofted all over
the place as the huckster landed on his rear.
      "Grab it!" Konda yelled, and Rico got his hands on one, taking it quickly
but lovingly. The fearless espionage agents made their escape in the confusion,
clutching their critical item of enemy technology. They could hear the huckster
swearing that somebody would be made to pay.
      They didn't return directly to the hideout they'd established, of course;
that would have been poor tactics. They had to make sure they weren't being
pursued.
      They couldn't risk having their refuge compromised; it was filled with
critical pieces of human instrumentation, things that would give Commander in
Chief Dolza and the other Zentraedi lords vital intelligence data and perhaps
the key to overcoming the Micronians. There was a piano, an assortment of movie
posters, a box of kitchen utensils, radios, TVs and personal computers, a food
processor, a bicycle wheel, several street signs, a Miss Macross jigsaw puzzle,
and a jumble of broken toys from the city's charity discard bins that the spies
so loved.
      Every time they thought about their plunder, the spies' chests swelled
with pride. But this! A Minmei doll! A crowning achievement!

      The Terrible Trio paced through the streets of Macross City in the throes
of a real crisis.
      Kim groused, "will you look at us? Walking around town with a day off and
nothing to do? No place to go? Ugh, how boring!"
      "Ew," Vannessa agreed.
      "Yuck," Sammie concurred.
      To top it all off, they were dressed for a real good time: Vanessa wore
white slacks and a Gigiwear sport coat with the sleeves shot back, Sammie was in
a prim but cute outfit that looked like she belonged in the Easter parade, and
Kim wore a revealing citypants outfit set off by saddle shoes and knee socks.
      "And not a man in sight!" Sammie piped up. "It's a lot worse than just
boring!"
      An abrupt commotion off to one side drew their attention. With pounding
feet, three figures came dashing, just about tumbling, around the corner. There
were three guys, a big husky one and a tall lean one and a small, wiry one,
panting and frantic. They crowded on top of one another as they hid around the
corner, looking back the way they'd come.
      The three spies had recently plugged the special Protoculture chip given
them by Breetai into an unguarded portion of the SDF-1's systemry. The towering
commander had made it clear that the chip was valuable, irreplaceable, one of a
very limited number remaining from the research of Zor himself. The chip would
slowly draw on surrounding components and the ship's power to create a pod for
their escape. Exedore had been loath to spend the irreplaceable chip even on so
important a mission, but Breetai had decided that the spies' return must be
assured. And so, they must be sure they weren't pursued.
      "Anyone following us, Bron?" the little one said between gulps of air.
      "What's the merchant doing?" the tall, lean one panted.
      Gasping for breath, the husky one said, "He seems to be sitting there,
trying to get the other dolls back."
      Rico turned, gloating over their prize, holding the little toy up to
inspect it gleefully. "Look: Minmei!" The other two bent near, feasting their
eyes on it. "Ah!" exclaimed Rico. "Robotech-Robo-uhhh."
      He'd noticed something; when Bron and Konda looked up, they too saw three
young Micronian females standing nearby, studying them strangely.
      Rico was the one among them with a certain presence of mind. He stood up
at once, whisking the doll behind his back, sweating profusely. "Um, hello! W-w-
we're strolling!" The other two nodded diligently in agreement, showing their
teeth in unconvincing smiles.
      Sammie pointed at them and declared. "Yeah? It looks to me like you're
playing with a Minmei doll!"
      "D-d-dunno what you mean!" Rico insisted. But the three spies were
terrified that their valiant mission had run its course, defeated by the
malevolent Micronian genius for war and intrigue.
      Sammie shrugged. "It's just that I've never seen a grown man playing with
a doll before."
      "Adults don't do it?" Bron burst out, trading astounded looks with his
cohorts.
      Sammie sniggered. "Silly man! Only kids play with dolls."
      The spies reflected on the perversely complicated, often contradictory
behavioral code the Micronians maintained-no doubt as a safeguard against
infiltration by outsiders. A matter of warped genius, and now it had worked;
they had blundered and come to the attention of what appeared to be three
patrolling secret police.
      Vanessa resettled her glasses and took a closer look at the three nerds
she and her friends had stumbled across. "What planet d' you come from, anyway?"
      Bron went, "Duly" and almost fainted. Konda blurted, "We come from right
around here!" and Rico did the best he could, although he was sure they were
about to be apprehended and tortured. "Yeah, we work right across the street."
He'd heard somebody say it a day or two before, and it seemed to be some kind of
verification or identity-establishing phrase.
      The spies had learned about "work," a noncombat function considered
demeaning and suitable only for slaves among the Zentraedi yet somehow desirable
and even admirable among the deviate Micronians.
      The Terrible Trio looked where he was pointing. It was one of the loudest,
most garish spots in Macross City, ablaze with lights and raucous music. The
sign over it said, Disco BAMBOO HOUSE.
      Kim clapped her hands. "You mean you work at the disco? We go to the
Bamboo House all the time!"
      Sammie gave them an even closer look. "I wonder why we've never seen any
of you there?"
      Bron began, "Uh, what is a dis-" before Rico got an elbow into his middle
and he subsided.
      Sammie grabbed Rico's wrist. These three guys might be slightly strange,
but what the heck? Weird as they were, they worked at the disco, and that would
at least mean that they could dance.
      "I've got an idea," she said, batting her eyelashes. "Why don't we all
check it out together?"
      "What a wonderful idea!" Kim threw a fist in the air in elation.
      Vanessa figured it was better than another few hours of trudging around
town. "I want the big, handsome one," she said, winking at Bron. All the color
left his face, and his knees knocked.
      Sammie was towing Rico into the street; he didn't dare to resist too much
or put up a fight.
      "Come with me," she pouted.
      "Can't we talk this over?" Rico bleated.
      Was this as innocent as the females were making it out to be, or were they
superlatively well trained counterespionage agents with a clever plan to drive
the Zentraedi spies into paranoid madness and thus make them easier to
interrogate?
      Bron whispered to Konda, "D' you suppose this disco thing is some
Micronian method of torture?"
      Kim and Vanessa were looking at them expectantly. Konda hissed, "We must
perform our duty as Zentraedi!"
      Their chins came up, and their mouths became ruled lines; they advanced
bravely to endure whatever sadistic, ultimate torment the experience called
"disco" might hold in store.

      The cruiser that had been completely destroyed was only a minor part of
Khyron's titanic flagship, a part that was now slowly being replaced by the
organic growth characteristics of Protoculture.
      In the command post bubble overlooking the flagship's bridge, Khyron stood
alone, raging at the figure on the projecbeam screen. He'd driven out all his
subordinates, even the faithful Grel, determined that they would not witness his
helpless fury before the mockery of the woman warrior Miriya.
      "How dare you question my leadership abilities?" he railed at her. "Just
who do you think you are?"
      She stood projected before him, erect and lithe, a tall woman with a
flowing mane of green-black hair. She drew herself up even taller. "I am the
backbone of the Quadrono Battalion, and the finest combat pilot in all the
Zentraedi forces."
      Khryon snarled, "Your ego will one day cause your destruction, Miriya."
      One corner of her mouth tugged upward. "Just as yours caused you to be
defeated by the Micronians yet again and made you an object of ridicule to all
those whom you command, Backstabber?"
      He pointed a finger at her. "Because you have never faced a capable
opponent, you believe you're something special. But take care, little Miriya!
For there is one aboard the alien ship whom you cannot best!"
      She heard the would-be taunt with calm interest. "So! A superior pilot, a
super-ace, aboard the SDF-1? Interesting!"
      She smiled just the slightest bit, dimples appearing at the sides of her
mouth, giving her a beautifully hungry, dangerously feline look. "I'd like to
meet him!"

      Huh! Everything's phony! Roy thought, looking around the movie set.
Somehow he'd never believed it even though that was what people had always said.
But the little Shao-lin temple and its shrine and the trees, plants, and grass
were all a variety of cunningly fabricated plastic and other synthetics from the
ship's protean Robotech minifactories.
      People were running around yelling, mostly being rude to one another. You
could tell who was more important, because the other person would just have to
stand there and take it. Roy heard things that would have started major
fistfights in a barracks, differences in rank notwithstanding.
      A man he recognized as Vance Hasslewood, Minmei's personal manager and now
codirector of her movie, was running around being important. "Let's set up for
the next shot!" "Minmei, Kyle: Relax for a few minutes!" "Wardrobe? Listen,
sweetie, those blouses are awful!"
      Roy tuned him out, strolling around a phony corner and glancing up a phony
staircase. "Well, hey!"
      Minmei squealed. "Commander Fokker!" and came racing down the steps to
him. She wore a Chinese peasant-style tunic and trousers combination, her hair
gathered tightly and done up in a long braid in back.
      He looked down on her fondly from his rangy height. "How's everybody's
favorite recording star?"
      She gestured around at the lights and all the other equipment. "Trying to
be an actress. I get to play the cute little heroine."
      "Sounds like fun," Roy lied; it looked like appalling drudgery, but then,
it was probably tolerable to people who couldn't fly.
      "Oh, it is!" she enthused. "But-where's Rick? Is he hiding?" She glanced
around.
      "'Fraid Rick couldn't make it this time."
      Her hand flew to her mouth. "He's not hurt, is he?"
      "Not seriously, but he's gonna have to spend some time in the hospital,
and I thought you might like to stop in and see him."
      Roy's voice took on a slightly harder edge. "That is, if you can spare
time from all this." He indicated the overturned anthill confusion of the movie
set with a disdainful toss of his shaggy blond head. "I'm convinced a visit from
you would be worth more than all the medicine in the world."
      Minmei had discovered that life on a movie set was a lot less exciting
than she'd pictured it-tedious and time-consuming and endlessly repetitive, just
the opposite of what she'd envisioned. She still aspired to superstardom, but
the movies' hold over her was less now.
      Besides, even though she was flighty, she wasn't blind to the things she
owed Rick Hunter. The news that he had been wounded brought out the very best in
her-so winning that few people could resist it-and perhaps a sense of real
drama.
      "Of course I will! If it weren't for Rick Hunter, I wouldn't even be
alive!"
      Roy gave her a broad conspiratorial smile. "Atta girl!"
      "Commander!"
      Roy and Minmei turned together to see Lynn-Kyle striding their way. He
glowered at them, an angry young man in a black, white-trimmed jacket and
trouser costume. "If you're through wasting Minmei's time, I wonder if we could
get back to work?"
      Roy took his time staring down his nose at Kyle. He'd heard all the
stories about the fight at the White Dragon, He wondered if Kyle had heard the
adage that a good big man will beat a good little man every time...
      But Roy knew even more about women than he knew about martial arts and, it
is a verifiable fact, preferred the former. Kyle was playing the heavy without
even being coaxed; let it be so.
      "Of course." He smiled blandly at Lynn-Kyle.
      A little frown had crossed Minmei's face at her cousin's boorishness. Then
Vance Hasslewood was yelling for his stars-the first team, as he called them.
      Minmei's mood appeared to brighten; but Roy wasn't sure, and neither was
Kyle. She went running toward the set; Kyle spared Roy a steely look and turned
to follow.
      Roy left the sound stage whistling happily. He was still feeling pretty
smug when the com unit in his jeep toned for his attention. "What is it?"
      It was Lisa's voice. "Commander Fokker, one enemy ship has broken out of
the fleet and is heading this way, closing fast. Two Vermilion Veritechs are on
scramble, and Captain Gloval directs you to take command of the flight and
intercept."
      "Who's on?"
      "Sterling and Dixon," Lisa answered. "Captain Kramer will have your Skull
Team standing by for backup as needed."
      "Good," Roy told her. "If things begin to boil, I always like those Jolly
Rogers around."
      The EVE system was off, and the distant reaches of the stupendous hold
were above him. Roy Fokker roared his jeep down through a quiet Macross,
wondering what the fight was going to be like this time.


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There are few more indicative incidents in the Robotech War, from my viewpoint,
than this sudden transference of impulse and disobedience from Khyron to Miriya.
The evidence of what was happening was all around them, but still the Zentraedi
High Command was, in any meaningful sense, blind to it.
Zeitgeist, Alien Psychology

"Sound general quarters," Gloval said, his calm, level voice enveloping the
bridge. "Prepare pin-point defense shields. Tell fighter ops to scramble
Vermilions."
      The new attack had come, as Gloval had feared, right in the middle of his
own political offensive-his effort to make an end run around the Council.
      If anybody aboard the dimensional fortress was curious about his encrypted
"back-channel" calls to unnamed addressees since his return from the Alaskan
fiasco and his silence on the issue of the Council's insane mandates, they'd
kept it to themselves. Good crew! No one could ask for better.
      The single enemy ship was drawing nearer. The exhausted and heroic
logistics people, straining to do an impossible job of taking on the endless
rations, ordnance, equipment, life support consumables, and the rest, had
secured themselves; the ship was battening down.
      The turnaround time for a supercarrier in pre-Global Civil War days,
included shipyard overhaul and the rest, ran as much as six months; the United
States Navy was doing well if it had half its carrier groups at sea at any one
time. The SDF-1 had had less than a week to lick its wounds, and unless Gloval's
plan worked, it would get no more, but be driven out into space once again.

      In the Disco Bamboo House, the three spies, sweating and exhausted from a
brave effort to keep up with the torturous convolutions the Micronian females
called "dancing," were shocked and worried by the sudden alarms but also
relieved. The Terrible Trio's endurance on the dance floor was simply not to be
believed.
      The women dove for their things, about to head for the door. Sammie
stopped to pat Rico's cheek. "You have the strangest style I ever saw, but it
was fun!"
      Vanessa gave Bron a quick hug. "Let's do it again soon, boys!"
      And Kim, blowing a kiss to Konda as she and the others hurried to go,
yelled, "We really had a good time!"
      Standing there and watching them go, Konda said wonderingly, "You know-I
did, too."
      The other two looked at him for a moment but then nodded in agreement.

      Khyron's words had not seared long at Miriya's pride before she'd taken
action.
      Now, her own attack cruiser threw off the heat of atmospheric entry
unfeelingly, and she and her Quadrono stalwarts poised for the moment when they
could go hunting.
      Indicators signaled GO. Encased in their top-heavy looking powered armor,
the Quadronos stepped one after another into the drop bays.
      They were released seemingly at random but all in a plan to assume a
combat-drop formation, backpack thrusters blaring, forming up for the assault on
the SDF-1.
      Inside the green-tinted face bowl of her interior suit, the light gave
Miriya's complexion a verdant tinge. "I am looking for one particular enemy
fighter," she told the massed assault mecha behind her. "He will show himself by
superior performance. When he has been identified, you will maintain distance
and leave his execution to me, personally! Am I understood?"
      That was confirmed all through her mingled force of Quadrono mecha and
tri-thrusters. Miriya monitored her powered armor and contemplated her kill.
      There were so many things that made this violation of standing orders so
irresistible! There was the chance to show up that posturing fool Khyron; the
opportunity to meet an enemy worthy of her mettle (for in his taunt, the
Backstabber had been right on target-she'd never met an antagonist she regarded
as her equal); a way to defy Azonia; a chance to have the Robotech Masters sing
the name of Miriya; a crack at ending this war once and for all, to her own
personal glory; and of course that ultimate thrill, flirting with complete
disaster.
      Because if she failed-and Miriya never had-then all would probably be
taken from her, her life included. But what was any of it for, if not for the
risking? She lived for combat and victory. It was as easy to keep bleeding prey
from the jaws of a lioness, as it was to protect the foe from Miriya's attack.

      This time, the SDF-1 was ready.
      Cat crews nosed up VTs in the launch boxes; the flight decks of the
dimensional fortress and Daedalus and Prometheus were cluttered with combat
aircraft, looking like toys under a Christmas tree from the lofty height of the
bridge. The VTs' wings were at minimum sweep, ready for launch.
      Lisa Hayes had already given Ben and Max the go. Lt. Moira Flynn, cat crew
officer, pointed to her shooter. A moment later, Max Sterling rode a rocket off
a bow catapult at 200 knots, while Ben Dixon "Yahoooed" off a waist cat a moment
later.
      Lisa asked over the intercom, "Is Commander Fokker's ship ready for
takeoff?"
      Claudia left her station-left it entirely!-and strode over to Lisa. "Is
Roy leading that intercept flight?"
      Lisa bit back what she'd been about to say: You mean he didn't tell you?
"Yes, Claudia."
      Roy pulled on his VT helmet-the "thinking cap," as some liked to call it-
as his own trusty Skull fighter's forward landing gear was boxed up by the cat
crew.
      "Good hunting, Commander," Lisa said, her face on his display screen
looking as worried and self-contained as ever.
      "I'm more interested in hunting for a pineapple salad," he radioed back.
      Lisa couldn't quite believe her ears. She tried to get a confirmation on
the pineapple salad transmission as Claudia laughed behind her hand and Gloval
marveled at the resilience of young people.

      Roy, Max, and Ben joined another flight of VTs off Prometheus. In command,
Roy took them up and up, going ballistic, all of them eager for the dogfight
that had been forced upon them.
      Roy looked at them, a bit dismayed. None of the VTs had fought with
Quadronos on an even footing yet, except for Rick, who hadn't come out of it so
well.
      But Roy remembered the souped-up Zentraedi better than anyone, and if the
SDF-1 was facing a division of them, that was all she wrote. Endgame.
      "Dogfight?" muttered Ben. "You Zentraedi ain't hardly been bit yet! Now,
it's lockjaw time!"

      Now. Where is this great enemy ace that Khyron fears so? mused Miriya as
she and the first few of her armored Quadrono deployed under power to engage a
slightly lesser number of enemy aircraft.
      She howled a Zentraedi word, a Quadrono battle cry that translated as
"Smite them from the sky!"
      Immediately the Quadrono battle suits began pouring forth a cascade of
fire. The Veritechs dove up into it eagerly, dodging and jamming missiles,
betting their reflexes against the enemy's.
      Roy did a wingover and banked as a Quadrono's redhot beams ranged past
him. Skull leader did a loop that would have torn the wings off any other
fighter ever built, then centered the bulky, top-heavy-looking Quadrono in his
gunsight reticle, and thumbed the trigger.
      He had a lot of bad-tasting memories in his mouth of how an armored bogey
just like this one had rousted him and cost him men in the attack near Luna's
orbit. A lot of that pain went away as he watched the Quadrono's head module
cave in, then be plowed to nothingness by high-density rounds.
      The alien mecha fell, leaving a long, curlicuing trail of oily, red-black
smoke.
      "Scratch one," whispered Roy Fokker to himself, and went looking for
scratch two.
      They fought their way up above the cloud cover. One Quadrono burst
through, pursuing Ben's banking VT; a second followed, folding into some sort of
bizarre fetal configuration, only to bring forth a hornet's nest of missiles.
      The missiles moved faster than the eye could follow, detectable only by
their flaming wakes and corkscrewing trails of smoke. Somehow, though, they
weren't fast enough to get Max Sterling; he twisted and rolled his VT through
seemingly impossible maneuvers, jamming some of the missiles' guidance systems,
getting others to commit fratricide, and just plain outflying the rest.
      He was putting his Veritech through mechamorphosis even before the last of
them had gone by. Changing to Battloid mode, he leapt down at his attacker like
a cross between a sleek, superswift gunship and Sir Lancelot.
      Max fired his autocannon, riddling the Quadrono and blowing it to burning
shreds that fell almost lazily. He turned just in time to catch a Quadrono that
was trying to sneak up on him. The Robotech chain-gun made its howling, buzzsaw
sound again, and the alien became nosediving wreckage.
      Miriya had seen it all, the blue-trimmed VT's latest victory in its
rampage across the sky. No Zentraedi had been able to stand against it; who else
could this be but Khyron's vaunted Micronian champion?
      She cut in full power, diving at him like a rocket-powered hawk. "Now you
die!"
      Except dying wasn't on Max Sterling's agenda today. He dodged her first
volley and got a few rounds into her armor as she zigzagged past.
      Miriya turned and loosed a flight of missiles that arced and looped at the
Battloid, leaving ribbons of trail as graceful as the streamers on a maypole. He
dodged those, too, while he charged straight at her, firing all the time. An
unbelievable piece of flying.
      "You devil!" Miriya grated softly, almost fondly, knowing now what a
pleasure it was going to be to kill him. The powered armor and the Battloid
whirled and pounced, the upper hand changing sides a dozen times in a few
seconds. Miriya was astounded; could this Micronian have artificially enhanced
reflexes and telepathic powers? That was certainly the way he flew his aircraft.
      She went into a ballistic climb, and Max got a sustained burst into the
Quadrono's backpack thrusterpower unit. Miriya's mecha trailed sparks and flame
as it tumbled back down but suddenly straightened out again; she played hurt and
turned the tables once more.
      Her particle cannon pounded away at the Battloid, knocking it back as
several rounds hit home. Max regained stability by shifting back to Veritech
mode and taking evasive action to get a little elbow room before going at it
again.
      Miriya laughed like some wild huntress and pursued him down through the
clouds, crying, "You can't dodge forever!"

      "That's very odd," Lisa murmured. "Those alien mecha aren't attacking us.
In fact, they seem to be holding off, covering the one that engaged Max
Sterling."
      Claudia nodded. "It seems like the leader, or whoever it is, has a
personal vendetta against Max."
      "Who can understand the mind of a combat pilot?" Gloval shrugged.
"Especially an alien one?"
      "There must be some reason Max has been singled out."
      She was right. "Order the lieutenant to retreat. If they continue to
pursue him, it will mean that the target isn't SDF-1."

      Max received Roy's order with a good deal of bewilderment. "Retreat? Wa-
wait, I don't get it!"
      It would not be exactly true to say that he was having a good time, but he
was doing what he did best-did better than anyone else alive. Bashful,
unassuming Max Sterling could afford to be deferential and mild-mannered on the
ground. It was a kind of wide-eyed but honest noblesse oblige, because in aerial
combat he lived life at lightspeed and ruled the sky.
      "That bandit on your tail is trying too hard," Roy explained. "They want
to find out what his game is."
      "You got it," Max said amicably. He thought there was something different
about this one. At any rate, whoever this alien was, he was one hot pilot.
      Max shoved his stick into the corner for a pushover and dove for the
surface of the ocean. The Quadrono powered armor streaked after.

      Watching the instruments on the dimensional fortress's bridge, Gloval came
to his feet. "So, now we know."

      Roy's gift box hadn't contained a bathrobe at all but rather his treasured
and superb collection of miniature aircraft.
      Rick's favorite was also Roy's: a fragile yellow World War I fighter, a
German Fokker triplane with black Iron Cross markings, made at the time of that
conflict and nearly a century old. "Fokker, Little Brother, that's me!" as Roy
liked to say.
      The door opened, and Rick looked to it uninterestedly. Then, abruptly, he
was sitting bolt upright in bed. "Minmei!"
      She was looking very stylish in a long, red suede coat with white fur
collar and cuffs and a pair of yellow tinted aviator glasses. "I hope you don't
mind; you didn't look like you were sleeping, so..."
      He hastily put the toys aside as she came over to him. Whatever subtle
things the movie makeup and hairstyle people were doing to her looked great.
"Nice big room," she said brightly, glancing around. Her eyes fell on the
flowers for a moment.
      "It's wonderful to see you."
      "I must look an absolute mess," she fished a little, "but I came right
over from the studio when I heard you were hurt."
      "How'd you find out? Not many people know." Casualty figures and many
details of the war were still classified.
      "Commander Fokker told me. He came by the set this afternoon to visit me."
She patted the bed. "D' you mind if I sit down?"
      That's another one I owe you, Big Brother! thought Rick.
      "Mm, this is nice," Minmei said, stretching out at the foot of the bed.
Her eyes fluttered, and she yawned charmingly, then laid her head on her arm.
      "You look tired."
      "I'm exhausted, Rick. There just doesn't seem to be enough time in the day
to do the things I'm supposed to do now."
      "Would you like to just lie there and get some sleep for a little while,
Minmei?"
      Her eyes were already closed. "That would be wonderful! If I could just
stay here...for a little while..."
      She was asleep in seconds. Watching her, he mused, I don't understand
what's happening to our world, Minmei, or what's going to become of us. But your
safety and well-being makes everything worthwhile to me.
      He sat with his knees drawn up under the sheet, arms folded across them
and chin resting on his arms, watching her sleep. He couldn't remember the last
time he'd felt so happy.

      "Let's get on with it!" howled Roy Fokker, putting a final burst into a
damaged Quadrono mecha and sending another Zentraedi flier to the great beyond.
The skull-and-crossbones VT banked and dove, looking for new quarry in a sky
crowded with missile tracks, alien beams and annihilation discs, gatling tracers
and explosions.
      The enemy leader and Max were still battling it out for the championship,
but Roy and the other VT pilots weren't about to let the rest of the invaders
hang around like wallflowers. The RDF fliers were ready and willing to fill
their dance card.
      The Quadronos didn't hesitate, either. And so: the dance of death.
      Captain Kramer, Roy's Skull Team second in command, had shown up with
reinforcements when it became clear that the single combat between Max and the
enemy leader wasn't simply a diversionary tactic.
      Now, Roy pulled out of an Immelmann, split S and zapped another Quadrono
just as he saw Kramer zoom past with a Zentraedi on his tail. Roy went after to
help, but he was too late; the captain's ship was already in flames.
      "Kramer, punch out, damn it!" Roy yelled, waxing the one who'd hit Kramer.
"You're clear, boy! Punch out!"
      Kramer ejected as another Skull pilot called the SDF-1 air-sea rescue. The
captain should have left his chute undeployed until he had fallen well out of
the dogfight, but it opened for some reason. Roy figured that meant that Kramer
had been hit and his ejection seat's automatic systems had taken over.
      Roy circled anxiously, determined to make sure none of the invaders took
advantage of Kramer's vulnerability. The grizzled captain had been with Skull
Team for years, had flown off the old flatdeck Kenosha with him in the Global
Civil War. Kramer was the oldest VT Pilot on the roster, and Roy meant to see
that he got older.
      The Skull Leader was so intent on watching over his friend that for once
he was careless. He didn't realize it until bolts from a Quadrono chest-cannon
blew pieces from his plane.
      "Ahh," he groaned, with pain like white hot pokers being thrust through
him. Ben Dixon came to his rescue and engaged the Zentraedi before it could make
another pass, but Roy's VT began losing altitude, trailing smoke.
      The dogfight raged away from him like a tornado of combat ships and
weapons fire as Kramer's limp form glided peacefully toward the sea.


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There quite simply had never been anything like it, and veteran fighter pilots
who witnessed it shook their heads and did quite a bit less boasting for a
while.
Zachary Fox, Jr. VT: the Men and the Mecha

Max and Miriya still fought their incredible duel across the sky.
      Max had gone back to Battloid mode, and the two darted and zigzagged like
maddened dragonflies. Max released another flight of missiles that she avoided,
then nearly clipped her with a tracer-bright stream of gatling rounds.
      But she evaded him again. It was the most difficult, dangerous,
exhilarating contest Max had ever been in; his sense of time had slipped away,
and he didn't think of victory so much as excelling, of outperforming his foe.
      For Miriya it was different. Not only had she not destroyed the Micronian,
she'd come very close to being killed herself. He was as good as Khyron had said
and better. For the first time, she was beginning to know what her own
opponents, her long list of kills, had felt.
      Perhaps, as the ancient wisdom goes, there is always someone better than
oneself. The thought repelled her and filled her with an angry dread.
      She came tearing through a small white puff of cloud to see that the SDF-1
was close by. "His ship!'
      She made straight for it at maximum speed. Perhaps in tight quarters with
his own unprotected fellow beings all around, he would know a hesitation to
shoot, would lose concentration.
      It was a deliciously audacious, risky plan; she adored it.
      "I won't be able to catch him in time!" Max hollered over the command net,
seeing what this brilliant, devious enemy had in mind.

      "They're heading this way, Captain-straight for us!" Lisa reported.
      "Tell the AA batteries not to fire!" Gloval barked. "Sterling is too close
to the enemy! Make sure all hatches are sealed! Double-check that all civilians
are in shelters!"
      The banshee song of sirens echoed through the stupendous hold that housed
Macross City.
      Rick looked up from his peaceful contemplation of the sleeping Minmei. He
got to his feet, then staggered for a moment as his bandaged head pounded like a
bass drum. He had no idea what the procedure was for patients and visitors
during an alert.
      Minmei hadn't even stirred. Rick found the corridor empty; he didn't know
it, but doctors, nurses, and other staff members were busy helping priority
patients-newborns, intensive care, and other nonambulatories. He could hear
internal hatches booming shut.
      Rick looked at Minmei; for the moment she was as safe where she was as
anywhere he could think of. He had to find out what was going on. Rick trotted
off to find someone, his head punishing him with every step.

      Most of the exterior hatches on the SDF-1 were sealed, of course, the ship
being at general quarters. But one wasn't: the one through which the air-sea
rescue helo had just left to make the pickup on Captain Kramer.
      The enormous hatch couldn't be closed quickly, but it was more than half
closed already. Miriya saw it and dove through it, into the dimensional
fortress.
      "This is it!" Max steeled himself and followed grimly, his ship in Fighter
mode. His rear stabilizers barely cleared the descending upper half of the
hatch; the VT's gleaming belly nearly scraped the lower.
      He chased the giant powered armor suit through a long curve of enormous
passageway usually used to shuttle large machinery, components, and vehicles to
and from the fabrication complex situated near Macross City.
      "Run, little man, run," Miriya beckoned, watching him approaching in her
rearview screen while simultaneously flying at hair-raising speed through the
relatively tight passageway. "And when you catch me, you die."

      Rick was gazing out through a permaglass window in the solarium, watching
the last few civilians scuttle into shelters, when outside debris began falling
from overhead.
      An enormous figure dropped to the streets of Macross, making the ship
tremble. Rick found himself staring at the back of the Quadrono's head.
      They're inside the ship! We're finished! The Quadrono's back thrusters
flared, and it went racing down the street, taller than some of the buildings,
its backwash nearly knocking out the solarium windows.
      Rick had barely regained his balance when another cyclopean form dropped
from above. Rick recognized the Battloid's markings as Max Sterling's.
      Maybe we're not finished, after all! "Go get 'im Max! Yeah!"
      Standing erect like the Quadrono, the Battloid flashed off into the
streets of Macross in search of its antagonist.
      Miriya wasn't used to such close quarters; though she handled her Quadrono
mecha well, she bashed through walls and ripped out overhead signs and fixtures.
None of that mattered to her, and it didn't affect the mecha at all.
      But Max had the advantage of knowing the streets of the city. Miriya came
around a turn to see the Battloid, feet gushing thruster fire, skid to a halt
before her.
      Several blocks separated them. Max whipped up the long, cigar-shaped gray
chain-gun and opened fire from the hip. The hail of massive bullets spattered
the Quadrono, holing it in places where its armor was thinnest, driving it back
off balance. Do what she might, Miriya couldn't prevent her mecha from being
knocked over backward.
      The Quadrono heaved itself to its feet again, Miriya caught in a red haze
of rage. "You think to do combat with me?" she screamed, though he couldn't hear
her. "You impudent fool!"
      No radio reply or translation from Max was needed. The Battloid said it
all as it stood waiting, poised, with autocannon ready, allowing her the option.
The clearest challenge imaginable.
      Her words couldn't dispel the thought that assailed Miriya. Khyron was
right! This Micronian is a demon of war!

      "Open the overhead hatch that's nearest to them!" Gloval snapped. "We have
to force the alien out of the ship!"

      The Quadrono's exterior pickups caught the sound of grinding brute
servomotors, and Miriya detected the opening of the hatch above her as she
shouldered aside a building, crumbling it to pieces like a plaster model, to get
some fighting room.
      Her Quadrono fired with the energy weapons built into its giant hands-
particle beams and annihilation discs. The Battloid ducked one volley, leapt
high on thrusters to elude another.
      Then Max started slowly walking his Battloid toward the enemy, still
holding his fire until he had a perfect shot, determined that his next burst
would end the duel. He was sure the other was enough of a warrior to know just
what was happening, a test of nerve and backbone.
      How close do we come before we open fire? Who gets rattled and shoots
first, afraid to go toe to toe? Afraid to shoot it out point-blank?
      It was all so bizarre, so impossibly unlikely, a unique moment in the
Robotech War. Max couldn't help feeling like one of the good guys in the
Westerns he'd loved so much as a kid. If the Duke could only see this!
      The Battloid's footsteps resounded, the autocannon cradled at its side
like the Ringo Kid's Winchester. Max was a little too busy to whistle "Do Not
Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin'," but he heard it in his head.
      Miriya almost fired a dozen times in those moments, but pride kept her
from it. If the Micronian had the nerve to close the distance to point-blank-to
a distance where they'd almost certainly both be killed when the shooting
started-then so did Miriya, leader of the Quadrono.
      On this, our weddin' day-ayy, went the tune in Max's head.
      The Battloid's feet measured off ten yards at a stride; the city blocks
between the huge mecha disappeared quickly.
      It's not good enough simply to die killing him! Miriya's mind yammered. He
must die knowing that I live!
      Before she could reconsider, the Quadrono's thrusters novaed, and the
powered armor rocketed up, through the open hatch. She loosed a flock of
sizzling missiles, but the pursuing Battloid avoided them and kept coming.
      Max mechamorphosed to Veritech mode, chasing her in a ballistic climb.
"Turnip' tail, are yuh, pilgrim?"
      Then Lisa was saying in his ear, "Return to base, Vermilion Three. You've
beaten him."
      Not decisively, Max told himself, turning for home. He knew that, and the
Zentraedi surely did, too.
      Seething, Miriya guided her Quadrono back into the stratosphere. "Miriya,
will not forget this day, Micronian-and you will pay for it. So I vow!"

      Elsewhere, the rest of the VTs were chasing the last of the surviving
pursuit ships and Quadronos. Roy, fighting down the pain in his chest, managed
to drawl, "Awright, Looks like they've had enough."
      "Commander Fokker," Lisa said, "you're losing attitude. Are you all
right?"
      He smiled into the visual pickup and did his best to sound amused. "Yeah,
I'm great. But how 'bout Max?"
      "He's fine, Commander."
      "And my old buddy Kramer? Any word?"
      Lisa's face on the display screen was sphinxlike, unrevealing. "He's in
intensive care now, Roy. Come on home."
      "Roger, SDF-1; we're comin' in."
      "Godspeed."

     The dreams had been lovely, but the waking was not.
      "Ah, so here you are! I been lookin' all over for ya! C'mon, Minmei! Wake
up! Wake up!"
      She didn't want to; she'd always loved to sleep. It was so wonderful and
cozy, and her dreams were her very best friends.
      Now, though, waking up was easier than being shaken so rudely-almost
roughly.
      She rubbed her eyes, blinking, and looked up at Vance Hasslewood. "What's
the matter?"
      He made a big production of his exasperation. "Sweetie, honey, you're
holding up production, that's what's the matter! You're the star! Without you,
they can't finish the picture!"
      She yawned, looking around, then stopped suddenly. "Wasn't there a young
man in here when you came in the room?"
      "Hey! Toots! Are you nuts?" He was yelling now; time was money, and when
it came to money, Vance Hasslewood could be very unpleasant. His contract said
that he got a percentage of every dollar saved if the picture came in under
budget.
      "You got a career to think about, sweetie! Ya don't have time for this kid
stuff anymore, comprende?" He looked at the bed. It wasn't at all messed up,
barely looked slept in. He breathed a sigh of relief; it looked like there'd be
nothing to hush up, nobody to bribe, no favors to call in or promise.
      "We have five more setups today!" he snapped. "C'mon, babe; let's go." He
grabbed her wrist and dragged her off the bed.
      Minmei surrendered and trotted along dutifully. She'd discovered that
being a star meant that she had to put up with being herded around. She loved
the glamour, but she had never counted on having to be so passive. Still, it was
worth it, she guessed-wasn't it?
      "My dad was right," Vance Hasslewood steamed. "I shoulda been a CPA!"

      In the Veritech hangar bays, the maintenance crews were getting to work on
the parked aircraft. There had been plenty of damage in the dustup with the
Quadronos; nobody on the crews was going to be sleeping very much for the next
few days.
      Two enlisted ratings had deployed the boarding ladder of Skull Leader's
ship, ready to climb up to the cockpit. "Whew! This time he really got himself
clobbered," one said. "I don't believe he could taxi this thing, let alone fly
it."
      He followed his sectionmate up the ladder, bumping into him when the other
stopped short. "Hey, what-"
      He swung around and came up the side of the ladder with angled feet, a
common practice. And he, too, stopped short when he got a look at the cockpit.
      There were bulges in the pilot seat's chickenplate armor and several holes
in the back of it. And the seat was red with blood that was now seeping through,
running to the floor.

      Roy Fokker sat in triage with the others who had been injured. The boys
who were really bad had been taken to the ERs first.
      Roy had lost a lot of blood, making him light-headed; but the wounds had
been closed easily enough, and he was hooked up to a plasma bottle.
      "Hey," he asked a passing nurse, "is all this really necessary?" He held
up his shunted arm, the plasma tube dangling from it.
      "Just shut up and sit there or I'll get Big Bruno the odorly orderly to
come sit on that pretty blond head," she said sweetly. She was the same nurse
who had looked after Rick, having been mobilized as soon as the alert sounded as
part of the special shock-trauma-burn military medical team.
      "Doctor Hassan wants a few pictures of your gorgeous insides, dreamboat,
to make sure there's no internal hemorrhaging."
      Beside being a top-notch RN, she was handsome and leggy and had a way of
getting men, even headstrong fighter jocks, to do what she told them. She was an
esteemed member of the MM team.
      Roy smiled and relaxed, leaning back. She blew him a kiss and went on her
way. He felt a little floaty from blood loss, but he'd refused a shot for the
pain, so he was lucid.
      Then he remembered Kramer. He reached out almost blindly for the nearest
institutional-green uniform. "Hey, nurse-"
      But he'd grabbed the trouser leg of Dr. Hassan, the stocky heart and soul
of the MM unit. Hassan, a surgical mask around his neck, stopped and looked Roy
over.
      The doctor and the Skull Team leader knew each other somewhat; Roy had had
plenty of his men racked up, had been in that same room quite a few times
before.
      "Kramer?" Roy asked hopefully.
      Hassan had almost been out of the medical profession, maintaining a
limited practice, doing some consulting and a bit of teaching, for years up
until the SDF-1 spacefolded. Time and events had thrust him back into the center
of things, and there was no more dedicated individual on the ship. He had
originally started easing out of medicine because of moments like this, and
these days such moments were all too common.
      "I'm sorry, Roy. He was dead before the rescue people even got to him."
      Roy squeezed his eyes shut tightly, tears finding their way out the sides,
nodding. He forced his fingers to open, to release the leg of the doctor's
trousers. But how do you let go of the pain of a close friend's death?
      Hassan patted his shoulder. "Take it easy; I want to take a better look at
you. Be back in a minute."
      Hassan hadn't gone ten feet when an orderly came rushing up to drag him
away for an emergency. The nurse was busy with a stat case that had just come
in, another downed flier, this one brought in alive by air-sea rescue.
      Unnoticed, Roy disconnected the plasma tube, closing the shunt. His flying
suit had been mostly cut off him by the medics, but his robe would do until he
could get a uniform. All he wanted now was to be with Claudia-to hold her and
tell her he loved her and hear that she loved him.


CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
These mecha that they're always talking about-those are a perfect symbol of the
warmakers. Our lives and the life of our planet are too precious to be entrusted
to the military machines!
All they care about are their battles, their glory, their victories. The only
thing they love is their endless killing. They want to control us all to make
sure that their war goes on and on until they've destroyed the universe.
And I say, we're not going to let them run our lives anymore. Peace, no matter
what the price! Peace now!
From Lynn-Kyle's pamphlet, Let the People Make the Peace!

Claudia adored Roy with all her heart, but honestly, sometimes she had
difficulty dealing with their love affair-dealing with him.
      Like now. There he sat on her couch, silent and lost in thought, strumming
her guitar softly, his long fingers sure and gentle on the strings, As if he
were mute. She made final preparations, the pineapple salad looking magazine-
cover perfect.
      "All right," she said. "I blew up at Lisa for not telling me you were
leading the Vermilions today, but that's squared away between her and me. But
what about you and me, Roy? It's just not fair to blame me for worrying about
you!"
      Roy didn't say anything, sitting and strumming. He looked pale and a bit
dazed. She made up her mind that he was having breakfast with her, and dinner
again tomorrow night. She was going to get him to rest even if she had to
strong-arm the flight surgeons into taking him off the duty roster!
      She turned to look at him from the tiny kitchenette. "I don't think you
realize how terrified I get every time you fly off on a combat mission. It's
almost as if you pilots think it's all some kind of wonderful game that you're
playing when you go up in those Veritechs!"
      The music stopped. "It has never been a game, Claudia," he said quietly.
"You know that." He wanted to resume his song, to feel connected to the music
and to feel connected to Claudia and to feel connected to life.
      But his vision was going dim, and he couldn't recall what he'd been
playing. He felt cold, unutterably cold.
      "Anyway, I said what I had on my mind, and I promise that I'll keep my
mouth shut about it in the future," she said, putting a few final flourishes on
the halved pineapple.
      Claudia told herself to let it drop. They were together, and they would be
together that night. She thought of his touch, how tender and caring he could
be, how he had always been there whenever she really needed him. And all the
other problems vanished; their love had a way of making that happen.
      Claudia turned, holding up the salad plate triumphantly. "Well! Don't tell
me I put you to sleep!"
      His head lay bent back at an awkward angle, the blond hair hanging from
it. His hands had fallen from the guitar, and his eyes were closed. He moaned
very faintly.
      Something about it filled her with a fear worse than anything she'd ever
felt on the SDF-1's bridge. "Roy?"
      He moaned again, louder, tried to stand up but instead fell, to stretch
out facedown on her carpet. The back of his uniform jacket was sodden with
blood.

      Roy heard Claudia, far away, and wanted to answer but couldn't. He didn't
know how he'd forgotten, but there was a mission he had to fly.
      There was Kramer now, with the ships waiting to go. Strangest fightercraft
Roy had ever seen: far sleeker and more dazzling than Veritechs, and they seemed
to shine with an inner light.
      But-how had Pop Hunter, Rick's dad and Roy's old mentor, gotten tapped for
this mission?
      It didn't matter. There were plenty of good men on this one, many of the
best Roy had ever flown with. Why hadn't he seen them lately? Not important. Pop
Hunter handed Roy his helmet, and Kramer slapped his back in welcome.
      Then they were airborne, going ballistic into the blue, free and proud as
eagles. What was the mission, again? Oh, yeah; the big one! How could that have
slipped his mind?
      They were going to ride forth and rid the universe of war itself, so that
there would be peace, nothing but peace, forever. Then, after this last mission,
he could go home and turn in his helmet and never fly another.
      He could hold Claudia to him and never let her go.
      The fighters climbed, and the sky became lighter instead of darker, and
then impossibly bright. With his squadron arrayed behind him, Roy Fokker zoomed
straight into the center of the white light.

      "I'm terribly sorry, Lieutenant Grant," Doctor Hassan was saying. "We did
everything we could for him. But there was massive internal hemorrhaging, and he
had just lost too much blood."
      Claudia was shaking her head slowly; she heard the words, understood what
they meant, but they made no sense to her. She was looking down at Roy's
unmoving body, not believing he was dead.
      Hassan and the nurse looked at each other. The doctor had seen this
before; he tried to get through to Claudia again.
      "It's a terrible tragedy." He gave the nurse a look; she understood the
signal, and they turned to leave Claudia for a while so that she could begin the
long, painful healing.
      "Commander Fokker will be sorely missed," Hassan said, closing the door
gently behind him.
      Claudia stared down at Roy's face until the tears blinded her, then threw
herself to her knees, burying her face in the sheet that covered his chest.
      She wept until she thought her heart would burst, unable to believe he was
gone. It seemed that the entire world had simply vanished, leaving nothing but a
cold, silent void.

      Rick was sitting up in bed, playing with the triplane again, fairly happy,
although he didn't realize it. Even worry, lovesickness, and depression couldn't
be on the job all day and all night, so his natural resilience had surfaced. He
looked up as the door opened.
      "Well, hi, Lisa! What's got you out around town on this fine morning?"
      Then he saw something in her expression, and all the ebullience went out
of him.
      Lisa had never been good at this sort of thing; she still didn't
understand why she had agreed to be the one to tell Rick.
      "Commander Fokker's dead. From wounds suffered during the air battle
yesterday."
      The little yellow airplane with the Iron Cross markings fell from his limp
grasp. "Fokker, Little Brother, that's me!" It hit the floor and broke into a
dozen pieces.
      "My Big Brother's dead?" He whispered it without tone, with barely the
inflection to make it a question, staring at the wall.
      When he began weeping into the bunched sheet that he gripped in his fists,
racked by sobs that it seemed would tear him apart, Lisa turned to go. But she
reconsidered, her guardedness and reserve and the hurt of what she'd taken
earlier as his rebuff dropping from her. She went to sit by his side, her arm
around him, as he cried inconsolably.

      Gloval showed no emotion when he read the casualty report. But he was
distant and distracted, remembering the gangling, blond-haired teenager who had
flown for him off the Kenosha, who had helped him explore the just-crashed SDF-1
when it first came to Earth...who had believed so much that war must end that he
was willing to fight for it.
      Let him be the last! Gloval thought wrathfully. They're not sending us out
for more killing and dying! If I have to end the Robotech War here on Earth,
then I will!