Well, here's the Leopard Saga's first two chapters---revised....
Thanks for all input and advice, even though I may have decided to
not to follow some of it.
-The Reverend Prez
__________________________________________
Partial Truths
by Presley H. Cannady
ROBOTECH Special I - Flight of the Leopard
cannady@magiccarpet.com
_________________________________________
Copyright 1995 Presley H. Cannady
Copyright 1996 Anime/Manga Development Group
Copyright 1985 Harmony Gold
Copyright 1982 Tatsunoko Productions
Copyright 1982 Studio Nue
This story is not to be bought or sold, in whole or in part. The electronic
publication of this novel is intended for free access, and does not intend to
infringe on the rights of Harmony Gold USA. The author has not accepted and
will not accept any remuneration for this work. This book embodies a plethora
of writing philosophies and events derived from the original series and
mutually "sanctioned" source material, the Robotech RPG, and the McKinney
Novels. The author expresses no interest in the canonical value of this work.
Thanks to John Tarnowski and Aubry Thonon, who've contributed to my writing
style...
Trivia: see if you can spot Patlabor references and then e-mail them to me at
the address below.
To comment on the content of this story, please write me at either the Robotech
or E-mail me at:
Presley "The Reverend Prez" Cannady <cannady@magiccarpet.com>
__________________________________________
....dedicated to Pat Mataraza-- 1947-1995
and to Brian Daley, a loved part of the McKinney Family
_______________
Fourth Edition 1998
____________________________________________________________
Robotech Special I: Flight of the Leopard can be found at ftp.std.com. The
books of this series include-
rt.fotl.special.1.gz Robotech Leopard: Partial Truths
rt.fotl.special.2.gz Robotech Leopard: The First Storm
rt.fotl.special.3.gz Robotech Leopard: Last Regrets
The objective of all New Era and AMDG Robotech prospects is to follow the both
series and novels, while maintaining a sense of originality on part of those
who helped to author these stories, separating them from the typical
Hunter-Hayes plot-line that has been so eloquently elaborated on for ten years
in series, comic, and novel.
New Era is the concept of fourteen teenagers in the New York area. FOTL
represents about six of those. While under the founder's name, FOTL is the
result of months of study and time-line reconfiguration. This story will begin
a second New Era series of prequels elaborating on allusions presented here.
This is in no way expressive of either views of purist or McKinneyist stances,
but is the original work of its authors.
The AMDG respects all Robotech media in this order-
1. The series and the original anime for Macross, Southern Cross and Mospeada.
This is namely for technical data and overall plot continuity. The general
spirit of Robotech is derived from these 85 episodes compliments of Harmony
Gold and Tatsunoko (Japan). I however, have disregarded remarks in dialogue
and narrative I've painstakingly determined to be insignificant to further
isolate myself from purist and McKinneyist camps.
2. The novels and RPG for further plot outline and technical data. Though the
novels and the RPG conflict in some places with the series, I've found these
contradictions negligible, and incorporated the best aspects of all of the
Robotech media currently available to me to form a beautiful combination
between the series and her spin-offs. These include the blending of timelines
and technical information as to further define the path the future of the New
Era will take. The novels are the primary source for dramatic emphasis for the
AMDG New Era series, supplementing the lack there of in the series itself.
3. The Robotech Art Books. Sentinels is an unfinished product, as compared to
the complete, but sometimes lacking, project of the novels. I've therefore
listed these sources third in priority.
4. The Comics and Robotech Mailing List, Echo, and USENet Groups. These
mediums help me to understand what fans of Robotech are looking for in a story,
and the people both on and off the Internet involved in this sparkling, massive
project may consider themselves authors as well.
_________________________________________________________
* * *
PROLOGUE
________
Loyalty is feasible to neither ward or ruler...
-Allen Rathman, 2001
ATTACK VERITECH ARMORED CORPS: [2015- ] Incorporated into the Robotech Defense
Force in 2017 to coordinate and formulate RDF Aerospace Force and Navy aerial
TMU's. This force was largely delegated responsibility in the field of covert
operations. With the formation of the REF in 2015, four AVAC divisions were
detached to the Expeditionary mission--the 15th, the 19th, the 21st and the
23rd. The remaining AVAC divisions (up to the 22nd squad) were assigned to
various joint-TASC and Cosmic Unit operations, and saw very little action until
the Second Robotech War, save for small anti-malcontent and later (following
the REF's departure in 2022), anti-insurgency engagements and low-intensity
fighting such as the Rawlins-Delgado conflicts in the Southlands, the Ling
Chien War, and the Busan Manuever. The REF AVAC divisions, on the other hand,
were the secondary striking arm of the Sentinels following the liberation of
Karbarra from the Invid.the 21st and the 23rd were immediately assigned
high-keyspecial forces operations. Following the REF campaign against the
Invid, the 18th and the 21st, along with the recently incorpoarated 24th, the
25th, and the 26th AVACs were reformed to better handle the mop-up operations
of outer-fringe Invid bases.
-UN Spacy Technical Manual--Appendix E.: Military Glossary, 2073
* * *
...2036
"LIEUTENANT!" A PARTICULARLY GAUNT REF MARINE LANCE CORPORAL RACED UP TO the
naval officer's side; she had been forced waited for her escort for the close
to fifteen minutes. The corporal's traditional regulation buzz-cut revealed his
awkward set of ears, hinting at his North American, Gulf-side ancestry.
Huffing alongside, a lovely cherry-blond PFC came to a halt right behind her
partner. The lieutenant turned to face them; her black version of the livery
donned by the Robotech Expeditionary Force's naval pilots absented the
winged-shouldered blue bussards and sported a comfortably-snug black
turtle-neck rising from between the stiffened collars. The black-brown hair
that normally fell with a perfect fullness towards the left side of her brow
was tied in a pony tail, falling just inside the exaggerated collar. Rachel
straightened her sleeves as she waited patiently for her escorts to catch their
breath.
"Begging the Lieutenant's pardon! The rescheduled departure order never
cleared through Security Operations, sir!," he apologize with detectable
sincerity, as indicated by the third-person perspective.
"At ease, corporal," she glanced in the way of the private, whom the
corporal had picked up during the rush. Rachel honestly expected a Navy rating
pulling escort duty; after all, this was a ship of the REF Navy. On the other
hand, no one had ever quite figured out how Personnel Affairs quite worked,
even on such a small platform as a spaceship. Tossing her hair back, Rachel
merely sighed and followed the Marine corporal to the nearest
tram-car--necessitated on a vessel that measured nearly a kilometer in beam
length.
The tram sped to the forward docking port, located on the starboard sponson
of the operations hull. Awaiting them at the tram's termination point was a
burly Marine gunnery sergeant; he easily outmassed both the corporal and the
private combined, and stood close to two meters in height. His ebony skin
seemed to dance under the highlight of the docking port's sparse
illumination. Turning to her ship-side escorts, Rachel dismissed with a crisp
salute and a "that will be all." The massive gunny ceremoniously assumed his
duties with a firm glare and a hard salute to his junior compatriots, and then
repeated the ritual for the lieutenant. In the meantime, Rachel's dark-blue
eyes quickly darted about her.
The modest, minimalist architecture of the debarking bay culminated into a
wrap-around transparency--composed of an artificially produced ceramic. Under
appropiate circumstances, the entire "view-wall" could be sealed off behind a
drawn-back titanium shield. An oblique ceiling-to-floor slab of metal situated
in the center of the transparency marked the connection hardpoint for the
docking umbilical. Diaphanous in itself, the umbilical connected the debarking
bay with the receiving terminal. The doors opened to reveal a small, step-like
platform leveled out inside a transparent tube, angling downward some
forty-something degrees. She and the staff sergeant carefully rooted their
feet onto the matting, special fields taking note of their presence and
"inertial-izing" the platform. As the doors hissed closed behind her, the
transport-platform began to move at a rather high speeds; she could detect not
even so much as a discernible jerk. The shadows concealed much beyond a few
hundred feet of the station's massive interior; however, a few dim lights in
the distance shown on the skeletal array of Karbarran and REF vessels. Rachel
kept largely quiet to herself for the first leg of the trip down. The
receiving terminal pod they were heading for drew closer and closer, mile after
mile. On occasion, the sergeant would glance in her direction, before he let
loose a deliberate ahem and attempted to spark some conversation.
"Name's Biggs, sir," the sergeant finally said, also a hint of a Terran
Southern American accent, with a dash of Creole. Rachel didn't acknowledge, so
the sergeant tried again.
"Gunny Cole Biggs, 5th/19th Marines," the intimidatingly bulky Marine
pronounced with friendly assertiveness. "I reckon you were recently with the
OC89, Navy, right?"
"You know about us?" she asked with deceptive insouciance. "I was led to
believe it was classified information."
Biggs swallowed a bit, but continued in the same affable manner in which he
began the conversation.
"What you people do, I dunno. But the name ain't classified, just your
ops. I do like to keep up to date on things."
Fair enough. Rachel nodded and turned back to the window. A few seconds
later, Biggs tried to spark up some conversation again. "So what do you think
of the place, considering its your first time onboard?"
"Hmm?"
"The factory--what do you think."
"Astonishing," she answered, a distinctly dry tone dripping from her lips,
after a moment of consideration. Of course, that was a drastic understatement,
she realized. Try as she might, Rachel could not ignore the sheer gradiousity
of her surroundings. As the transparent corridor seemed to stretch on for
infinity, the darker areas of the station seemed to illuminate themselves.
Despite its terrible immensity and its external homeliness, the Karbarran
system's largest artificially constructed structure radiated a special, awe
inspiring eminence of its own.
The Karbarran Robotech Factory, listed as a G-96-type in the RRG's analysis
records of Tirolian artifacts and technology, proved to be one of Tirol's most
magnificent pieces of engineering. Her primary, centralized power source,
brilliant as a sun, seemed to capture the warm glow of Karbarra's own
sun--Yirrbisst. Stretching one-thousand-seven hundred kilometers in radius, it
was the same oblonged, alien shape as her sister in Earth orbit--a somewhat
smaller and older model. That power source also generated the special
low-level forcefield preventing the satellite from rending apart or causing
severe shifts in her geosynchronus orbit. The interior was completely
different from the one Rachel had known as a child, growing up largely on
backwater and/or relatively peaceful action zones on Earth--her
militaristically-disillusioned parents. Hundreds of smaller vessels and tens
of capital ships did not even fill her still starving interior--even an entire
fleet the size of Dolza's would leave plenty of room to spare. Thousands of
lights stretched alongside the inner curves--twinkling like artificial stars in
the distance--as Rachel could clearly comprehend the massiveness of this place
even to the Zentraedi Giants who had onced manned it. Despite the Tirolian
influence this station embodied, it was the hands of Karbarrans were clearly at
work here. Most of the station had refitted over the course of nearly a decade,
since its discovery by Expeditionary Force mod-up crews from the Sentinels
campaign. Even as the Plenipotentiary Council and the SDF-3, playing nurse for
her various escorts, continued an ever-growing power struggle between her
opposing factions on Tirol, a contingent of former Robotech Defense Force
regulars established themselves as powerful detachments to each of the
liberated worlds. Naturally, Karbarra had come first. Though the famed
Sentinels were unable to wait for the ursinoid planet to produce vessels that
would have assuredly cut the Sentinel's crusade for independence short by a
great many years, the old RDF apparat from the Robotech Expeditionary Force
successfully began rearming the planet, assisting in the reconstruction of its
planetary government, and initiating its own power base away from the Southern
Cross influenced council. Now, the Karbarran Robotech Factory served as the
base of Operations for the still under-construction Mars Fleet and as the sole
contact with the Relief Group. The small flottila of REF vessels had returned
six years ago to a planet nearly forgotten by Tirol's new generation of Terran
colonists.
Rachel was literally looking inside the womb of one of the greatest
shipyards and manufacturing plants outside the Valivarre system. Massive and
self-contained, the Karbarran Factory had constructed some sixty-percent of the
Garfish vessels (Katana, Marathon and the experimental Callant classes) that
would return with the Mars Fleet. However, the crowning achievement of the
Robotech factory was the Ikazuchi-class Command Carrier. The nearly completed
refit of the De Ruyter took most of her view, and she could barely see how the
SDF-5 Portfolio had evolved into the strangely brick-like Zentraedi battlewagon
basic design; these ships would lead the new REF on the difficult road back
home--back to Earth. Long-forgotten were the SDF-7s, members of a portfolio
which had been scaled down to include mere assault shuttles for the return
fleet. Three of the five Ark Angel-class vessels--the Ark Angel herself, the
Amicable, and the Patterson--were still in service. The Patrician and the
Marcus Antonius had faded into the past, reminders of treachery, valiance, and
the general feeling of weariness amongst the REF.
She closed her eyes, allowing memories to flood back into her
consciousness...
* * *
Two years ago...
"Oh shit!" It was the lethal dance imaginable. The Scout Invid mecha swung
around her gracefully, nearly tearing her Valkyrie's wing clear off. The VF-1S
seemed to tango dangerously with its sluglike opponent. "Fox One!"
Three SCRAAM missiles tore themselves out from their racks and raced at
full speed towards the Scout; Rachel desperately veering away at the same
time. As the explosion cleared, she could see the Katana gunship and her
escort fleet of Horizont's descend into low-earth-orbit. The UES Hideyoshi
descended slowly, directing her Horizont's to place the Titan ground mobile
unit "Big Charlie."
"Clean, clear and naked," she exclaimed into her radio. Already, the
thousands of Alpha Units from Cyphedia were moving into the hive units of the
uninhabitted planets. Next, relief shuttles departed from the Hideyoshi, as
the remainder of the fleet left the decimination of the Tav'alea hive to
Lieutenant Rachel DuBois' squadron. "All right, 45th, move your asses!"
"Hey! Clear on this channel!" the lead Horizont, commanding a fleet of
four assault shuttle-carriers delivering the lead squads from the 5th Armor
Battalion, shouted back. "Get those damned Logans down here! I read a thicket
of these purple bastards at our landing coordinates!"
Already, a specially geared team of Cyclone and Logans were moving into the
West, as AJACs swept in from the East. It was a minor hive--everyone knew
that--so why sacrifice so many lives on a harmless raid when one could nuke
it? Politics, Rachel had already decided.
"This is Bright Star, Green Noah Ark. Alpha and Beta units are in place."
"Roger, Bright Star," the pilot answered. "We've got Scrimm Inorganics and
Gurab Shock units ground based. Primarily Scrimms--that's what our sensors
say. Escort duty?"
"Just to deployment point. Let the rowboats take care of themselves."
"We hear ya' Bright Star," the Logan leader, a colonel, warned smuggly.
"You Valk-jocks can get really big in the head, sometimes. Y'know?"
"I hear ya', Green Noah," DuBois replied. "Good hunting."
"It's a small galaxy," the colonel replied. "What could go wrong? Over..."
A lot of things.
* * *
______________________
Chapter One
Reckonings
______________________
Amazing, isn't it. The specimen's physiology is completely centered on the
detection of protoculture E-band emissions. They actually see the stuff. I
remember reading something that the Soviet KGB used in their interrogation
techniques [sic] called a sensory deprivation chamber. One of the components
would take a resonance of a compressional wave from a person's voice, play it
back exactly and out of phase, and that would cancel out the sound. Why can't
we do that with E-band emmissions. I mean, afterall, they were just waves, and
they can be duplicated. The math and setup is tricky, but, damn! Its so easy!
-Dr. Raizo Tijaro (developer of the YF-2) to Dr. Emil Lang, 2026
* * *
"LIEUTENANT?" THE SERGEANT TAPPED HER SHOULDER GENTLY.
Twenty-two hundred _dead_....
The vision evaporated as a stern voice lured her back into reality.
Memories of the Imperatived Zentraedi--confirming the nearly solid but ignored
evidence of other Zentraedi fleets roaming the galaxies; the deathtraps
protecting the Master's most coveted worlds; and most of all, the Invid Hive,
had panged at her soul for years, recurring to her both day and night for the
two months she spent in sickbay onboard the Patterson.
The voices, already fading away, dissappeared entirely as she forced
herself to face the bulky staff sergeant.
"You still with me? Y'know. A lot a folks just start drownin' in that
view. I sure hope you get to tour the rest of the place. It really is one
helluva a sight."
Rachel nodded, but did not avert her eyes from their aimless gaze. The
Karbarran station's interior, far more spacious than the human mind was willing
to comprehend, elicited a sort of insignificant feeling from those who fell
captive to its immenseness. Scale proved irrelevant, for nothing in mankind's
entire existance, save Earth itself, could have such a profound effect on the
human psyche. At one point, Rachel had decided that this is what Terra's first
astronauts must have felt like, looking back on the ball of rock their
relatively pitiful and fragile little species had crawled across for millenia;
the most eloquent thought that came to mind for most people--in Rachel's
experience--in light of such magnitude seemed to boil down to "It's so goddamn
huge!"
"It...it's impressive," she managed to concede. A few more moments passed
by before Biggs coughed again, this time more discernibly.
"If I may ask, your Cap'n DuBois' daughter, right sir?"
"Huh?"
"Cap'n Andy...er...sorry. I mean Captain Andrea DuBois, ma'am. I was
wondering, well, if you might be her daughter."
"Uh, yes."
"I thought so, you have 'er hair. Pete DuBois's your dad?"
"Yes. Why?" Rachel narrowed her eyes. Biggs grin turned up broadly.
"Well, I was an acquaint' with your dad back on the Factory--back before
the jump to Tirol; he used to fly off the Tokugawa--my old home. Then, there
was your mom. She used to be my sister's team commander, before she got her
promotion and filled that open naval commission and all that. You were pretty
young then--never really saw you that much, but she used to come over to her
place for dinner almost every week. That's how I got to meet them--I mean
Mrs., er, Captain Dubois, that is. Small world, isn't it?"
"Really?" Rachel's ears perked in mock interest, though something deep-down
gnawed at her heart. It had been several years since her mother had died, or
was presumed dead, along with the Patrician. Years ago, her mother had become
involved in a very complicated situation. Leaving Rachel planetside of Haydon
Monoceros, she galloped around the galaxy with a man that seemed to have taken
Rachel's father's place. That's how Rachel pictured it, at least. The
Patrician had been wounded severely when Captain Andrea DuBois had rested
it--rather illegally--from it's holding position over Tirol; effectively
loosing Major General Thomas Edwards grasp over REF space operations. For four
years, they had taken the work of the Sentinels beyond the local group worlds.
Mom.
"She was a good woman. Don't you worry about what the news or the brass
have to say. They've got their own asses to look at for. Anyway, we're here."
The receiving terminal's computerized tele-image displayed a cheerful,
nubile young female's face with skin as swarthy as the women of Rilac and and
the Tirolian Dal'va colonies. The face brought back memories of the hundreds
of ruined and annihilated colonies of Tirol she had passed by on her voyages
through the Fourth Quadrant. At the age of fifteen, she left her uncle on
Haydon Monoceros to enter the Tirol Academy. Completing the assessment test
ahead of schedule, she had received warming letters of recommendation from
Brigadier General Charles Simmons, the deputy commandant of the Academy, and
the late Rear Admiral Yutaka--who died in office during his third term as the
Academy executive officer to the Council. The officer corps had taken a severe
beating during the First Invid War, and the "mop-up" operation was already
costing more in terms of manpower and equipment than originally projected.
Likewise, the OCS programs and the Academy were pumping out combat-ready
officers at a surprising rate--Rachel completed her training and education in
the space of a year. It wasn't more than a month before she had been booted up
to full lieutenant, and assigned (with surprising haste) to the Patterson,
which--along with the Amicable--represented the end to the Ark Angel-class
assault carrier/landing ship/battlecruiser series. For the past two years, she
served in the advanced operations extension of the Galactic Mop-Up, a sweep
that covered the Fourth Quadrant's surviving vestiges of Master's crumbling
dominion. Additionally, the Patterson ferried a carrier air wing and a Marine
battalion to deal with the remaining armed forces scattered about the dead
Regent's crumbling empire. Rachel lay squarely in the middle of a generation
of young, highly-skilled officers whose ages ranged from nineteen to
twenty-two. As she examined both the ratings and the officers sharing the
immense corridor, she could see this relative youthfulness reflected in her
general experience. Her former commanding officer had graduated from the
Academy only five years ahead of her!
With a single turn, Rachel found her self gazing into a hallway of
incredulous proportions--it took her a while to realize she was merely looking
at the anteroom to the station's "nerve center." That main control room, about
the size of small stadium, could control almost every aspect of the stations
functions with surprising detail and ease. The lifts themselves were well-lit
antigrav pods that zipped about like fireflies in the Tirolian tropical belt.
She barely noticed how the architecture had gone decisively Zentraedi as she
passed under the sweeping entrance of Command Deck. The arches looked as if
they had whittled with age and neglect, demonstrating the warrior-clones' sense
of functionality in maintenance over aesthetics. The corridor, still more than
an Olympic pool's length high, it was the one of many reminders of the
Zentraedi presence that had once swarmed this station; when it had been a tool
of forced domination. Furthermore, towards the eve of the Invid's conquest of
the Yirrbirrst system, the Masters had stationed an entire division of their
most feared weapons on the factory-station. This specific deck once supported
a massive horde of hundreds of Bioroids, the Masters own frontline war
machine. When the Invid finally attacked, over twenty years ago, Tirolian,
Zentraedi and Karbarran--master and captive--fought side-by-side to defend the
station, precious not only to the Tirolian overseers, but their inventive
Karbarran subjects. While this noble act neither halted the Invid swarm, nor
greatly changed the Karbarran sentiment towards their former Tirolian rulers,
it stood as a testament that once-mortal enemies forged an alliance to face a
greater threat. Rachel considered this particular sentiment just as she
unceremoniously walked right into a superior officer.
The tall Aerospace Force Lieutenent Colonel, a veteran of the old RDF and
the First Robotech War, flagged the nearest antigrav platform. His jet-black
hair and slight Mediterranean complexion immediately gave away his distinct
Sicilian heritage. A beaming-white smile spread from cheek-to-cheek sparked
Rachel's memory, and she responded to his friendly countenance with a
delightfully sharp gasp.
"My-my, Lieutenant Rachel DuBois?" he commented. "How long has it been? I
don't think I've seen you since you were seventeen..."
Gunny Biggs, having completed his escort duties, saluted Rachel and stood
at attention until the colonel dismissed him. He turned to Rachel with a
wildly drawn grin that appeared to say: Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.
Then, with the regimental professionalism of a Marine Corps NCO, he
dissappeared into the transient mob of technicians, officers, and
Marines--leaving Colonel Aston and Rachel alone in a sea of strangers.
"Uncle Vin-er...Colonel Aston?"
"Uncle Vinny's fine with me. Just don't do it in front of my staff. I
think you were in seventh grade last time I saw you."
"Fourteen, sir."
"Finally went to Monoceros with Tom, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Vinny."
"Sorry. Anyway, I hopped off-planet four years ago. What have you been up
to?"
"Nothing to exciting, might I say. I'm back from my tour over in the
Lechem Quarter. I heard you're back from the Badlands."
"Are you cleared for that?"
"Why the hell would I be here if I weren't," he replied.
"Better pay, lower taxes, superior home-equity..."
"It's not that good," Colonel Aston replied. "Get's pretty drafty around
here, and the quartermaster general still hasn't issued a space-case wool
sweater for duty. Besides, what did you have to worry about home-equity. The
Patterson gives you free quarters, free food--"
"Only if your non-commissioned or an officer living in the barracks,"
Rachel replied. "If I wanted to live in the barracks, I would've signed up for
the Army, or the Marines, or something like that."
"But really, you just got tired of home, and you don't really care about
the comfort."
"Right-o-mondo...er...sir." There lift came to a stop, and Colonel Aston
gently discontinued the conversation; courteously assisting Rachel onto the
reception platform.
* * *
early 2029...
"Not fast enough, kid!" the old man shouted. "Don't slow down on me now, you
here?!" The young boy felt a rush of exhiliration boil in his veins; his
hands firmly gripped the sidesticks controlling his Valkyrie transformable
fighter.
"Got it, Gramps," Brigadier General Reinherdt watched his grandson take a
hand at the Veritech Simulator in the Civilian Lounge.
"Three Armored Invid ships--Scout Class--heading three-three-eight mark
neg-three!" The Veritech, an Alpha fighter, swung full around, letting the the
first Invid mecha pass him.
"All right," the twelve year-old breathed. The simulator switched to
Battloid mode as he got used to the many controls surrounding him. "First is
at point Ulysses, moving in."
The Armored Scout wasn't very smart, considering the simulator was on its
lowest setting. Three missiles struck broadside, while a forth hit the sensor
(eye). The pilot was dead immediatly, as the Armored Scout missiles finished
off the armor. The Invid slammed into. He had admired his work to much. The
other two Scout's had easily come behind him, disecting his Alpha inside and--
"That's enough for today, kiddo" the cockpit swung open, and the
holographic display disappeared.
"I would've had him Gramps," Daniel Reinherdt struck the front end of the
mock-up Alpha fighter. "I just got..."
"Cocky," General Reinherdt inserted. "It happens, son. But in real life,
people die because of it." A small puase as the exited the factory's simulator
room.
"Is that what happened to dad?" Reinherdt went silent, looking away.
"Danny, your father died not because of cockiness, because of stupidity.
Someone couldn't make up his mind where I work, and it cost alot of lives."
A few years ago, twelve-year old Danny Reinherdt, his grandfather, and his
mother, heard that Ghost Squadron group Delta had been ordered to attack the
Karbarran Hive that used to infest the planet below. That had been a mistake,
and one the Reinherdt would have never let Edward slip pass by on. But he
couldn't touch the scarfaced bastard. The man still had strong ties to the
Southern Cross apparat, and virtually untouchable save by the often equivocal
direction of the Plenipotentiary Council.
Nevertheless, in his eyes--forever--Edwards was a traitor.
* * *
The present...
Major General Reinherdt--the REF Liaison to the Plenipotentiary Council with
Voting Status--snapped out of his reverie; his thoughts of his now
Academy-track grandson flooding from his mind. The table took the shape of an
equilateral triangle, with each of its vertices truncated about a foot inward.
Capped with the "highest-ranked officer" position at the 12 o'clock position,
the briefing table was clearly magnificent enough to be used by the
admiralcy/generalcy.
Reinherdt sat next to his younger Navy collegue and friend, Commodore
Grant. The powerfully-built, stupendously tall Black man seemed somewhat less
cumbersome and far more contemplative as he reclined in his seat--Grant's right
hand massaging at a patch of fuzz that might just pass for a beard. Commodore
Vincent Grant's uniform bristled with citations of various sorts. Most of them
commemorated his actions as the commander of REF Navy Task Force 19's carrier
battlegroup element--CVBG-7--during the siege on Optera six years ago. Soon
afterwards, REF Command had taken him under consideration for promotion to flag
rank--a Rear Admiral in the Navy. The promotion would include a bonus
assignment to the military operations command post onboard the Ark Angel and
the CVBG-7. In fact, for the meeting's purpose solely, the Karbarran Theater
Commander in Chief of the Robotech Expeditionary Forces had invoked Grant's
breveted rank of Vice Admiral. When Edwards led his rebellion to Optera, he
had succeeded in killing nine levels of command over Tirol's carrier forces and
the shipyards. Grant had been one of the few senior enough officers Admiral
Yoshanov and Council Speaker Justine Huxley had pulled out of the woodwork to
make up for their losses.
The rest of the flag panel was composed entirely of former Robotech Defense
Force list and flag officers. Sarah Olvesky, a Brigadier General and Director
of Karbarran-REF Internal Affairs, once taught an undergraduate Naval
Engineering class at the RDF Academy at the Lake Michigan Naval Air
Station--back when Grant attended the RDF Annapolis Academy. Commodore Raul
Forsythe, flag captain of the SDF-3, enjoyed his brevet rank of a Vice Admiral
when amongst this inner circle of REF officers. He took the seat immediately
adjacent to the vertice reserved for the presiding officer. Finally, there was
good old Admiral Kulaski; a Polish-American ex-USN missile cruiser skipper and
Global War veteran who often commented about being injustly "thrown head-first"
into service by Forsythe decades ago. He sat at the base table's right
vertice; right next to the seat Rachel DuBois would take in a few moments. Of
all the flag-ranked officers at the desk, Kulaski was the only one who had
worked his way through the enlisted ranks--a genuine mustang.
Most of the time, the command table really hosted up to ten people; the
sensitivity of confidential information passed between generals in this room
demanded the least attendence possible. Separated from the rest of the station
by a good five centimeters of sound-proof transaluminum, it allowed for
virtually one-hundred percent confidential briefings, meetings--and with the
"blinding diodes" within the transperency itself--those occasional "personal
encounters."
Today, however, the meeting staff included several technicians, analysts,
and military experts in the briefing attendence--all hand-picked by the
Admiralty with some sort of extensive criterion. About five or six G2
intelligence officers, as well as some Planetary Corps and Aerospace Force
commanders, held seats at the table. Each and everyone of them projected
confidence and demonstrated an aptitude for this sort of business.
Below the command balcony, Lieutenant DuBois had just stepped into
wonderland. A nearby turbolift was lifting her to the command balcony,
transparent enough for her to admire the view. Hundreds of REF personnel,
Karbarrans, and Praxians were slaving over thousands of consoles and systems;
these technicians and staff officers were coordinating REF efforts not only
within the command station, but in the vacuous cavity outside.
From the 'lift, Rachel could see an even larger viewshield that enveloped
the far-end of the command center. Slowly but surely, the Jutland--the only
survivor of the Tokugawa class landing ship/battlecarrier class--nosed into
view of the massive transparency. The former gold and sky-blue paint was
stripped away; as a matter of fact, most of the bow's hull was missing, leaving
a naked girder arrangement that the ship's erect shape was fashioned on. The
aging SDLS was being remodeled and refitted; not into an Ark Angel-series
prototype like the one Rachel had served on, but into a new vessel. Already
slated for the name Montgolfier, it would lead a new breed of vessels that
would serve as superdimensional tenders to the REF's surmounting fleet.
The turbolift came to an abrupt halt about fifty-meters above the command
centers "ground floor." From the balcony's altitude, the various decks of the
command center resembled a small city; lights, building structures, and even
vehicles--flying and non-flying--all added to the scene.
"Nice to see you again, Rachel." Rachel attention turned back to the flag
panel. Sarah Olvesky smiled from cheek-to-cheek, growing rosy pink. Her
grey-brown hair was tied back into a bun, giving a sort of distinguished air to
her slight aged features.
"Colonel." She turned back to Uncle Vinny. Both officers saluted before
Aston turned back for the turbolift.
"Good morning, General," Rachel lowered her hand, a smile finally
penetrating her jaded expression. "I think its been..."
"Five years."
"How's Arthur doing?" Rachel asked. A mutual friend of theirs, Arther
Caruthers was Sarah's godson--one of the many children brought in their infancy
to Tirol.
"First year at the Academy," Sarah's tone dropped decisively. "He's got
his father's ambition. Anyway, I would hate to see such talent lost."
"With the way you spoil you're friends' kids? Sarah, I think not," a
slightly older voice emitted from the behind them.
The voice belonged to Raul Forsythe, who was habitually grazing his beard
with his index finger. Both he and Reinherdt were cut from the same cloth,
although from different branches. In fact, he resembled a white-bearded
version of the equally bald, yet grey-haired, General Reinherdt, "Well, its an
honor to meet the kid of Pete DuBois. You're father would have been very proud
of you, from what I've heard."
"The pleasure is mine, sir," Rachel returned the favor. Most of the people
at the table had associated in some way or another with Petrie Henry DuBois.
Forsythe, once a professor of history at the Macross Island Training Center,
had known Pete DuBois as the quiet veteran combat pilot who eventually
graduated third in his class. Reinherdt served with Rachel's father both
during the War of Unification and following the Dolzan Holocaust. Grant,
Olvesky, and Kulaski were familiar with Pete DuBois during his two year guest
tour of the "Skull" Carrier Air Wing Five. Grant got a chance to meet most of
the wing's senior staff through Max right before it's detachment to the
Southlands in 2017. A far more youthful and vibrant "First Lieutenant" Sarah
Olvesky served as a ground intelligence officer with Captain Jonathon Wolff and
his "Wolff Pack," which worked alongside the Skull to route Zentraedi
malcontent bands. Kulaski, however, had refrained from ever delving into his
relationship with Pete Dubois; very few would dare question an admiral's right
to keep a secret or two.
Rachel glanced down at her watch; it was nearly time. "Where should I sit,
sir? It looks like we're about to start."
"The TCIC has been slightly delayed, so I we have some catch-up time,"
Sarah noted. "Otherwise, you're right by Old Kulaski. I haven't seen Dr.
Garetteau since he left with the Sentinels. I heard you and Hiram got along
pretty well before you left."
"Fairly," Rachel nostagically recalled the days she had held baby Hiram
Olvesky--Sarah's nephew--on her lap, and suddenly remembered that the age
difference between them seemed so negligable now-a-days. Already, he was
ranking in the top percentiles of the freshman REF Academy class. He continued
to keep in constant touch through the lieutenant. "I guess he's found a new
friend in Reghan's daughter. They're both--if you'll excuse me sir--very
military."
"And Danny, too, Gunther. They're just kids," Sarah retorted.
"That's right, they are just kids," Reinherdt shook his head. He knew
Hiram Arthur Olvesky personally and had met the Reghan Martin and his family
only on occasion, but had agreed with the almost third world notion of
thrusting children in front of a sight. "Too tender an age."
"There's very little we can do about it now," Grant noted. Pretty much
everyone understood Commander Grant's sensitivity on the subject, he had left
his only son, Bowie, behind before shipping out with the SDF-3. Bowie Grant
eventually grew up, enlisted in Earth's Southern Cross as per Vince and Jean
Grant's wishes, and saw extensive action against the Robotech Masters; those
vile despots Vince Grant had futilely promised to protect his son from.
Eventually, Bowie Grant and his comrades of 15th Alpha Tactical Armored Corps
hijacked a superdimensional warship and folded for Tirol. Although family
reconciliations were made, Commander Grant knew that the relationship he and
his son once had would never be the same.
"Back to a lighter note," Sarah interjected. "I read your file from the
Patterson's commanders. Andrea would've been proud. Three distinguished
sorties, four Stellar Cross Medallions. Sam and Francis really took to you; it
was damn near impossible to pry their fingers open."
Sarah was refering to the Commander of Carrier Air Wing Eight Nine, or
simply Commander Air Group (CAG), Lieutenent Commander Sam Huxley. The son of
Councilwoman and former UN Federal District Court Justice Justine Huxley, he
had distinguished himself during the Sentinels War and earned the command of
the two-hundred and fifty-craft carrier air wing; along with the two most elite
strike-fighter squadrons outside of the old school (namely, the Jolly Roger,
the Skull, the Blackjacks, etc.). The skipper of the Patterson, Francis
Harbringer, recently jumped up in rank to commodore. His own record--equally
exceptional--reached back to the days of the old Ophelia and ARMD space
warships. "We pushed the Invid remnants around those sectors back into the
Transa Expanse, sir. I believe you received the report on Cyphedia-45A, the
lost Dee-oh-Zee colony."
General Olvesky didn't reply.
"General. Don't you remember?" The general paused in thought. "In the
Lyles-Organa Sector?" That was a mission that resulted in the discovery lost
Tirolian rebel colony, once under the control of a blooming steller republic
that was associated with the birth of the Disciples of Zor, had turned into a
bloodbath when rogue Invid units suddenly arrived and swept across the face of
the planet and its orbit, killing nearly eighty-percent of the refugees and
decimating elements of the 45th Air Group and the 24th Tactical AVAC, Rachel's
mixed-division attachment.
"Uh...yes," Olvesky replied. She recalled the report, but the legendary
exploits of the Patterson would remained on a need-to-know basis for some time.
Rachel fidgetted. "Anyway, the Patterson's a good ship. Trustworthy and
reliable. A lot like the Patrician."
The table grew strangely quiet at the mention of the vessel's name. Most
people knew that the Patrician, along with with her sisters, had been stripped
of her Tokugawa frame and remodeled to match the hull design of an experimental
Ark Angel-class assault-carrier/battlecruiser modular warships. These sleek
vessels, painstakingly designed and constructed over three years, served as the
testbeds for new fold drives. REF Military Assistance and Advisement Command
hoped to detached the second wave of reliefs for Earth's beleaguered forces
within the coming year, nearly six years after the first Relief Group quit the
Fourth Quadrant to bolster Supreme Commander Anatole Leonard's defense against
the Masters. Additionally, the refit design guaranteed an extensive
flexibility in roles the class could undertake. While the Ark Angel and the
Patterson were carriers, the Patrician had been constructed as a
battle-cruiser. Prior to the Patrician's refit, Captain Andrea DuBois
commanded the behemouth vessel with it's Tokugawa-class landing-ship hull.
Arriving in Tirol's orbit, the Patrician suffered extensive damage at Invid
hands, so much so that it was conceded to the RRC for its new pet project.
That first battle had seen the death of a young Rachel's father.
As for Andrea, it was if something had died inside her.
Then something simply snapped. For reasons still unexplained to her
daughter, she had hijacked her former command and fled to the far reaches of
the Tirolian Empire, a contraband REF group that played a covert but important
role in the semi-legal Sentinel Campaign. After four years, she was destroyed
by not only Invid warships, but apparently forces under the command of Major
General Edward's factions. Since her mother's death, followed the death of
Edwards a year later, she had been utterly alone, save for her uncle. Even he
was absent from her personal life for many weeks at a time.
A moment of silence seemed almost ceremonious as it followed the last word
from her lips. Sarah coughed. It wasn't the view of the many, those who had
faced dangers that seemed several hundred times more vagarious than those the
rogue crew of that ill-fated starship had faced, but among this small circle of
brass, her name would ring legendary among those cleared for that classified
information. That included Reinherdt and especially Kulaski and Grant.
"Did they ever find that missing crewman?" Rachel changed the subject
momentarily.
"Hmm?" Sarah Olvesky turned her attention to the lieutenant.
"Tennyson, I think his name was. Uncle Tom says they were close friends
after Dad died. Did they ever find his body."
"The Inquiry's commission finished searching the wreckage years ago,
Lieutenant," Kulaski fingers ran through his beard. "There was no sign of him;
though his prospects never looked good in the first place. I'm afraid we'll
probably never find out what happened."
"I understand," Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. Then, she proceded
prematurely on what she considered to be the topic at hand, regarding a
decision she had made a few months earlier. "As you probably know, sirs,
Commodore Harbringer approved and filed my request for pulling my active call
file and assigning me to the Tirolian Academy, right? With most of the mop-up
under way, and the Mars Fleet beached for at least another four years, and I
didn't make final cut for the destroyer group's scout mission. I knew the
Academy was looking to squeeze in one more instructor but I had no idea it
would be forwarded to the general staff for review."
"Well, Rachel..." General Olvesky said uneasily. Rachel gave her a
quisitive look as Olvesky tried to explain. "Now's not really a good time
to--"
"Request denied. It's as simple as that, Lieutenant," a powerful voice
interrupted.
A monumental man, almost as lofty and built as Commander Grant, took his
seat at the opposite end of the table. Rachel realized that her seat was at
the foot of the obsidian slab, looking across at an almost dark, imposing and
commanding face masked in shadow. "I apologize for pulling your request and
placing it on hold like that, but I don't feel the need to explain my actions.
A comprehensive explanation will be presented to you during the course of this
briefing."
The gruff-looking admiral was incredibly tall and impressive, giving Rachel
pause to even try and speak up.
"I am--of course--delighted to finally meet you," a hint of a Russian
accent broke through the nearly perfect Londonian dialect. Fleet Admiral
Vasily Kolyavich Yoshanov leaned both of his elbows on the table, his shoulder
emblazoned with the his command's unit patch--featuring the flying kite and the
two laurel leaves. Four gold bars rose above the tip of the kite,
distinguising of the Karbarran Theater Commander in Chief of the Robotech
Expeditionary Forces from other decorated upper echelon officers. Only
answerable to Fleet Admiral Richard Hunter, the air and space mecha forces
commander-in-chief; and Fleet [Supreme] Admiral Lisa Hayes-Hunter, the mission
commander; he was the most powerful human being within this part of space.
"I'm quite sure, Lieutenant DuBois, you might agree with my decision as soon as
we get underway. So let's not waste anymore time, eh?"
"At the behest of the Plenipotentiary Council's Special Committee on
Intelligence Operations," the huge Russian continued, "this briefing is in
order, as of 1834 hours. I need not remind you all that this meeting is of the
utmost confidence."
Everyone at the table nodded in agreement, with Rachel the most dumbfounded
of all. Yoshanov, even before the Hayes-Hunters, was a living legend; having
already released an auto-biography that was required reading for General Staff
and Flag Officer's Schools and a curriculary textbook for naval midshipmen
since the War of Unification. Prior to the end of the war, Yoshanov served as
the senior adjutant to Field Marshal Zukav, CINCEURASFO (Commander-in-Chief,
Eurasian Forces) and senior member of the United Earth Defense Council. The
Admiral managed to escape the Zentraedi's unrelenting slaughter of the UNDF's
command posts through pure luck. At the time, Marshal Zukav and Fleet Admiral
Hayes were readying Alaska Base's most valuable strategical asset--the only
functional strategical reflex cannon in Earth's arsenal. Meanwhile, Yoshanva
had been dispatched to the Panamanian-Colombian border to oversee the transfer
of technicians and specialists from Alaska Cannon's sister sites--in that
locale and from a less-heard-of site in Brazil. Most of the Zentraedi's attack
focused on European and North American strategical assets--the UNDF had
fortified those areas for years. However, the Caribbean and most of Latin
America south of Mexico City remained intact--including both the Panama Grand
Cannon and it's secret sister in the Amazon. Yoshanov managed to maintain a
hold on secessionist governments north of Venezuela and Colombia for quite some
time, while taking the effort to secure the Brazilian Grand Cannon in the
sovereign diasporas following the Zentraedi Holocaust. As a result, the
surviving UNDF High Command managed to maintain Brazil's secret treasure
trove's confidence despite the strenuousness of the times. Though barely known
for that reason, it was the main source of the respect he elicited from the
upper echelons. Not even Major General Edwards dared to go over Yoshanov's
head; a fear he held for no one else, not even Supreme Allied Commander of the
REF Fleet Admiral Lisa Hayes-Hunter.
"Shall we begin?" as if his will was the force that powered this balcony
room, the lights darkened, and the table was sudddenly illuminated by a ceiling
light directly center and above it. From the center of the table, an obsidian
black panel raised a few centimeters above the tableline, flashes of
fluorescents fluttering in its vague transparency. Subsequently, a
holo-display of the REF logo appeared in 3D, rotating itself slowly.
"This is your latest evaluation from Commodore Harbringer and Commander
Huxley," he held up a small datadisc and subsequently set it on his hardcopy
folder next to his right hand. "You've earned yourself a reputation as a
promising fighter pilot and reputable officer with exemplary command
capability. I have no doubts you would make a fine skipper some day. Maybe
even a teacher."
"Thank you, sir."
"However, I find myself quite at a loss of assessing newcomers to this
inner circle. As you see, I've had quite a dialogue with Admiral Kulaski while
discussing our intentions for you."
"Now, getting to the point." Admiral Yoshanov nodded towards Sarah.
"General Olvesky?"
"Yes sir," she rose, slipping a wink at Rachel as she withdrew a small
pointing device from the table. All of sudden, she fell into a
"nothing-but-business" mode. "Recapping the final events of the Sentinels War,
we can see that despite a few sparse reports from the forces surrounding the
Sentinels issues, there is no real confirmation of the existence of the Regis
and her so-called half of the Invid continuum. During the galactic mop-up
operations in the Caligulus and Apholos sub-quadrants, we have come across
fascinating examples of Invid social and militaristic organization amongst the
more organized factions of the Regent's forces. I believe, Lieutenant, you are
most familiar with the incident of Domera II." With that, a staff colonel
directed the attendees to forward their datapads to the section marked QUEEN
BEE, a subset of the entire portfolio, codenamed EXODUS.
"Yes, sir."
"During the Patrician incident, Intelligence analyzed reports of brief
skirmishes just outside of the Haydon system with what G2 designates as
unaffiliated forces. Four years later, Ambassador Exedore Formo and a group
from the REF's astrophysics department spotted a mysterious superdimensional
pulse--what astrogators called a "hyperspace foot print"--heading in the
direction of the First Quadrant, and more specifically, the Alpha Supersector.
Disturbingly enough, it originated only some two hundred parsecs outside of the
Opteran system's end of the Trianguli cluster--possibly within the Beta Cassini
System. The pulse almost parallels a hyper foot print Intelligence has been
able to identify from Sentinels pre-war records. We've all heard about the
Regis and her ability to fold her entire species into what I'll simply refer to
as mindstuff.
"Currently, this is skeptical ground amongst the REF Command; almost
eighty-percent of the general staff and the the entirety of the P-Council
concur that the Regis either simply does not exist as a separate entity, or--if
she does exist--commands an enemy force far beneath the Regent's ascertained
military strength
"However, G2 has recently stumbled across some startling new evidence that
offers more credence to our original fears another organized, Invid contingent
at work in the Triangulis Cluster. One particular phenomenon appeared on
gravitic scopes in the First Quadrant. Apparently, a nebulaic "cloud" has been
moving about and within the Local Bubble--surrounding Earth's local group. The
composition is similar to the material residue left behind by what Colonel
Jonathon Wolff and other Sentinel officers described as an "Invid Sensor
Nebula." I'd like to remind you all that one such artificial nebula was
discovered in Haydon IV's aphelion orbit. Far more detailed information can be
found in your datapad, gentlefolk."
Concluding her dissertation, Sarah surrendered to one of her own aides, who
had compiled his briefing from data drawn out of G2's library onboard the
station. "Colonel Greenwood?"
A lanky-jawed colonel with a decisively Southland accent reared up from the
sub-brass contingent sitting close to Yoshanov.
"Thank you, General. I begin with noting that the REF has currently
launched two publicly announced expeditions back to Earth, Major Carpenter's
Recon Group and the Relief Group under the co-supervision of Colonel Wolff.
The Recon mission was sent to discover the reason for the lapse in Space
Station Liberty's automatic transmissions following the First of January,
2028--Earthtime. Following Carpenter's departure, Forward Communications
Station--Thereallia--intercepted a single distress signal originating from our
home local group. It was determined that hyperspace comms had flucuated
between Earth and Tirol with considerable interference since our initial
spacefold. We originally postulated a time-suspension anamoly, similar to that
the SDF-3 suffered during its one-month suspension in hyperspace. Base Tirol
has recently made public its findings regarding the problems with space-fold
drive, citing the "fold arc deviation"-- the eccentricity of the "directional
arc" of a fold--would be further affected by the gravitational pull of the
galaxy's central discus. Whatever the reason, the Recon Group suffered a brief
time lapse in its fold from its launch--in 2029--and its defold--confirmed in
2030.
"The Relief Group, consisting of the Marcus Antonius and refited Chimera
light cruisers, folded back to Earth to respond to the distress call, suffering
little hyperspace flucuation and successfully avoiding any fold problems.
However, a special detachment to the Relief Group had missed the transgalactic
"fold window," and ended up defolding in the year 2032, well after the REF's
Earth Joint Defense Forces and Southern Cross had been marginally rebuilt.
Major Caan has prepared a brief technical report on the subject."
He temporarily conceded to a smaller, stockier G2 major from the G2
Intelligence's science division.
"Independent Research groups," Caan cleared his throat and read from his
paper-brief, "on Tirol and Haydon IV analyzed the situation. One major
hypothesis maintained that the relatively slow velocities of Valivarre in
relation to Sol regularly effect the spacefold in some inexplicable manner. Of
course, the velocity difference itself would not seriously affect the fold arc,
but as Colonel Greenwood pointed out, the central discus of the galaxy may have
somehow forced the fold arc to increase its eccentricity--enough to cause a
normally ten day fold to last from months to years.
"With this in mind, both teams are working on a solution. Already, we've
been able to accurately develop a system of measuring the degree of
time-dilation suffered per nth long fold. Furthermore, we have a working
hypothesis on what conditions of the galactic core affect the sychronization
between foldtime and realtime. As you know, folds made within local jump, such
as a maximum of three kiloparsecs, are not seriously affected by this time
dilation factor; the galaxy's center exterts a common pull on hyperspace
activity within such small pockets of space. However, a fold jump in excess of
ten kiloparsecs will suffer up to months, possibly years, in fold-suspension.
Transversing the galaxy also means transversing different gravitational fields;
the effects are predictable sometimes, but can be pretty damn erratic most of
the time.
"May I remind you that Terra is approximately sixty-thousand lightyears
from the closest ideal fold point in the Tirolian Local Group. Until we
complete the upgrades with the Synchron device, we will be forced to make due
with this unfortunate yet unavoidable inconvenience. A chronology and
almanac of these shifts in fold varience is currently being recorded in special
databanks with the greatest degree of accuracy possible.
"Unfortunately, from what we've been able to extrapolate from our data, the
optimum fold window closed off two years ago."
"Thank you, Major," the G2 science briefing officer took his seat as the
floor focused back on the Colonel Greenwood. "The hyperspace communication
lapse has been generally solved, however, we've lost contact with Wolff soon
after the ASC 15th's return with the Antonius. We've learned that Major
Carpenter is alive and well, though the Tokugawa is destroyed. We've also
learned of the final results of the Terran war against the Masters. However,
following May of 2033, Earth went silent to us, except in certain cases. If I
I may, I'd like to turn over the floor to my collegue, sir."
"Thank you, Colonel Greenwood. Colonel Reid, continue," Yoshanov said. A
much smaller, pot-bellied young man who seemed to resemble a Karbarran cub,
began his own report. Rachel had noticed that much of the activity on the
lower bridges had halted.
"We know, with all probability, that the Invid have reached Earth, and the
REF is finally releasing official reports on the situation. We've maintained
an intermittent non-protoculture link with the Uranus outpost setup up by the
3rd SC, as well as occasional communications Mars Base Gloval. The Trident
report finalized the needed confirmation." Several eyebrows were raised. Even
Grant had been unaware that any ship from the Southern Cross had returned.
>From the information brought back on the Marcus Antonius, Captain Delphine
Maxwell was in command of that particular light troop cruiser--she was a good
friend of the Grant family.
"The Regis--without question of her identity--is now in possession of
Earth," G3 analyst Reid said nonplussedly, with an unearthly monotone voice.
"During this time, we have established a small, near-realtime tachyon radio
link with a group of agents, labelled ULYSSES and RIGEN specifically, about the
same time we confirmed the Regis' existence, and her destination: Earth."
Reid immediately ceded to Yoshanov after completing the details of his
report, including much more convincing evidence of the Regis' existence and
estimated strength.
"Lieutenant," the Russian said. "Basically what we have elaborated on here
today is a small part of a larger picture that we hope you will learn once this
mission is underway. The REF command is asking for your service in the
reclamation of Earth from her captors."
"Sir?"
"Which is why we have arranged for your transfer along with your 24th AVAC,
Sigma-Clear, with which you will carry the war to the Regis, in a manner of the
most elite confidentiality..."
"We intend to launch a sole Tristar-class starship, the Thunderbolt, to
establish a new wave of Point Forces here." A map of Earth appeared on the
holo-screen at the center of the table. It moved inward towards a point in
Southlands. "Point K."
The holomap focused in on the Amazonas, and stats of the force's strength
were listed to the side. "The last transmissions from RIGEN indicated that
ALuCE commanders were planning to wait for a surmounted offensive. Mars Base
Gloval hasn't the foggiest idea of when or where this will be taking place, and
we need to desperately establish a communicable operative to appraise us of the
situation surrounding Reflex Point."
"Reflex Point?"
The holo-map shifted north by north-east over the Caribbean and halting
over a spot of land that had once been the Ohio Valley. "Reflex Point is a
Royal Hive, pretty much like the ones found on Optera and Cephaid 96 Grinch
II. However, unconfirmed reports seem to imply that it is far larger in
comparison, no less two or three times larger than the aforementioned two."
The hologram indicated it had been taken by a satellite that remained
undetected in orbit. Of course, the image was two years old, during the three
year construction phase of Invid hives and fortifications planetside.
Rachel pulled in a breath as every rumor she had ever heard seemed to be
fulfilling themselves like apocolyptic prophecies.
"Our last communiques with our operatives gave us sketchy comfirmation
regarding an Invid related attack on the Zentraedi Robotech Factory--only a
fifth escaped to Earth. Our link with Earth continued for a year longer before
cutting off completely."
"Beyond that, we can only conclude that Earth has indeed been subjugated by
the Invid presence. We have received intermittent communiques from Mars Base
Gloval and Sara, but both have ceased within two years of each other. We still
cannot dispute the death and disarmament, however, of the Regent's forces."
The pot-bellied colonel conceded to his collegue, a lithsome, red-haired
woman in her early thirties. From what she could gather from the briefing
agenda on her datapad, it was this woman's job to summarize the strategical
situation on Earth, point out the REF's interests, and outline the mission
objectives.
"According to these reports, most the hives the Invid constructed on Earth
are similar to those we've encountered amongst the Regent's forces; however,
their enslavement patterns--from what limited data we have--do not completely
tee-up. We are very curious of this breed of Invid's behavioral patterns--a
much more efficient and unbreakable bond of hive-mind than that examplified by
interviews with the Invid Tesla."
Rachel decided this G2 analyst, by the name of Colonel Janice Gramm, was
some sort of psychologist, or xenopschyiology specialist. Gramm continued.
"The point is is that forces under Wolff's command and the elite forces of
Colonel Tojirama's 23rd AVAC have encountered almost debilitating resistance,
much more severe and haunch that any we've ever encountered. For that reason,
we gave orders to the 23rd's Southlands group to establish a base around one of
the old United Earth Alliance's secrets, kept hidden even from the UEG by the
RDF during Reconstruction."
With expert timing, an image that DuBois recognized to be schematics of a
Grand Cannon, appeared. "The Grand Cannon project in Alaska had been opened to
UEDC review under the late-Fleet Admiral Gerald Hayes. However, the Admiral
had concealed the construction of the seven other Grand Cannon's, save the
never completed Venezuela mechanism. This included a strategic point that had
survived the First Robotech War." Yoshanov grunted slightly. Of all the
people present, only Rachel and Commodore Grant were unaware of this
development.
"The Brazilian Grand Cannon is located some two-hundred kilometers
south-west of the Southland region known as the Basin. The Basin has retained
much of its foliage, making it the ideal encampment for a small Special Forces
Unit. When we received the 15th's reports on the spores that had spread across
Canada and the Southlands, Wolff's units had received orders following the
Marcus Antonius' return to Tirol to setup points of resistance for the pending
Invid attack. The Thunderbolt should be able complete this mission, but you
will depart before hand to ensure that this information is received by the
commander of a specific Southland resistance force, Agent RIGEN."
"We are interested in setting up this cannon as a Robotech factory, and it
will produce mecha that will not only run on protoculture reflex drives, but
drives capable of supporting a new ionic-fusion technique."
"You'll be supplying the information that will arm our world against a
falsely assumed 'indomitable' foe." The social ramifications were staggering.
No doubt High Command understood that Terra had gone through enough damage and
tears to turn feelings of heated resentment towards any force from space, human
or not. But to work from within...
The colonel sat down; Olvesky immediately took the reins of the briefing.
"Now, we all understand the major reason for misfolds between our two star
systems is problematic. Currently, an augmentation developed on Earth is
undergoing testing and refitting for for intragalactic, long-range
'instantaneous' fold. The Mars Fleet, we've determined, may suffer a two-year
lapse, respective to normal space."
Vince Grant eased his collar as he stared at the holo-display, which
immediately projected the schematics of a strange looking vessel. "Dr.
Tijaro?" Olvesky called.
Lieutenant DuBois whipped her head around as two men stepped out of the
shadow. One, she recognized, was rich boy pilot, an ebony-skinned commander,
and heir to the TXI Encom corporation based on Tirol, and commander of Black
Angels Veritech squadron, hosted on the BC Yamato. He escorted a much elder
man of Japanese descent, one whom she recognized from her early years on Haydon
Monoceros.
"Its nice to see you again, Rachel. Its only too bad I can't actually see
you," he smiled, removing a pair of augmented glasses to reveal his permanently
closed eyes. During the years struggling against time on Haydon Menoceros, he
had developed a rare strain of some glaucoma--or an alien afflication quite
similar in effect--that stopped only when his visual ability was permanently
wrecked. Only the small sensor devices implanted in his temples--responding to
the light his sunglasses captured--allowed him to register the world around him
in a poor mechanical excuse for sight. However, he could now see more and see
farther than any human being's perfect naked eyes, but his eyes were
permanently raped of their youthful brilliance, and that maniacal glint that
Rachel once found adorable would be forever shut behind his eyelids.
Still, he seemed to now catch the mysticism that only Lang and Zand had
received, their eyes betraying their unique contact with protoculture. If
anything could be said, Tijaro had a unique grasp of Robotechnology itself.
"This is my aide, Presley Cannady; our military liaison to TXI Encom. I'm not
sure if you've met."
"I'm afraid not," the REF-Navy lieutenant commander replied for her.
"However, I've heard much about you from Dr. Garreteau. It is a pleasure to
meet you."
An abrupt cough from the TCIC shifted the focus back on the briefing. "Of
course," Tijaro mumbled. "Forgive me. This is the prototype of the third
generation of Terran starship design, the UES Rigellan, the first
monitor-carrier in the SDF-6 Portfolio. As you know, the Rigel-class will
probably not be completed by the launch time for the Mars Fleet, and will no
doubt be held in reserve with the main fleet. However, there are Invid back
home, and this ship is the one to get you there safe and sound."
He elaborated on the schematics, with a fidget that Rachel recognized as
hiting to something even more exciting. Tijaro had only minimal influence with
this new design, but he was well-known to take pride in his inventions that
superceded even Lang's in the secretive eyes of these group of men. For
decades, he had been in the shadow of the mind-boosted German protoculturist,
but since he departed from the great Earthling Robotech "Master," he had made a
legend out of himself, reclaiming the credit for the design of the Valkyrie
Veritech fighter, and, as this discussion was reaching, the design of further
Valkyrie contingents. "As you know already, Admiral Hunter has expressed an
almost nostalgic interest in the development of the Valkyrie fighter, to which
this carrier design is most adapt to supporting, so now, we shift to the next
phase of this preliminary mission briefing."
"Lieutenant DuBois, may I also present to you the YF-2 Leopard Vindicator
Valkyrie, the first to incorporate the Shadow Device."
"With all due respect," DuBois cut in. "Lang's research teams--"
"Haven't completed their device," Tijaro completed. "By now you should
know what your dear uncle has been working on with me for the past three years,
right?"
"He never really told me much about his job."
"What a shame," Tijaro clicked his tongue. "Anyway, the Tijaro Shadow
Device, while not as elaborate as Lang's protoculture machine, may actually
prove to be a more practical design when incorporated into the Valkyrie
design. We've had some problems with Alpha Fighter versions, and currently,
only four of those 'Shadow Fighters' are operational. However, we've developed
an entire wing of these bastards with the Leopard design."
Tijaro concluded with schematics of the pitch-black fighter, describing its
Shadow Device, which ran on the principle of cloaking a fighters protoculture
and non-protoculture emmissions by re-energizing them out of phase; it managed
to use those emmissions to supply forty percent of its needed power.
Rachel listened intently as the briefing continued, but it sooned turn to
emotionless expression as she thought back, only a short time ago, when black
missions had first lost the sweet taste of success, and the bitterness
tripled.
* * *
The anatomical skeleton of the old Tirolian shipyards glided slowly across the
face of the blue-white moon below, skirting the atmosphere's blue curvature as
it hung peacefully in low orbit. Most of Fantoma's dark verdant face had
turned to shadow by now. Soon, Tirol would enter her painfully long nocturnal
period. A few glimmers of light edged the horizon of Tirol's gigantic host
before the sun dipped below Fantoma's arc all together. Only Tirol's small
sisters would break the cold monotony of Tirol's night; providing enough light
to prevent a complete blackness from enveloping the world. More or less,
Tirol's "nights" resembled the Terran twilight period, although there would be
a period of time where the skies would be as black as midnight--even darker
perhaps.
At times like this, the admiral was eternally grateful that she could
retire to the starry expanse of space; away from the terrifying darkness that
laid itself over the world below.
The SDF-3 rested under the watchful spotlights of the shipyards Epsilon
Dock, a partially enclosed structure that had served as the primary reservicing
station for the REF flagship as soon as the shipyards were rebuilt. Four years
ago, the station had been razed by the retreating forces of General Edwards and
his dissenting forces. While he eventually escaped to Optera with a hijacked
Ikazuchi-class heavy cruiser, the Izumo battlefortresses were safely removed
beyond Valivarre's planetary discus. The SDF-3 had suffered unimaginable
damange, and the past four years had been devoted to refitting and upgrading
the superimensional fortress.
Curiously, the shipyards were oriented in a way that positioned the SDF-3's
flag ready room in full view of Tirol's western horizon--with respect to the
the west viewport. Some ten-thousand kilometers away and just above the fading
glint of light over Tirol's atmospheric edge, the gleaming outline of an an
even more skeletal shipping yard could be seen. Unlike her salvaged sister,
the new Tirolian dry-docks were constructed along Karbarran lines, and they
currently housed the Izumo battlefortresses of the SDF-4 portfolio. The
admiral couldn't help but reflect in wonderment with the knowledge that an
entire group of superdimensional fortresses were under construction. Well, not
exactly SDFs on the scale of the SDF-3; they were far more closely related to
the battleship in function. Someday, the real SDF-4 would be constructed along
the same lines as her three predecessors; only that vessel would be one that
went among the stars in the name of peace and exploration--not in the name of
an extended war.
You're too young to be thinking such things, she thought to herself.
Still, this mission was enough to force any veteran to think with a great deal
more introspect. Indeed, the present situation warranted; in light of the fact
that Supreme Admiral of the Fleet Lisa Hayes-Hunter could either consider the
future of her homeworld, or contemplate her own demons.
From a glance, this whole bruhaha stepped poorly out of step with the
Admiral's character--her husband's likewise. Admiral Hunter often thought of
herself as an officer--above all, a woman--with a deep sense of integrity and
honor. Indeed, Lisa could trace her lineage throug an illustrious affair of
career naval officers. Her grandfather had been a Lieutenant (JG) onboard the
USS Enterprise during the action at Midway, the battle that saw Ray Spruance
and Jack Fletcher devastated Nagumo's carrier force. After the war, William
Jackson Hayes went on to command a squadron of destroyer's bearing the name of
the Old Man himself--the Spruances. Eventually, he settled down on a captain's
pension, watching his son follow admirably in his foot steps. Her own father
had been a US Naval Intelligence officer fifteen years before her birth, and
had advanced to a key position on the United Earth Defense Council before the
Rain of Death. That violent episode of the First Robotech War had all but
destroyed the remnants of the Hayes clan. As far as Lisa knew, she was the
only survivor. Four years later, she found herself, ironically, in a position
similar to that of her father. Likewise, she learned soon enough that this
whole rotten mess disgusted her. Actually, "disgust" carries a negative
connotation inappropriately putrid; her dreams and goals for her military
career had always pointed towards command. Still, she found that grim
realities of command often twisted and distorted--forcibly so--the ideals of
those who assumed leadership capacities. Despite all of her rectitude, Lisa
could not evade this pervasive truth.
Lisa refused to lie to herself, as she had to so many other people--there
was simply no sugar-coated way around it. The Admiral had lied to her
government and to her fellows. That in itself was the worst of it--lying to
the people she swore an Oath--a binding promise that measured the integrity and
candor of an officer--to protect from any harm. Never in her life had she ever
considered the possibility that her Oath and her principle might come into
conflict, and the moral dilemma she endured ached vigorously at her heart.
Admiral Hunter found herself unable to keep her mind off her dark secret;
it tortured her in the way no physical pain could ever match. The integrity of
an officer had long been an ideal that she refused to compromise on. However,
as a commander, she often found that the duties of command and the integrity of
the system often came into conflict. To do what was right--what she thought
and hoped was right--meant sometimes doing wrong. Still, no amount of
self-justification would provide her any solace.
She sighed in relief when her secretary's voice squawked over the intercom.
"Admiral. Commodore Shetland has arrived."
"Thank you, Buster," she answered. "Please send him in."
A moment later, the doors hissed open, revealing a somewhat stocky man of
Anglo-American background entered into the room. His tone was even paler than
that of Lisa, and he carried himself with a dignity that seemed to defy his
stature. When the doors closed, he took his liberty and arranged himself
comfortably on the office couch.
"How did it go?"
"Rocky to start with, sir," Shetland commented. "Yoshanov introduced that
lieutenant commander--er, Dubois--to the need-to-know circle. That part was
pretty easy. Then, we had to finalize the lists for the last Twenty-Third AVAC
detachment command staff and their fourth component squadron. It's hell trying
to keep something this big undercover."
Admiral Hunter nodded in agreement. Like most of Lisa's staff, Shetland
was from the "old school." Willy "Buster" Shetland started out as one of the
first graduates of the UNDF Spacy Academy, back in 2006. Before that, he
served as an midshipman engineer on the Oberth-class destroyer Goddard when
Captain (eventually Admiral) Henry J. Gloval commanded her. When she took on
the hijacked Tsiolkovsky, the fore-starboard weapons and engineering hull had
taken a direct hit, and Midshipman Shetland--on loan from Apollo base--was left
to bring the tattered remains of Engineering Section Bravo back together.
Working EVA at combat accelerations, Shetland's crew managed to repair the
starboard array of heavy missile launchers in time for the Goddard to release
that decisive volley against the renegade Tsiolkovsky. For nearly three weeks,
the Goddard and the Tsiolkovsky played a deadly cat-and-mouse game, thoroughly
running both renegade and pursuing crews ragged. His actions onbard the
Goddard had gotten him the attention of the Macross Training Facility's
director, and with the help of his captain, he was on his way to officially
complete his command education. Needless to say, Buster Shetland graduated the
Advance Tactical Course and command school with honors, after which he
proceeded to an ARMD command and eventually--before the Rain of Death--to ALuCE
to oversee drydock construction of the SDF-2 and her soon-to-be Tokugawa-class
sisters. Although Lisa maintained a close relationship with Shetland--like most
of her staff officers--he had never really talked about it; Lisa decided simply
not to press the matter. After all, the admiral could relate to that
motivation Shetland and his haggard and bleeding crew experienced, all the
while tottering on the brink of oblivion. Decades ago, she and her shipmates
found themselves stranded billions of kilometers from Earth; forced to fight
the galaxy's most powerful navy to get home while taking care of
seventy-thousand civilian refugees.
His experience had made him also a valuable member of Admiral Yoshanov's
staff. Lisa technically ranked CINC-Karbarra. However, Admiral Hunter
understood that she needed the burly Russian more than the he needed the REF.
Consequently, Yoshanov operated with a great deal of autonomy and personal
influence, and one of his "demands" involved Lisa's sharing of Shetland's
services. Not only did the commodore advicse CINC-Karbarra, Shetland spoke the
Word of Yoshanov. On the record, Shetland's authority was the complete
manifestation of both Hunter's and Yoshanov's.
Today, Lisa averted her attention from Shetland's words to his eyes. While
Shetland faithfully spoke on the authority of his superiors, his eyes never
failed to reveal the direction of his soul. Most of the time, people would
find nothing but undaunting confidence and serenity along the commodore's
brow. But not today. Instead of the proud fire that had burned their since
the days of the First Robotech War, she was staring deeply into a soul as dark
and troubled as her own.
"Admiral," the commodore spoke up. "You know I don't like this. Vasalya
doesn't like this."
Lisa didn't look up, but regarded the chicken-salad sandwich that was
brought to her fifteen minutes ago. She dared herself to take a bite, but Lisa
knew that now she had to deal with this problem--first and foremost.
"I can't imagine anyone who does, Commodore," Admiral Hunter replied.
"However, it's not a matter of personal taste. What we do is what we must do."
"Are you sure?" Shetland replied. That would be the closest thing to a
rebuke the commodore would allow himself, and Lisa knew it; naturally, she took
it in stride. Hell, I probably deserve it. However, after having examined
Shetland's eyes, she could see that his tone had a great deal more caring
concern than bitter worry about it. Furthermore, his eyes cut deeply into
Lisa's own, and she could clearly understand what he was asking. What would The
Captain say?
Both Lisa's and Buster's careers were fostered by Captain Henry J. Gloval,
and both officers once shared an almost familial relationship with the
Admiral--Shetland even more so than Lisa. After the Tsiolkovsky Incident and
graduation, Gloval had pulled and gotten Shetland in his newly reconstructed
engineering department aboard the Goddard. Before the SDF-1's commission into
the UNDF, Gloval had tried his damndest to secure the then-Commander Shetland
as his chief engineer--a post Bruce would have gladly sacrificed his chance at
ARMD command for without hesitation. However, politics quickly closed off that
avenue; the UEDC elected to fill the position with a UN observer whose merits
included overseeing the conceptualized "translation" of most of the alien
technology that had arrived with the Visitor. After the war, Gloval called in
Shetland to serve onboard the SDF-2 as chief engineer; an assignment that
nearly killed him along with Gloval when Khyron attacked Macross. Like Lisa,
Shetland followed Gloval through every conceivable rank of hell; only to find
himself thinking late in the night about what would the Captain think--how
would he do this and what would he have done differently, now that he was no
longer present to offer his guidance.
Lisa, however, felt that she had gotten beyond interrogating Gloval's ghost
each time a problem presented herself. No two commanders possessed the same
sort of personalities and motivations, just as they had different approaches to
the battlefield.
Still, never once did Lisa ever think she'd have to lie to herself--let
alone the world as she knew it--on such a weak justification. Sometimes, Lisa
could find comfort in the words of the late Enrico Ramirez, Lieutenant General
(ret), United States Marine Corps. At the age of sixty-three, he emerged out
of retirement to lead a band of scrabbled UN regulars and volunteers in Puerto
Rico and Florida in one of the last dedicated-infantry battles on Terra.
Ramirez had spoken to her freshman class at the Macross Training Center about
the prices and sacrifices of command. Rather than offer the bright words of
encouragement some of his civilians, he told a story. It was about two men
that had lived in a forest together, and had raised their familes together, and
had fended off wild beasts and other menaces that nature thrust upon them.
Then, while their families were picnicking one day, two fierce-looking mountain
lions pounced from behind. The families took to flight, but one of the men was
able to move his kin faster than his friend. Knowing that he could either keep
the slower man's pace and die along with him. On the other hand, he could
leave his friend and his friend's family to die, thereby ensuring that he and
his family would survive. It seemed such a grim example, but Lisa even found
trying to equate with such a horrible example to self-lenient. With that,
Enrico Ramirez concluded his last public appearance, waved goodbye to the
cadets at the MTC, and left for Puerto Rico where he died of pancreatic cancer
six days later.
That was the Machivellian fact of military life; especially when the
political machine was married to it. She had outrun her enemies--General
Edwards, Adams, Montefrier, and many others. The Regent was dead and the
Robotech Masters--whom she had never faced--were long gone. No one had known
whether or not she had won her "race" fair and square, or whether she had cut
corners. However, the members of the REF weren't paid or expected to reflect
on history, but to fulfill their mission objectives. Likewise, Lisa's job was
to command. Still, there was no moral game she could play with herself to
alter that fact in her mind, and she knew there was no pleasure in simply being
able to get away with her sins. However, she needed only to think of the face
of her new, most-dreaded foe to take her mind off the guilt.
The idea had formulated itself over a time period stretching back entire
years--the inspiration dating back to the climatic segment of the First Invid
War. During that time period, Lisa and her husband, Rick Hunter, had commanded
an REF detachment attached to the multiple star-nation force known as the
Sentinels. Between 2025 and 2030, members of the RDF-loyal faction of the
Robotech Expeditionary Force bled and died in the name of liberating worlds
from the Invid dominion. Not only did it include the major world campaigns,
but countless of colony and lunar liberations that included hundreds of
campaigns and thousands of battles--wars that continued even after the decisive
end of the war. It was those battles that had essentially thrust Lisa into her
current position.
During her period fighting on the front along side the Sentinels, Lisa had
learned of the stories and legends regarding the infamous Invid Regis, the
Queen-Mother of the Invid race. Many told of a vividly stunning, incredibly
immense woman that towered even a Zentraedi, while others told of a god-like,
incandescent being of pure energy. The Praxians subscribed largely to the
former belief, while the Karbarrans--who possessed firm cultural ties to the
ritualistic spiritualism--pictured the Regis as the Invid equivalent to God.
The Spherisians were surprisingly quiet on the subject. Certain
xenopsychologists were suggesting the silicon-base life-form's limited contact
with the Invid, as well as their tendency to identify with world of the
silicate might explain their lack of historical or mythical doctrine regarding
the Invid. The Garudans seemed to believe in a practical mixture of the
Praxian and Karbarran concepts--that the Invid Queen was the symbol of
universal evolution.
For some reason, it was the Garudan doctrine that most affected Lisa's view
of the Regis.
When the world's came under Invid dominion--that doctrine quickly changed
from reverent awe to a distaste equivalent to that for each culture's
respective "evil spirits." The Regent was the most visible aggressor and
oppressor, but it was the Regis that symbolized the evil and the hatred of the
Invid in the eyes of other Local Group races. Nowhere was this more
appreciated than on Tirol, especially amongst the people whose leadership
instigated the conflict. In that case, the Invid Regis symbolized the
inevitable conclusion to a slowly faltering empire, and the angel of justice
and death bringing havoc and mayhem to the culpable greatness of the Tirolian
people. Although the Masters were gone, the Invid had saw fit to vent their
racial anger against those left behind--people with little more to do with the
conflict than the desert rocks tat surrounded their biodomes. So, by the time
Lisa and the REF arrived in system, they were to be flooded with a host of
sometimes conflicting conceptions and images of the Regis' likeness.
Considering the real threat the war with the Invid Regent would take up, the
Regis was often dismissed by a majority of the REF as a fairy-tale or some
diabolical machination the Sentinels had conjured up to give a demonic face to
their enemy. Soon, Terran expeditioners began to apply that same, hated
imagery as the war with the Invid began to painfully acquaint itself with them.
As the war slowly dragged on, and the REF began digging inroads in the
Fourth Quadrant, Lisa found herself slowly and slowly relying on a camp of
people that she had learned to trust over the years. Many were inherited from
Admiral Gloval's general staff; others were UNDF commanders who had managed to
keep their commands intact long enough to link up with Macross and Tokyo.
Others were sectionalists who managed to steer clear of Anatole Leonard's
"unity" and threw indirect support behind the Robotech Defense Force. They
included the Vince Grant, Raul Forsythe, her husband Rick, Sarah Olvesky, and
many others. She didn't count on the Sterlings anymore, and never wanted to in
the first place. If anything, they didn't deserve to be dragged through this
mess. Lisa had no desire to mire their lives with the political swamp that
rained spittle on hers.
Withholding information, the obstruction of justice, espianoge. Once upon
a time, Lisa would have never given a thought to what corruption a commander
might face. Never one had she considered that people would divide thmselves in
support and or in vie of her position. Never would she have thought she
would've had to fight to stay on top. Needless to say, she learned very
quick. While her enemies were numerous, her friends were equally so; Reinherdt
had lovingly taught her the ropes, and it was only a matter of time before she
began searching for her own solid ground.
And discovering the bitterness that accompanied it.
"What are you trying to say, Commodore?" Admiral Hunter raised her eyes
after a nearly two minute pause. Shetland's gaze had not shifted once, focused
intently on Lisa. "Speak freely."
Shetland paused, but only for a moment. His expression shifted from his
normally placid, professional demeanor to one the expressed concern. Lisa
looked away momentarily, cognizant of what was to come.
"Admiral," Shetland began, "ever wonder what it would be like to conn a tin
can?"
"All the time," Lisa answered with a smile, crossing her arms on her desk;
she remembered her once naive desire to command nothing less than a
superdimensional fortress. Now that she had it, it sometimes felt as if it was
the heaviest burden she would ever carry through life; the supreme commander of
the SDF-3 was also responsible for the REF, and the pattern that outfit had
taken over the years had taken its toll on her. "Nothing to worry about except
what Task Force command tells you to. More time for crew, family, and a better
rotation. I can't imagine a better life."
"True," Shetland nodded in agreement. "You and every damned capital
skipper from here to Optera."
"Do you know what's the best about a single command?"
"What?"
"You can go with your gut feeling. Sure, there are responsibilities that
come with possessing any sort of authority, and its the loneliest job out
there. But--damn it. You're allowed to have some goddamn feelings."
"Exactly, admiral," the commodore moved his chair closer to the admiral's
oak desk. "That's something, however, you can't afford. Even more so, it's
something you have to throw away altogether, at least on occassion. Do you
think you're any different from Yoshanov? I've worked alongside Intelligence
for twenty years, and you should here the rumor mill on his ass. When you were
gallavanting about with those Sentinels, you picked up two very dangerous
habits. One, you outgrew your naivete to the politics infested in the
organization. Second, you got used to commanding on the front. There's little
guilt and little pain of surviving when you're own life is on the line--or at
least it's much less than the guilt that accompanies sentencing us to death
from a desk. You're not used to being outside that situation, and you're going
to pay hell for it. To be frank, admiral, that's where you fucked up."
"Go on, Buster," Lisa beckoned.
"If this were to ever break out, you and half the RDF-camp
leadership--there's no need to bullshit past what's plainly obvious to
everyone--would roast at the P-Council's mid-summer barbecue. Hell, I know
less than I 'should,' and that's still enough to put a noose around my neck.
I'm not sure what they'd do to you and Admiral Hunter, but you can bet it's
going to last a whole lot longer and hurt a whole lot worse than what the rest
of us are in for.
"You see, Admiral? You've tried to convince yourself what we're
doing--what we're about to do--is the right thing to do; that you're serving
the best interests of everyone. What you haven't realized, or what you've
refused to accept, is that all of it--this only way business--just might by
your opinion...no, our opinion. Let's face it, we've gone against the
political machine and outside of official policy. We're dictating the REF's
position from behind a curtain--setting the board so that only we can play.
Sure, we do really believe in what we're doing. Unfortunately Lisa, we're
invoking an absolute that not everyone will see--something not everyone might
want to look for."
Lisa sat through it with a overly deadpan expression. Shetland wondered if
the admiral had tuned him out. No, he scolded himself for ever considering
such a thing. Admiral Hunter had heard and considered every word; not as if
was they embodied a revelation, but served to prove that her own self-delusions
were just that--self-delusions. Still, she couldn't simply crack-down and call
onto the Almighty to redeem her. That was trivial compared to what Shetland
was truly concerned about.
"Buster, what do you really have to say."
"Sir, I hate to say it, but I really couldn't give two goddamns what
happens to us. Let me tell you something I do know. In six years, we'll be
sending a good portion of our people back home--like we should've done years
ago--to try and rest control of Earth from the Invid. We are the only people
who know right now what we're up against. We're manipulating information,
giving smidgets to those outside the circle and even less to the politicians.
What's going on, no matter what end it's for, is still dirty.
"Official policy defines our military agenda, whether you like it or not.
I know you're pulling to maneuver as much of an offensive posture as possible
when we launch the Mars Main Battle Fleet. Still, we know that what the Scouts
find out won't be worth a damn even when the main fleet shows up, and what we
have now makes all the difference. It's too bad that in this stage of the
game, no one will listen to us. Still, I hate the idea of sacrificing lives
simply to further solidify our position in the REF. It's wrong, and I'm not
going to sleep comfortably watching this thing transpire from the sidelines."
"Buster," Lisa stepped in. "I know how you're feeling, and I feel the same
way. You're absolutely right; this thing was a cluster-fuck from the get-go.
However, let me tell you something I'm dead sure of. When I was off with the
Sentinels those years, I saw things that the Council and most of the REF would
laugh heartily at. I submitted reports that were called 'belly-whoppers' and
'tall tales' in the records of the Council annual review. Entire reports were
filed as erratic, unreliable, or unconfirmed. My integrity and credibility
were thrown on the chopping block and hacked away at. Needless to say, Edwards
was an incredibly pain the ass, but he wasn't the only one. The Expedition is
splitting over itself. We're too damn big and we've gotten way too involved
with events transpiring here. 'Robotech Expeditionary Force' is little more
than a name, now; something homey to call ourselves. Instead, we have a vast
military and political relationship with the whole goddamned Fourth Quadrant,
and to top it off, no one cares about home anymore. We set out with volunteers
on a grand mission of diplomacy and defense. Now, we've found ourselves caught
in the interconnectivity that we erected, and we've forgotton our own home.
"When I decided that bulk of QUEEN BEE and EXODUS would be revealed to only
those I could 'trust,' I wasn't afraid of people getting wiff of the idea. In
fact, I asked James--" General James Napier, REF G2 Intelligence Assistant
Deputy Director (Operations) "--to make sure that at least some rumors of a
potent Invid presence would circulate. Still, I was afraid that people would
scoff at the idea and forget a major part of our mission. Earth is, and still
is, the Expedition's primary concern. I don't care what's changed--to hell
with shifting population demographic and economic interdependencies. We're
going home to find one of our most devastating challenges awaiting us, and I'll
be damned if we leave Earth to that cosmic bitch."
Shetland was almost taken back by Lisa's sudden change of tone. He was of
course aquainted with the history of Tirol in relation to the Invid; reminscent
of some Greek tragedy played to a cosmic scale. If anything, he did express
sympathy for what had happened to the Invid in the past, although he recognized
the threat their belligerence represented to star-nations free of Tirol's sin.
However, Lisa had taken the main bulk of the war with them all the way to
Optera. The "war" that continued afterwards, although it would claim more
lives and equipment than the Sentinels conflict, would ever be overshadowed by
that historic period.
"So," Lisa concluded, "while my decision is completely and utterly wrong,
it's not without cause. There is no reputable commander outside of our
circle--or even inside--that will publicly express concerns about the Invid
Regis. Our civilians and the rest of the Local Group would consider such talk
reactionary, and the P-Council is very careful about not coming off as
imperialistic. Likewise, Karbarra and New Praxis simply won't here of an
absence of the Terran presence in the Fourth Quadrant--despite our own
problems. Until we can demonstrate a true threat to our homeworld, we can't
rely on their support."
"Wasn't the Antonius enough?" Shetland suggested. "What about the Last
Transmission?" That was, the mysterious transmission Liberty Station--orbiting
their homeworld, sixty-thousand light-years away--had broadcasted before
disappearing completely off the sensors REF remote telemetry outside the
Earth-Lunar system. This abrupt and unnatural cessation of telemetry data
served only to further disturb the REF and the Council as no subsequent
distress signal--not even a Code Omega "Burst of Death"--followed. Naturally,
the station was presumed destroyed, and Intelligence had already seeded the
idea that an Invid force was obviously responsible. G2 presented reports
dating back to 2031 indicating that the Invid might have had advance knowledge
of the Sol System's location, and with their superior space-fold technology,
only the harassing presence of the REF prevented them from seizing
Earth--thereby holding a knife to the Expedition's jugular. However, with the
fall of Optera--as a few had suggested--the Invid had little to lose in the way
of a Fourth Quadrant Empire, and all to gain by striking a major blow to the
Expedition. With the Terran homeworld as a prime target, Liberty's sudden drop
from the communications network seemed signaled many in the REF of the direness
of Earth's situation. Still, not even that was enough.
"It's never enough," Lisa answered flatly. "People simply don't understand
until it slaps them in the face. Unfortunately, that's what it will take to
wake up the council. I'm sorry Buster, and I truly do hate this job. Believe
it or not, I'm already paying my dues.
"Sometimes, I wish to heaven that I'd find a stockade at the end of all
this. It's like you said, nothing hurts more than commanding from the rear;
sentencing your friends and loved ones--those who rely on you to lead them--to
death while you cower behind the safety of a desk. If I have any real regrets
about my decision, it's that I can't justify my faith by offering myself as a
sacrifice. My friends and my confidantes won't blame me, and neither will the
P-Council, or the Admiralty and General Staff, or my family, or even you,
goddamn it! Everything I've upheld and believed suddenly passes away and no
one even notices the difference. Sure, there will still be the SDF-3, an
Admiral Lisa Alicia Hayes-Hunter, and the mission. Moreover, everything falls
into place, no matter what the cost, because I'll be the first to grasp onto
the notion that we're really dealing with the Regis--because I was the first to
suggest it, and because I stuck to my report. So, naturally, they'll treat me
like a hero, even though...even though I set them up. It's a win-win situation
and a Catch-22 rolled into one.
"And if I'm wrong, the only punishment I'll face is the pain of living the
rest of my life in forfeit."
* * *
Four months....
...and three years later, Earth actual...
"Damn it!" the communications officer swore. "Captain, nothing on three-band
frequencies, nothing!"
"Keep trying, that tachyon radio's in prime condition. Something's gotta
be getting through," the ship's commander, the Karbarran warship
commander--K'rrk--had found even the widened version of the Terran command
chair painfully uncomfortable. Wearing the traditional uniform of a Local
Group United Space Forces officer, he found himself emersed with a largely
Terran and Zentraedi crew. Ferrying these "Earthers" across the galaxy was
hardly the apple of his eye--it sure as hell didn't look terribly impressive on
his record, but surely he could pull off a transfer to the command of a true
Karbarran war vessel, such as the Tracialle, possibly even the Yirrbisst.
After all, Commodore K'rrk had managed to eek out a small name for himself in
the battles against residual Invid occupation units following the Karbarran
campaign, and commanded the second of the Karbarran Oomak-class
space-destroyers only a year after its commission into service.
"Nothing, sir," she took off her headset. "Four weeks and nothing. Surely
the captain realizes that even hyperstate communications between the Rigellan
and the rest of the REF were tentative at best."
"Lorek?"
The only other Karbarran on the bridge, a rather stolid specimen, turned
from his station. "Captain, it would be logical to assume that the galatic
core is a most probable factor in disrupting communications. With this
equipment, or even anything in the whole of the old Robotech Master's empire,
its not guarenteed that they are even receiving or communications. It is also
possible to assume that they are receiving, and yet are unable to reply."
"But why?"
"Might I remind you that our spacefold, as expected, took a lapse of three
years. I've intercepted various radio waves from the planet's surface; there
are a scant few that are readily decipherable. I have reached to conclusions.
One, the current date, now set into our computers is August 28, 2039, at least
three years from our former Tirol-Terran Standard Date, placing our arrival
date on July 30. Second, it is possible an incident has occured in the Fourth
Quadrant, as I am reading an unprecedented supernova in the general direction
of the Trianguli-II Cluster. It is most logical to conclude it is the result
of the contained nova of the Terran-labelled 5677 Trianguli-II; a burgeoning
star in the Southern Cross. The resultant nebula's light will not reach Earth
for thirty-eight thousand standard Terran-years, discounting dispersal
factors. Location: approximately fourteen kiloparsecs from the center of
Tirol's local sector. It war formerly a member of the supercluster of the
proper name Faro'fanto, Terran labelled Trianguli-Beta cluster, and previously
an unstable red giant. I estimate the nova's probability of disrupting tachyon
communications at at least seventy-eight percent. However, that would fail to
explain why Carpenter's and Wolff's groups communications were disrupted.
Therefor, two other possibilities are presented: Either the REF has faced an
incident within the past three years that has disabled there ability to receive
and/or transmit tachyon long-range communications, and/or we are simply unable
to transmit due to unexplainable circumstances over such distances. Finally,
we may be experiencing some sort of communications flucuation due to our
position in relation to Tirol and the Galactic Core. May I remind you that
Tirolian communication systems are still quite alien to us. However, none of
these possibilities currently have no sufficient data to go on."
"Well, isn't that a bit grim," K'rrk growled. "What else can you tell me."
"Nothing save we have not yet been able to achieve any contact with the
Terran 'Mars Base Gloval,' which does carry tachyon-communication equipment. I
would not recommend the use of normal radio frequencies at this time though,
captain, although I would recommend 'round-the-clock' monitoring."
"Wouldn't the Invid have destroyed Base Gloval by now?": K'rrk speculated,
turning to his human operations officer. At the same time, a tuft of debris,
possibly Zentraedi, or Terran, or Tirolian, could be seen floating by the
ship's command deck.
"Possibly, but reports did indicate that this ULYSSES was in contact at
least four months after the initial Invasion. We'd have to insert ourselves in
Martian orbit to ascertain much of anything. Obviously, we risk detection if
we do; at least without withdrawing from the planetary system. A low-profile
exit would take one-point-three-eight days, sir."
"Damn," the Karbarran growled. "Keep monitoring. Still nothing on any
enemy or even remotely hostile activity?"
"She's as quiet as a mouse," the ops officer grumbled, almost too softly to
be heard. "Too quiet.."
* * *
"Commander," Rachel hesitated before turning around; she was still uncertain
about her sudden promotion to command rank. Lieutenant Commander.
"Yeah?"
"Kinda eerie out here, don't it?"
"What the hell are you talkin' about, Pheta?"
"Well," he took in a breath. Corsette was a descendent of the Cherokee and
Mannussett tribes of that long-forgotten people that original inhabited the
eastern coastline of North America. They had blended into the homogenous
mixture of that region far earlier than the SDF-3's departure. "I've never been
planetside on Earth, or Terra, or whatever the hell the astrogationist call
it. Probably saw it when I was a little kid, on the factory satellite, but
even that's gone now. The memory...you know? I've never been planetside."
"Really," Rachel understood. She herself was of a new generation raised
half-way across the galaxy. Though privilaged to have once been nursed in the
beautiful tropics of what had once been Technoctitlan, she now found herself
emersed with more memories of a vast, cold metallic interior of a gigantic,
warped starbase, and even those memories were faint compared to those she had
collected during her ten years in the Fourth Quadrant. "There's nothing much.
Rain, you'll get to see some rain, but nothing much different from...er...where
are you from?"
"Rilac Base," Corsette broadly grinned. "No, no precipitation there."
Tirol was blanketed with a vast vapor content that allowed for the respiration
and transpiration of her sparse plant life to continue without the aide of
rain. Droughts, however, were always a common fact of life. "Look at those
weather patterns. You'd think they'd use an atmospheric controller or
something."
"I doubt they've developed that technology yet. You haven't really been
off Tirol much, have you?"
"I'm probably the best transatmospheric and orbital fighter jock you'll
find 'round these parts, but those were wargames and simulations. I'm afraid
I missed the action by some four years, sir."
"Ma'am."
"Uh...yes ma'am."
"But we're off duty now, so you can call me Rachel."
"Yes ma'am."
"Nevermind."
Rachel sighed. She had grown up all over the Fourth Quadrant, though her
primary home had been with her uncle on Haydon's moon, Monoceros, after her
mother had left four years after the REF's arrival over Fantoma. To her
surprise, the elite squadron group she had anticipated commanding had turned
out to be nothing more than a group of hotshot planetary defensies Command
figured burned enough to be put into active duty. Corsette had a flight rating
of 8.9, close to one third of a point above her rating. Anything above seven
was extraordinary, and the top notch, including such pilots as Roy Fokker, Rick
Hunter, Maximillian Sterling, Thomas Edwards, Jeanne Tabereaux, Xiao Pi'ching
and Marty Fenston were all above nine point five. However, very few had over a
month or so of active duty, and even less had seen some measure of combat.
Rachel, a veteran of the mop-up operation, which was considered a trifle
compared to the preceding war, was one of the most war-hardened among them.
"Earth's as real a planet as you'll ever see, Lieutenant. No massive
gas-giant looking over your shoulder for months. Actual 24 hour days with
roughly equal daylight and nightlight. But she's still not as beautiful as you
might've been hoping for..."
She pointed a finger pass the observatory window towards a greenish-white
could hovering over Australia and stretching upward towards. A string of
lights seemed to emit from the center, as if a vague sign of civilization. Her
hopes of Earth's survival sometimes felt hinged on these brief periods in which
they passed over the Oceania Quadrant. Both of them had read about it, but
neither could ever fully appreciated the extent of damage the Holocaust had
visited on the surface without seeing it for themselves.
"She really looks wrecked."
"Imagine Garuda or Karbarra. Better yet, Optera, after defoliation."
Corsette breathed in.
"Yeah," she bit her lip. "This'll be our next to last orbit. We better
get ready."
"Yes, ma'am," Corsette shot up to attention, immediately heading out of the
observatory. Rachel found herself alone with her thoughts, staring at the
sapphire jewel that she would have to bear to see alone, without family nor
friend.
* * *
Twenty-five year old Captain Buckland Winters, member of the 24th AVAC at the
courtesy of the REF 334th Fighter Operations Group, 334th Fighter Wing, REF-AF,
strapped himself in snuggly, adjusting for maximum comfortability. The feel of
a Veritech underneath him felt as if someone had reattached a lost limb to the
point of perfection. Inserting his system disc, he watched in delight as the
systems danced to life.
"Warm-up's not for another hour, sir."
"I know, Sarge," he looked down to his bird's chief mechanic. "I like to
get an early start, as I gather the Commander does. Whattya think?"
"About what?"
"RIGEN and the 23rd. Think they're still down there, at least alive?
Second time around, Sarge, I think you'd get the picture."
Sarge smiled. He wasn't the master sergeant his stripes indicated, though
he had been a senior intelligence officer in the United Nations Department of
Defense, decades ago. "Not really. I would gather they're still about. Look
for my old friend ULYSSES when you get planetside; we picked out a good crew
for you."
Winters smiled. He had sorted out early before the trip across space and
time back to Earth. Captain Winters had been a WOC slated for the original
mission when the 23rd AVAC had left secretly in this same ship, deposited in
the exit same landing drop that they were about to make now. His mission was
the same as any other fighter pilot under the command of Commander DuBois, with
the second function as their "passport." Being the only member onboard who had
been actually present at the ceremony that saw the Rigellan on its first true
"maiden voyage," he was privy to information that not even the commander of the
24th's Southlands detachment had been briefed on.
As the canopy closed, he stared through the glass at the pitch-black
Horizont carrier that would shuttle down a large amount of the Cyclone troops
assigned to the small Leopard group. The other two groups of the 24th
including a Marine company and two older Cheetah "Shadowcat" VT squadrons--to
be flown by Marine aviators. Running his fingers up and down the leather of
his sidestick, he suddenly came to a halt, imersed in the anticipation of this
new cause. His position with the AVAC was vital; he would be the 24th's ID
certificate in the Southlands.
* * *
So it began. Earth's surface was dim in the dark night as it had been
ago--long before man discovered fire and progressed down his eventual social
and technological evolution. They had not seen the Northlands as of yet, the
wreckages of Monument and Macross, the meccas that humanity had crawled into
with their Zentraedi brethren, and had been forced to coexist in. The second
millenia had brought on an age of change so great, it was beyond the
imaginations of the futurists of the previous century; the Book of Revelations
itself could not have adequately described Armeggedon Earth had faced; written
in a time where destruction of that magnitude was simply inconceivable.
Nearly twenty years ago, the SDF-3 and a rag-tag group of Tokugawa-class
battlewagons and Banshee and Chimera-class escorts, along with Battle-class
heavy destroyers, departed from Earth orbit; quitting the berth of the
Zentraedi Factory Satellite that had all but disappeared completely in the
wrath of the Invid Queen. Nearly stranded in the warp between Earth and Tirol,
and a further decade repairing the engines and constructing the fleets. As
time passed in space, it seemed much more slowly than on Earth. The children
grew, but their preceding generation did not seem to grow much older. Even
Hunters themselves had been subject to the intersteller phenomona so dubbed the
fountain of youth, and his age was only indicated in his weariness of the war
he had brought to the Master's frontyard. Seven years of war against the
Invid, a powerful enemy whose King had sought to dominate the Local Group, then
the Fourth Quadrant and Earth, and finally, the whole of the Galaxy. Never in
several billion years had a race came so close to achieving its goal of
galactic conquest in this seemingly backwater galaxy, but only those men called
gods, and others called beings, had any idea why and how.
The battles that had liberated worlds the ursinoids of Karbarra, the
fox-like Garudans, the silicon based crystal-people of Spheris, and the Devils
of Peryton. Haydon IV came to mind, but thoughts surrounding that world sent
chills down the spine of the Rigellan's crew.
"Olorin Prime to Homeplate, receive and acknowledge."
"Receiving Olorin Prime. Your signal is five-by-five, over. Olorin
Secondary and Tertiary are lining up now, deploying....released."
"Copy that, Homeplate. Have a nice day, and give us a little room on your
way out."
"Roger that, Olorin Prime. Wish we could check out the motel before we
head out."
"Negative. Give my regards to the skipper."
"He accepts."
A slight chuckle from both ends was muffled as the Horizont "Olorin Prime"
moved out of close range communications and into the ship-to-ship "black-out
zone." From here, only priority bursts between shuttles would be permitted.
She began her slow descent towards Earth, flanked by two Shadow Alpha's
requisitioned at painstaking costs from the RRG and retrofitted with the Tijaro
Cloak. The other two were flanked by the more standard Cheetah escort,
invisible to human, or Invid, sensors. At least for the moment.
The mix bag of Marine, Aerospace Force, and Naval units, all grouped
together in mixed bag divisions and ready to disperse across the planet,
descended through the upper atmosphere. Peter watched the surface of the
blue-white world hover in darkness, no movement, no signs of technology
whatsoever. As could be anticipated, he succombed to the sharp feeling that
for whatever they came to save, it was too late.
"No movement whatsoever. Few areas of concentrated uses of electricity,
but nothing major. Minimal returns on the forcefield data."
"Relax, Peter," the Horizont shuttle commander replied. "We're not even
over the Argentine, yet. I'll bet there something up north, at least in the
way of Monument."
"There was before I left."
"We've got a pretty good idea what Earth was like before the jump; your
barside stories need some fine-tuning."
"All right, cap'n."
"Coming to fifty kilometers ASL, passing forty-seven over Andes Territory
Mark fifteen minutes."
Outside, DuBois and Corsette escorted Olorin Secondary into the Earth's
atmosphere. The initial heating was immediately muffled by wide-spread sensor
countermeasures and disruption, wiping the dazzlement from the buildup on their
heat shields. As they passed through the red zone, she could see the Pacific
Ocean, South America gaining upon them.
"Still nothing, not even a fire." she said over the highly secured
tac-net. They were approaching blindside to any sensor units the Invid might
have picked up; although, radio silence in these instances was a text-book
rule.
"No volcanic activity?"
"Not so much as a rumble, sir?" Rachel switched off her fighter-to-ship
monitor and concentrated on the task at hand. Gaging their speed and distance,
they would drop down to subsonic around the Galapogos islands, following the
same exact flight pattern the 23rd used only four years before, or seven in
local reckoning. "Radio activity is getting real dull around here. A few
scramps of static, but nothing decipherable."
"Ignore it, commander," Pheta suggested. "It can't be anything important."
"I wonder if anyone's left alive down there."
"What about Australia?"
"Who knows?"
The Horizont group swept inward, slowing down ever so gradually as they
reached the shoreline of what was once Peru, sloping southward over Amazonia
and lower, low enough to define the twilight treetops looking to the stars of a
new night.
* * *
______________________
Chapter Two
The Disillusioned
______________________
I had spent some four years on the run before I found out as much about the
Expedition as I could. The more I heard, the more I became esentful, and even
pitiful for these first returnees who had been deceived by a most-likely
corrupt leadership into believing victory was inevitable. Almost trained not
to consider their own safety over the mission, I realized that many had
virtually lost contact with their humanness, a quality that made many of these
'freedom fighters' seem alien to all of us. Our mission was not only to
support these fighters from the stars, but to remind them of where they all
came from. I knew, however, Earth was now far from being called by home by
these newcomers.
-First Lieutenant (ret) Alfred Nathaniel Foley, Southern Cross Army, from his
book Before the Beginning--The Third Robotech War, read live over radio, 2049,
incorporated into the Human Relations series publications in 2058
* * *
28 August 2039
MACK LOOKED AT THE SKY, A FAINT EMANATION WHAT SEEMED LIKE A SONIC BOOM; the
soft roar subsided as quickly as it had arrived. Intrigued, he jumped back
into the makeshift trailer, constructed from surrogated metal welded by a
mysteriously acquired AMK29 Kalashnikov plasma rifle, a heavy firearm he had
confiscated from the body of a dying EBSIS soldier--close to seven years ago.
His rich-black beard from ten years earlier had long faded into a forest of
mixed grey and and grey-brown, further contrasting his tan, wrinkled features.
The grey shadows over the Amazon Basin signalled another indoor alert.
However, that state of emergency had ended nearly six years ago. A fool had
detonated a nuclear warhead not far from the coast of what was once Chile, and
the flattened South Andean Chain of mountainous terrain gave a perfect, if not
aesthetically pleasing, view of the horrendous pollution build up on what was
known vernacularly as the Dead Strip. Stretching out two-hundred and fifty
kilometers from the grey coastline, and stretching across the coast of Chile
from Ciudad Santiago-Merid Nueva to New Valdivia (some ten hundred kilometers),
it was barely navigable, and deadly to swim in without adequate protection. He
sweated in the heated fog as he completed the his last survey of the area
before moving on.
The trailer was modest, and clean. Inside was a personal oven, a toilet
and some computerized plumbing, a refridgerator and freezer, and a computer
terminal. He headed for his terminal station, long since severed from the once
busy Worldnet and Internet; though not dead, these services interconnecting
lines of communications (by the 21st century, was primarily satellite), had
been swept away by first the Zentraedi Holocaust, the Master's communicative
disruptions, and finally, the forwardness of the Invid Regis' attack.
As he looked down into the valley, he knew that few people actually
recognized their oppressors presence, and fewer cared. At this time, heroes
were criminals in the eyes of the many, the ones who had brought punishment and
pain to the world. He, unfortunately, had left the comfortable ranks of the
majority to become the rare of persecuted breeds.
"Point-Alpha-Romeo-November, this is Romeo-Tango-Charlie."
"Read, RTC. This is Alpha-Romeo-November. Go ahead."
"I just heard a sonic boom over our area. To submissive to be a Scout
unit."
"Scoutship?"
"I doubt it, sir."
"What about one of Lamos' jets?"
"Unless he's wasting some of his Falcon's fuel for a friggin' joy ride, I
doubt it. I haven't heard something that quiet in years."
"Quiet? Maybe that means it's nothing, Mack."
"It was a sonic boom, sir."
"We hear ya'. Did you get a rough idea where its headed?"
"Nothing on my radar, but it seemed to be heading north-by-north-east,
towards you."
"That's pretty damn close."
"I know," Mack nodded, lighting a cigarrette. "I recommend you advise HQ."
"Will do. ARN out."
* * *
For a person who had only heard of the Robotech Defense Force, the Southern
Cross, the REF, and the old Global Defense Forces--with emphasis on the
elaborate technological resources available to these military units--it would
surprise them to see that the only REF "base" in Amazonia was a reactivated
ragtag local airfield supporting a band of high-tech mercenaries. In some
sense, this was true, and "mercenary" was an adequate--despite its negative
connotation--label for this group. Their duty uniforms greatly differed from
those used by either the REF in the Fourth Quadrant, or the former Robotech
Defenders and Southern Cross; all which emphasized stringent codes of uniform.
Some wore the strac black uniforms of the REF's special operation aviators.
However, the heat convinced most to take advantage of the loose dress-code and
wear khaki uniforms, shorts, and tank-tops.
While the conditions under which these special operations aircraft flew
under were far less than ideal, the unit's Robotech mecha were still far
sturdier and easier to care for than their non-transformable counterparts. For
that reason, old cartel runways and third-rate military installations had been
salvaged and put back to use; serving as inexpensive and--almost
always--concealed hideways for REF troops.
The official REF designation for this group would be a AVAC calvary
squadron; though a mere two companies of five fast attack Destroids, and a
fourteen plane squadron hardly satisfied the G4 definition. The "mercenaries"
donned light and loose uniforms that conveniently fitted in with the
surrounding environment. Duty personnel wore barely-issuable khaki shorts and
tee-shirts, adorning only a rank pin and a few service honorifics. Pilots wore
traditional flight suits, outfitted with micro-coolant waves that kept them
comfortable and at full alert during suit up. Nausea was best to be avoided in
business like this, so every member of the task force was assigned liquid
booster packs, and coolant packs. The Amazonian winter barely differed from
its summer, particularly when the annhilation bolts of Dolza's fleet had struck
the western fringes broadside over twenty years ago.
The Commander had been thinking about things long past, a time when her
superiors were so sure of victory, they had already decided how to reorganize
an occupied Earth following the overthrow of her current regents. They had
originally come, as Wolff and the Relief Group and Tojirama's "Venus Wave" to
clean up Earth from the mess the Robotech Masters were causing. However, both
Wolff's and Tojirama's folds had deprived them of the luxury of rendezvousing
with the remains of the Jutland Advance Fleet, and Wolff appeared in real space
months after the Jutland had refolded back for Tirol. Even more astounding,
the Venus group arrived two years later! They were in time to be faced with an
internal planetary skirmish, but not before both sides of the Second Robotech
War nearly mutually-annihilated each others fighting forces. Her mission had
changed as soon as his had, and it had been only a few short weeks before
rumors that had been floating prior to the Opteran Invasion Task Force's
departure--that the Regis, that mystical being that had been little more than a
rumor, a ghost to the REF, was leaving for Earth. Combing through the Fourth
and First Quadrants (a triangular Fourth Quadrant by Tirolian reckoning) for
the lost Protoculture Matrix, she finally found a world rich with Flowers of
Life and a climate similar to Optera pre-defoliation.
Naturally, she took it for her own.
Ror jolted from her reverie as a chief popped his head through the tent
opening.
"Commander Toussainte just got back from the Alpha Points. She wants you
keyed in on something immediately."
"Let her in," she felt like some type of TC commander, her office a mere
tent shrouded with a dehumidifier to clear the warm equatorial atmosphere of
excess moisture. A mildly tall blond woman of Frankish-Anglo descent stepped
into the room. Her hair was frizzled from days out in the "field;" gathering
reports from the various outer perimeter lookouts and tracking Invid movements
to the nearer enforcements near Norristown and even as far as Roca Negra and
Cabualo territories.
Toussainte was a young woman with over twelve years of distinguished
service, and one of the youngest soldier veterans of the Earth Defense Forces,
or Army of the Southern Cross has it had become known to be by 2030. She had
participated in the '28 EDF peace-keeping mission to Venezuela, only to find
herself and her commander, Captain Kyle Mitingham, who had died only two years
ago in one of the most vain attacks the 23rd AVAC had engaged in, pitting
against the 'former' Southern Cross apparat of the peace-keeping force. Her
heart held no love for Anatole Leonard, the would-be-dictator that even today
suffered the burden as the man who had failed to protect Earth from both the
Masters and the Invid. His death had quickly brought anarchy to much of the
world, and cities like Mannattan and even the vaguely "independent" Tokyo had
fallen prey to disorder and unrest. The Canadian frontier had become the
slaving grounds of the Northlands, all territories she was familiar with during
her stint with the 25th TASC. But the Southern Cross, her forces, and her
power, as well as the UEG and the EBSIS, were long gone.
Over five years had passed since the Invid swarm had broken past Earth's
meager orbital defenses, destroying the factory satellite and many of the
millions of Zentraedi that had finally been forced onboard. Only a few
thousand survived the holocaust to find themselves herded with their Micronian
brethren in slave camps in Europe and Canada. After the Invid had lost interest
in Europe's nearly infertile plain, the Zentraedi had finally championed their
civil rights; equality in misery was a fact of life. Starving cities in ruin,
radiation clouds over North Africa and Near Asia, and the terrorism and
disorder throughout the world had stiffened the former French State national to
her cause in the Southlands.
"Lieutenant Charlotte Toussaint, sir."
"Welcome back, Chez. How was your trip?"
"Uneventful, except for this."
She removed a crude audio player, a turn of the century minidisk machine,
and popped in a diskette labelled Point-ARN. The point commander, Mack, was a
former Robotech Defense Force Destroid Company commander during the First
Robotech War. That time had receded into the shadows of two other wars, where
chivalry and love were all but forgotten. Few recalled that it was the voice
and soul of Lynn-Minmei that had captivated Dolza's armada into a lulling daze,
leaving them vunerable to Breetai's and Gloval's combined forces. Jan Ror had
always considered the formerly retired a reminder of those days where war
seemed to have certain rules.
Ror stood, placing her hands akimbo while wiping a trickle of sweat from
her brow. She simply donned a military-black tank-top revealled a camoflauged
olive overshirt. Her name was printed as J. Ror, 2nd Team 23rd AVAC, on the
crown of her right-breast pocket.
"How many sonic booms?"
"Three over at Manazua, one near Mack's position."
"But the Invid have low-oblique flying signatures, so their craft wouldn't
make a audibly noticable sonic booms, at least not in this type of nominal
condition. I'll be damned if they'd fly supersonic over land; it's just not
them."
"That's what got to me, Chez. No civilian flights have passed over that
area for two years," the Invid had halted most hypersonic transports from
operation (directed from the Atlantian Hive near Washington) after five
incidents of "terrorism" that resulted in the severe damage of the Amazonian
River hive. That damage had since been repaired, as Toussaint's own
intelligence-network had verified in the last few months.
"What about near New Lima?"
"Nothing there."
"They'll be passing pretty close by, right?"
"Yes, but..." Ror looked away from her advisor and keyed her intercom to
the "outside office.'
"Michaels?"
"Here sir," a tight voice replied.
"I want Childs and Porter in the air in five minutes, lieutenant."
"Yes sir!"
* * *
The anni-disc raved body of a Queadol-Magdomilla rose like an artifice from the
morning sky. Not nearly as impressive as the flagship that had rooted itself
in Britain, one of the few remaining such vessels after the delitteration
program the UEG affected back in the teens, it remained as a subtle reminder by
the Souther Cross of the Zentraedi war, and an empty bandy around which
Northland refugees of both races would find as their home for the next ten
years. A small desert in Argentina had formed slowly around this sole survivor
of this massive eyesore. Pilgrimages from the moderately populated and
recently tamed Cape Horn had often passed through this area, reminded of a war
that had begun it all.
One of the lead command battleships of the 405th Sarpeno Mechanized
Division, a non-Dolzan detachment (presumably from another legendary and
mystical fleet), she had supported over 20 thousand full-size Zentraedi in
stasis or in action. Many of her sisters that did not make planetfall had
fallen prey to the scavenging operations of the REF some fifteen years
earlier. The commander of the Sarpeno Mech-Division, Pargu Tul, had been a
former adjutant to Clozan, flagship commander under Dolza, and a personal
liaison between Breetai and Clozan during the search for the SDF-1. When that
search ended up with the discovery of Earth and the exposure of the Grand Fleet
to the acculturating music of Lynn-Minmei, his ships had been most strong and
resistent to its effects. However, most of his battalion of five-hundred
starships had been immediately engulfed in the gargantuan energy surge that had
bludgeoned apart Dolza's fortress and wiped half of the Zentraedi fleet out of
existence by the first shockwave. Their recovery had not been complete when
the second wave had knocked the remainder of the Sarpeno Division detachment
out of stable orbit. As the Jiabo and the Quadrono battalions and their
thousands of starships bludgeoned towards the Earth, Commander Pargu had
managed to control a crashlanding on a relatively unblasted patch of land in
the Southlands. Their apparent survival had been almost instantly diminished
when a second missile cruiser, a smaller Thurvaal Salan, buried herself some
four-hundred meters away, and had been disintegrated by a contained nuclear
blast which helped formed the small desert around it--part of the UEG
delitteration program. All of the four thousand survivors of Pargu's
battalion, including the commander himself, had perished, leaving only the
Queadol Magdomilla battleship intact, as an appeasement to the Breetai friendly
battalion.
The REF had learned that the Master's had possibly possessed up to
two-hundred Dolzan-size fleets in one massive fleet, governed by a main council
that consisted of the most influential members of the fleet and favorite of the
Masters. Up until the seventeenth century, the REF archeologists said, the
Masters had favored the massive space army, as well as its most influential
Commander-in-Chief, BoDolza T'Boda; the infamous slaughter whose fleet, before
its destruction, had rendered unto Earth its most fiercesome single destructive
event for centuries to come. The archeologist were assuming that Dolza
commanded a main fleet between one-hundred and one-hundred and thirty of what
the Zentraedi collectively refered to as Gorg'in, which seemed to derive from
the combination of the Zentraedi words gors ("unity"), and jin ("first" or
"primary rank"). The prospect of trillions of Zentraedi with billions of
warships marauding through the galaxy was possibly the most frightening
realization the REF had to face. However, the archeologists--noticing the
complete lack of primary-source Zentraedi information--noted that other fleets
were spoken of only in fabled legends; as if they had never existed. This set
back timelines for the Master's first cloning experiments to the early 15th
century, and moved up what was coined "The Great Zentraedi Memory Lapse" to the
mid-19th century. Many of the archeologists suspected that A) the Master's had
sent all but their Dolzan forces out of the galaxy on survey missions, or
possibly to die, and B) the Masters were becoming more and more weary of their
clone giants.
The Sarpeno Division, however, bore no markings of Dolza's fleet, as well
as no markings of a Gorg'in collective fleet vessel. This furthered REF
speculation that the legendary Commander-in-Chief Sira had not only been a
non-Dolzan commander, but a member of a completely different clone que and
possibly a completely different fleet arrangement--maybe even special forces.
However, although the history of the Zentraedi and their Tirolian masters
was fascinating, it was still too irrevelant to go into great detail. Rachel
made sure to keep to the basic details.
During the Masters conflict, the area had heated down, only to become the
battleground of Southern Cross units dispatched from ruined Monument command,
Canada's suriving bases, and New Detroit to deal with the double EBSIS and
HEARTH threats. Had the Masters noticed that the Argentine had become the
central location of Earth's own internal wars, their surgical strikes may have
been more successfully deployed against the irritating wound, toppling the
Southern Cross forces from her appendages. The Sarpeno grave site had
continued to remain intact, and preserved, even after the Jiabo wreckages of
Arkansas and the Azonian wreckages near the Rocky Mountains had been looted and
firebombed by both malcontents and opposing RDF/SCA/EDF forces.
It wasn't until the Invid came that this site had finally been recognized
for what its full worth as a salvage yard.
"It seems like its been decades since I've been here last."
"Right, Mack," a petite woman wearing a green bandana and faded tee-shirt
said, irritated by the sweltering heat. "Let's hope its cooler in there than
out here."
"It should be. The interior of that thing couldn't have seen much
sunlight, juding from how intact it is."
"Which is it?"
"What?"
"Well, you're the Zent expert around here, Mack."
"Zentraedi, private."
"Sorry, sir. But you're the expert."
"That's right Jeanne. Anyway, its one of their...well, we'd call 'em light
assault cruisers. See how it constrictes towards the forward bow looks like
the slope off a Battle-class destroyer? It was a command ship, probably in the
Orgotho Mechanized Division. A regular LAC would've cut off at the drive
section, with a sort of arching overhang for a bow."
The Queadol-Magdomilla lay prone on its ventral-starboard hull, with its
nosed inclined into the sand and dirt at a very negligble angle. But still, it
was of appreciable size. Nearly three kilometers long, and nearly tall as a
skyscraper, she placed some 82 million metric tonnes, minus the 18 million that
compromised its bow section, of sheer weight onto the slowly sinking sand;
indeed, she was sinking. From what Mack could judge, some twenty feet more
than last year, at a probably rate of 1.6 feet a month. It would take a few
decades before any appreciable sinking could be detected--Mack just had a much
more acute eye than others, considering it was positronic. The sensor had been
fashioned into the shape of an eye after he had seriously damaged is original
during the Battle for Monument City. The remaining Southern Cross officers,
including himself, had met and officially disbanded the Canadian sector from
operational status, leaving the European and Asian bases in command.
Incompetence along the lines of Anatole Leonard ran wild as succession after
succession for Marshal of the Southern Cross continued at a rapid pace.
Until the Invid all; in a perverted irony, they had brought some order to a
world that had gone years without knowing such.
The rover moved towards the great massive structure. It could hold a
feasible compliment of 200,000 human-sized Micronians or micronized-Zentraedi
as easily as it held at least nine thousand operational full-sized Zentraedi
with seven-hundred mecha troops.
"I guess it could be considered that we got the last of these bastards,"
Jeanne Marcel, a recent aquisition from Freetown, Mexico, thought to muse.
Mack gave her a condescending look.
"Hardly. I've read some books on Zent ships. They had some six million,
and that means their are at least some five-hundred thousand still out there.
Even with the REF coming back, I doubt they'd have the firepower to deal with
that much force. Guess what?"
"What?"
"I also heard from some of the older aliens in my day about even more
fleets, the size of Dolza's and Breetai's. Some say thousands, other's say
hundreds or tens. But ever since I first saw this wreckage, and I kid you not,
I have not seen one Dolzan emblazon or Adoclas subfleet division marking. In
fact, it has a typical Zentraedi logo, but colored purple where it should be
yellow."
"So?"
"If there are any of those fleets still out there, they must be rogues.
The Master's are gone and the Zentraedi are on their own. I don't think we
could stand up against those odds."
"We did before," she replied with mock confidence. Jeanne was a member of
the orphaned generation, those who had been children during the Rain of Death.
Her family, excepting her late father and missing brother, had perished during
the Jiabo and Garto Battalion lashes on Arkansas and the territory of the
former United States. She had grown up during the departure of the REF, and
only recollected the age of Robotech Defenders through the stories Mack had
told her. Mack on the other hand, was somewhat of a mystery.
"Dumb luck," Mack posed. His assessment was true. Some 6,890,000 ships
had been commissioned into the Dolza Zentraedi Fleet, and at least six-hundred
thousand of those remained free agents (not including the hundreds of Zentraedi
vessels that had been rounded up into the asteroid field for refitting and the
thousands that were scavenged to help rebuild Earth). However, he had heard
stories from those medics who had gone off to Tirol and had conversed with the
natives of that distant Quadrant. He was convinced that those six-hundred
thousand were hardly alone, and even larger fleets than Dolza's existed,
elsewhere, disbanded and probably acculturated, as the Imperative died within
them as the Masters had fallen from power. Zent mysticism, Masters,
death-dueling fleets. He shook the thought as they approached the long side of
the cruiser.
"Big sonuvabitch, ain't it?" Jeanne commented as the rover stopped in the
vessels shadow.
"Looks rich enough. Let's go."
* * *
Some seven-hundred miles north from the REF presence in the Sarpeno desert, two
fourth-generation VT's took to flight, the morning sun having risen to its 8:00
position, with storm clouds forming in the East. The VTs were quite different
from their Alpha cousins, and greatly resembled first-generation VF-1
Valkyries. Painted with Quickshade, their colored varied from light blue-white
during the sun's higher inclinations, and slowly darkened to a pure black at
night. The only standard paintjob on the Veritech was its plane designation,
and a Squadron Motiff: An iron angel.
The Cheetah was birthed second in a three phase expirement. Almost seven
years ago, the REF Special Operations Committee, headed by temporary REF-CINC
Admiral Forsythe, had deployed the elite 23rd AVAC, with seven teams to be
planted throughout the world, as a retalitory force in the case of a potential
Invid invasion. They had been nearly subjected to the fierce reciprocity the
Invid Regis had dealt to the poor souls of the Factory Satellite, the near
defunct Space Station Liberty, and the squabbling armies on the world below.
The 23rd AVAC, and particularly, the 4th Team "Lance," had watched in
bitter restraint as their brethren died in one last counterstrike, and had
observed the movements of the Regis to the Northlands, and had watched the
almost instantaneous "evolution" of Reflex Point.
The Cheetah had instantly become a pocket weapon of resistance, and not of
retaliation. Colonel Tojirama and Commander Ror had found themselves as
freedom fighters, and no longer the opposing sides of a war. If this could be
considered as such.
The Cheetah's course headed from the Abitoza Airfield near Cuzanca and head
for New Abuila and Teohicaten in Mexico. Childs sat in the pilot's seat,
flying at low-speeds and at Nap of the Earth, running on auxillary fusion power
rather than wasting Protoculture power cells. The result was not immediate
inmanueverability (which had surprised many protoculture technicians). The
neural interface in the helmet of the pilot and his RIO (the Cheetah that had
been deployed was of the--C version of the Cheetah Valkyrie series) was the
only protoculture powered mechanism operating, allowing for the fine-tuning and
tactile feedback during mecha-mode operations.
"Altitude, 200; speed, loitering at 160 knots. Silent running."
The foward canards adjusted to allow for greater NOE manueverability.
"Nothing on protoculture scopes, nothing on radar, switching to GSC mode,"
he touched the key that activated several variable frequency links to ground
posts throughout the area. Information updates from the Ground Situation
Control provided him with an adequate feel of this rather unfamiliar terrain.
"No joy, Control. Negative contact, over."
A slight pause. "Readjust route four degrees north-west and exceed four
hundred, Gameling. Over."
"This is Gameling, control. Roger."
The Cheetah rose into the air, the glint of the sunlight highlighting its
already indigo-ing fusealage. "Roland, I'm gettin' shit on the....hold up.
I've got something here... Three positive contacts bearing two-eight-seven,
relative speed, 190 knots over-loiter. Repeat, three positive
contacts--two-eight-seven, bravo-over-loiter."
"Confirmed, Gameling," Control responded. "Adjust for observation
intercept. Go to full cloak, over."
"Activating full cloak, roger." To any Invid or Terran radar in the
vicinity, if any had been tracking Gameling, it had slipped into a shadow that
no one on Earth could possibly explain.
* * *
The southern fields of the fomer Alberto Cuazco plantations had once reapped
tobacco and grain for their Spanish-born peninsulares. The encomienda system
had not changed even after the Rain of Death, where drug-lords, as prominent as
the early 20th century, supplied their customers with various recreational
product. It was here that the first sprouts of the Flower of Life had been
discovered. Though it was evident that there were Flowers of Life growing near
Monument as early as the destruction of Macross Three, they were quickly horded
(allegedly) by the Special Protoculture Observations and Operations
Kommandatura, under the tenacious watch and guard of the feared late Dr. Lazlo
Zand.
Here, Maria Omosora had found herself abandoned at the age of fifteen by
her mother, who had assuredly died when the Invid wrested this area from her
"manager's" plantation. Maria was indignatively Southlandish, but her last
prefix had been added by her mother, in place of the even more alien-like, yet
human, surname her father had endowed her. Two years later, she found herself
wandering the wastelands between the former cities of New Cuabico and Suza.
The Argentine had been mauled during the EBSIS-Southern Cross War of 2031, and
had been finished off during the final wars of 2032 and the Invid subjugation
the next year.
Besides being a prostitute, a slave of passion, she was also budding genius
level, thanks to the specially enhanced genes her father had given her. Her
father had not known of her existence, particularly when her mother, a
Zentraedi, had left to the harbor of the Argentine druglords, left free in the
wake of Anatole Leonard's 2030 departure from the Southlands. Her Zentraedi
mother had left her some nine years ago to die in the middle of a desert, or to
rescue her from the permanence of a druglord's mistress. However, because she
was half-Zentraedi, that didn't mean she was half-human.
Particularly in the case where Zand was refered.
She had dropped Omosora for Zand on her eighteenth birthday in a small
passport clerking office in the "Freestate" area of Southern Argentine. Its
freedom was guarenteed by its uselessness, a barren rock that the most humble
of humanity had struggled to form into a last bastion of true, yet miserable,
freedom. The name-change had been practical, Zand was more easily translated
into both Spanglish and English Common, as well as Zentraedi.
Three languages she had learned in only five months.
Her baggy cloths were worn out, and she had transversed the central "plain"
of Freestate, thought to even call it a desert would be unjustifiably
optomistic, her Zentraedi astuteness protecting her from the still abnomal
radiation levels. She carried five days rations, walking three-hundred miles
between the remains of Suza and north to the Amazon. Already, she had dwindled
down to her last days rations.
Onward she trekked, until she heard a shriek from the north-west; her eyes
logically following to what she deduced to be...a sonic boom.
* * *
"Shit! Who the hell fired that!" Childs cursed. Glancing down at the ground
situation awareness radar display, he had found himself moving into the
"aerospace" of Freestate's richer borders. Though rarely enforced, it seemed
that the border laws of the quasi-nation were being upheld by a rather trigger
happy bunch. A lone Mongoose missile damn near tore his tail end off, and
Childs immediately vectored his craft into a climb, removing himself from
visual range.
* * *
The Leopard flight, as if it were a squadron of Cheetahs from the future, also
donned a special colorshifting tint, having shifted from black to mid-blue as
they headed for the eastern sun. However, the confirmation of a SAM launch had
done two things--convinced both the Horizont and the nine-craft fighter group
to go to maximum cloak, and second, alerted them to another light blue craft
behind them.
DuBois was the first to react. "We've been lit! Ingram Two, you're with
me. Break, break!"
Ingram flight broke apart, spreading their presence over a four-kilometer
radius.
"Ingram Two to Leader," Pheta thought to act. "Heavy ECM, no visual
contact yet."
Pheta and "Bright Star" DuBois broke off formation, having left the other
seven to escort the Horizont to the designated landing area. Breaking down to
an appropiate envelope, both converted to Guardian mode to hug the terrain as
closely as possible. The gerwalkian mecha skimmed over the tree tops, breaking
out onto clear patches of Argentine savannah, some four hundred miles south of
the Amazon Basin.
And they waited.
Meanwhile, Childs and Porter found themselves as daazled as their now
alerted targets. Having reported to Control (Argentine) of their current
flight path, their search radar scanned their immediate area, anticipating a
possible Scout two-craft attack, or even more logically, a Gurab Shock Trooper
SAAD (Surface to Air Anni-Disc) barrage.
However, it was that search radar, on passive mode, that would be the first
step in defusing the possible emergency. In Ingram Two, Pheta had been
monitoring and analyzing the search radar pattern. He and DuBois had converted
to Battloid mode, and held their positions behind a small rise of treed hills,
their new Rheinmattel GU-13 autocannons activated, as well as duel arm-mounted
missile PACKS, the only armor they were currently supporting, that had formed
themselves on the outer surface of each forearm. "Shit," he didn't dare risk
radio communication with DuBois just yet. No REF intelligence had ever
included anything on the Regis' weapons, and he was not eager to test the
waters just yet. He had to think of something else, something random and
spontaneous.
Spontaneous.
He quickly switched on his own search radar for Direct Laser Targetting as
the unidentified bogey plotted itself on his own radar. It was then that he
recognized the search pattern as very similar to the one's used by the REF
during hive sweep operations before the Galactic sweep. It could be an Invid
trap, he had considered, but the possibility of it...it was simply to much to
ignore. To both Rachel's surprise (and immediate fury), Rob Corsette began
transmitting on a small longitudinal code that had been once known as Morse
Code. She held her breath and bit her lip as she tried to decipher the archaic
pattern.
"Unidentified craft," both DuBois' and Corsette's headsets emitted. Rachel
got ready to roll out and open fire--she'd try, of course, to come close
without actually damaging their opponent. She expected to hear a demand for
their surrender and the laying down of their arms, but what came next was
completely unexpected.
"It's been a long time. Welcome home."
* * *
Welcome home my ass, DuBois skeptically remarked to herself, several hours
later, followed by a series of curses for falling for such a simplistic trap.
Pheta had transmitted an old REF friendship IFF signature that had been picked
up by the strangely modified Valkyrie fighter's pilot. However, as soon as she
and Pheta had disembarked their VTs, several Wolverine Assault Rifles were
suddenly trained at them, giving them no time to draw their own weapons.
"You sure don't look like REF, but then again, neither do I. I'm sorry for
the inconvenience, but we don't play trust games here. We'll be able to
determine your identities in a short time," The "Cheetah's" pilot, 1st
Lieutenant Childs, formerly of the Indigo Veritech Squadron under Brigadier
General Klemeck's 45th Attack Wing; and of recent, under the 23rd AVAC, 4th
Special Operations Composite Group under Commander Jan Ror. Rachel DuBois saw
no alternative but to concede.
"You're discs are convincing, at least for us. But the Commander'll be the
final judge," he continued to add on as five other VTs, four from Southern
Argentine "bases" outside of Freestate, landed nearby. "And this VT of yours,
how did you come by it?"
Rachel looked to her subordinate very carefully and with unfeigned
annoyance, "That we can only answer to your commanding officer, lieutenant."
* * *
Maria had found herself removed from the wasteland by what one might consider
an angel, but another, a nonprotoculture-powered first generation VF-1S
Valkyrie Veritech. The ion-pulse fusion engines re-adapted into the salvaged
mecha were the works of the wonderous technicians harvested from the remains of
the Americas by the Southland Resistance. She had been blindfolded as they
flew over the deepest of the Amazonias, but had triangulated her position
easily by staring at the stars as she deboarded. However, the area she had
coordinated herself into was as alien to her as Tirol would be to any hardcore
Earther.
The moonlight remained undimmed by the lowlit lights of the forested
checkpoints before arriving in a brief clearing, large enough to support what
she had determined to be a large assault carrier similar in purpse to those
used by the SCA during the wars against the Masters, and during the salvaging
of Liberty Space Station prior to the Invid Invasion. She had deduced from its
much more aesthetically approvable design that it was an REF machine, one
possibly created halfway across the galaxy.
She suddenly heard, back to the east, and turned to see the signal arrival
of another, maybe several more Veritechs touchdown, along with one that seemed
to standout in the twilight night, with an unholy gleam.
* * *
Commander Janice Ror brandished a Heckler & Koch antique MP-5 submachine-gun
lightly; she had left it on safety for reasons that escaped her. The Veritech
descended first in Guardian mode, its bright flashing lights casting down like
an Apocolyptic Second Coming, and the roar of the gods brushing the grassy
underbrush. From initial sensor logs, it was clear that none of the ships were
operating under protoculture engines, though Lieutenant Childs insisted that
these machines were supporting protoculture reactors. Initial scans over the
"alien" VT Childs had escorted back to base. She hadn't had time to view the
flight log discs yet--the computer jacks stationed onboard the facilities in
the six-year grounded Horizont were still busy studying the encryption, without
assistance from their two guests.
Who were, at the time, standing right behind her in the custody of
Lieutenant Childs. Rachel pleaded again "We're legit, Commander."
"I believe you," Ror replied. "However, this is a necessary 'evil' we have
to go through to confirm your identities. I seriously doubt any mecha like
that could have come elsewhere except Tijaro's Consortium, but first, I want to
meet one of your pilots."
The VT's completed their approach and landing, and powered down to prone
levels in Guardian mode, all weapons at bay and primary flight systems off
completely. Suddenly, the faint flicker of a loudspeaker and a radio link
being opened at the same time clicked in the night air. "We understand you
have yet to be--"
"Cut the crap, lieutenant commander" Ror cut her off nonchalantly, but with
enough ice to emphasize the diminuitive "lieutenant" in her rank. She
unstrapped her mike from her waist and opened the link to the loud-speaker.
"REF or no, we don't like people breaking through our 'airspace' undetected
like that. Kinda makes us a little nervous. Is Captain Winters here?"
She honestly had no idea which VT he was in. They were all the same color,
and the new REF plane designations were unrecognizable. Finally, the reply
came. "Captain Buck Winters here, sir. Long time, no see. Now you know damn
well Commander DuBois over there isn't some enemy agent or whatever you're
pretending she is."
"I'm quite sure of that, but this is necessary. What do you know about
9-Hyber-9."
"Communications satellite, the Southland non-protoculture link to the
Arctic command. Correct, sir?" Winters replied without hesitation. Rachel
stared dumbfoundedly at her squadron, with Corsette equally confused.
"With all due respect, what the hell is going on here, Commander?" Rachel
turned up an eyebrow, getting even more annoyed with this situation than the
previous episode.
Ror ignored her. "How's Sarge?"
"About as well as anyone for their second time."
"Good to have you back," she replied, cutting the link. She turned to her
group and barked. "Stand down your weapons! Childs, you too." Then
unexpectedly, she walked over to Rachel, who was a few inches shorter than her,
and threw her arms into an embrace around her. "Welcome home, pilgrim."
* * *
Cuzco could be a rough place if you met up with the wrong people, at the wrong
time, with just the right amount of scrip, pesos, dollars, or credits. Except
now, credits weren't worth shit, and scrip was only issuable in those slightly
organized areas where a paper currency proved possible. Much of the world had
returned to bartering and old-world trade. The dark alleys of the Peruvian
night were barely highlighted by the moon concealed in the increasing northern
overcast. Cuzco had been one of the several thousand villages missed during
the Dolzan Rain of Death, its meager population saved by its location right
underneath the healing ozone hole. However, death had rampaged uncontrollably
until the hey-day of the Southern Cross, when the ozone puncture had completed
it healing process, and the plague of ultraviolet induced cancer had been
contained and eliminated. Within months, the Southern Cross had fallen, as had
Monument. The first home of that organization had been the first to fall to
the EBSIS armed forces, pressing there battle into the Northlands before being
halted by Wolff's forces only a few klicks outside of New Portland. Turned
back, the EBSIS abandoned their ambitions for an American colony, leaving the
Southlands in anarchy and the former Arkansas Protectorate wasted. Cuzco,
situated within the Andean region near the border of the old Southland
nation-states of Ecuador and Peru, had become a leader of a recovering south;
one of the thousands of previously overlooked cities that had rebuilt in
post-Rain Southlands. Most of these new centers of power were founded
cooperatively by Spanglish survivors and their new Zentraedi neighbors, but in
a new world where the Invid ruled supreme, that position of social and
political leadership had degenerated towards social climates mired with crime
and enraveled in the ever-present black-market.
Mack had become a sort of "trade-representative" of several freedom forces
before joining up with the 23rd AVAC, recently dispatched by the would-be
Earth's Messiah Jonathan Wolff. His reputation in Cuzco had already gained him
the respect of many of the still-surviving druglords, and the target of many a
arms-merchant and protoculture smuggler. He had served as an informant for the
M-19s during the EBSIS-UEG war, and even before hand, a depot for contraband
forces under Krista Delgado. But nowadays, he had somewhat advanced beyond his
"need-for-profit" attitude, and considered himself, in some respects, a freedom
fighter as well. One of the facilitations working for Ror as a "supplier" was
that he rarely needed to supply protoculture--something that was generatable in
the working portions of what was the only remotely functioning "grand cannon"
known to the Relief Group. Brazil was the perfect base for supplying
rebellion. However, Cuzco had something that the 23rd lacked--supplies and
replacements for the warmachines themselves. The Horizont that served as the
repair hanger for the whole squadron was inadequate to support the numbers of
Destroids they had accumalated in the past few years, and the Brazilian Grand
Cannon was only partially functioning as a Robotech factory. They had yet to
send emmissaries to bring over the remaining Robotechnologists that had not
left on the Marcus Antonius. However, the robotechnicians they had brought
along were adept enough at repairing and retrofitting older mecha with newer
generation ion fusion generators. With the prices of protoculture increasing,
the more easily handled, difficult to detect, and easily sythesizable
hydro-organic fuels paid for its inefficiency in cost effectiveness. Entire
Hovertank and TAF battalions had been reintroduced in the Northlands and
Eastern Europe, though many remained hiding in the shadows, waiting for the
first major liberation move. Cuzco had the potential to blossom into an arms
power base if necessary.
Mack stepped into a local tavern; it was sparsely populated and reminiscent
of an old Colombian salon on the verge of being condemned. Dust remained on
the neglected floors, and the stair banister had been clearly ripped away by
one of the many fights that erupted daily here. But today, it was clear, which
seved Mack's purpose adequately. Carefully, he approached the bar, and noted a
few shifty characters in the rear and near the window; none sat directly in
front of a window--the gang violence that had polluted this city had made
everyone into a bit of a paranoid, even loners and visitors like Mack.
"Ah, buenos noches, senor," the tender looked up from his work. Along the
table were goods that had been used to purchase beer, food, and entertainment
from this establishment. Mack's companion, Jeanne, noted that most were
weapons, pssibly functionable. "Como usted."
"Bien. Muchas gracias. Que tu tienes?"
"Not much today, but let's look in back," the propietor massaged the back
of his neck, sweating in the sweltering humidity that had set in the northern
Southlands today.
"Vintage, I hope."
The Colombian touched the slight growth of a mustache edging its way under
his nose. With the communication of intention complete, he led Mack and Jeanne
to the back room.
"Lamos ditched three old VHT-01J series Hovertanks, Shizuma-2023 models,"
he opened the basement door to reveal a massive subterranean garage. "A few
T-98 Pre-war Battloids, too. You know, the ones that didn't make the final cut
in the Destroid Expo-- 2007. If you want, they're in the garbage heap just
outside Manuilanza. However, we do have a little something for you."
Lined up in five rows of four were some rather dented and beat-up Garland
moditransformable bikes. "I've heard these can be retrofitted for CVR armor
enhancement compatibility? Am I right?"
Garlands required no armor for transformation, as the Cyclones did.
However, some hoobyists and mechanics found that interfacing the two could
prove to be slightly more effective in soldier configurations, as the Cyclone
proved.
"That would cost ya' a bit more than you could possibly afford. But we do
have SLVR-1S armor with this. I'm surprised Lamos got rid of such fantastic
machines. There can't be more than two or three hundred left."
"I see, senor," he smiled broadly. "These freedom fighters keep you more
on a tight-leesh than before. You should--"
"Not today, Camillo," Mack said warningly. " What else do you have?"
"Two bins of Wolverines, Wolfs, Anticipators, Magnums, AK-47s, Desert Eagle
sidearms, AR-21 long-bore rifles, old M-16s, AR-15 sport rifles, and a few
miniguns. Plus, Rochelle's picked up a few vintage gas-powered JSDF AH-88
Mohawk attack helicopters with an optional ion-fusion powerplant hardpoint.
With a little effort, I think you could make them servicable to your needs."
"I'll check them out, and I'll take...two Garlands. They better still have
intact sensor and weapon hardpoints."
"Have I ever sold you bad product?"
Mack eyed him carefully.
"Relax, man," Camillo smiled weakly. "I had Rogie AND Rochelle down here
today inspecting it. Lamos never fixes a damn thing, just buys it new."
"I wonder who his supplier is?"
"Dunno, but at least he doesn't have VTs. But then again, of the
Freestate's are still collecting older generation Veritechs, I doubt the market
will be closed to him forever."
"Worse than Asano?"
"Much more. He does have at least AJACs, and he's starting to move in on
the Venezuelan markets. I was wondering...could your friends...that is...."
"Give him a little pause?" Mack raised an eyebrow. "I don't see why not."
"The man's dangerous, and its in your best interests to give him what-for.
If he's in control, you'll be paying ten times the price I'm selling."
"How much are we looking at here?"
"Two million scrip, and that's with an appreciable weapon-load--your pick
of course. That's about twenty-eight million in raised-gold."
"Northland currency?"
"Think. Portland currency is worth shit here. I'd go for scrip."
The fact of the matter was that the 23rd AVAC its own investments worth
several billion throughout the world. The Southlands group could easily pay
the principle in its own cash, but the conservationist spirit had often
convinced them to raid Ferdinand Lamos' various markets in the northern
Southlands to pay for repair parts and additional mecha, fuel, and supplies.
"How big is Lamos now, anyway?"
"Be glad I don't charge you for intelligence, or stupid questions. Let's
see, how big is Lamos?" Camillo repeated the question, taking in a [sarcastic]
deep breath. "Lamos confiscated the remains of the Northern Freestate's
Aerospace Force right after they went down the hole. He has a political
influence that stretches into Norristown and Roca Negra. He's the official
mercantalist and monopoly entity between Manuilanza and Obbistown, and has
enough firepower to actually start and win a war against the southern Southland
Freestates. Hovertanks, Apaches, Camonos, AJACs, Mohawks, F-16 Falcons,
various Hargun infantry mercenary units, and even his own private amphibious
force. I'd say he's definitely moving up in the world."
"Funny. For a black market dealer, you sure know alot about military
intelligence."
"Black market dealer," Camillo spat out the nomenclature as if were some
bitter herb. "Are any of us really who we once were?" Camillo smiled. There
had been a time where he had taught at a local school in Manuila, prior to
Asano and Lamos' rise to power, and had raised a small family that had died in
Cuzco shortly after Monument was destroyed.
"I would hope to ourselves," Mack replied, waving to Jeanne to pay the
amounted sum.
Camillo accepted, but concluded on his thought. "Sometimes, it is in
ourselves and to ourselves that we first die."
* * *
<well, that's it for now...whaddya think?>
* * *
------------------------------------------------------
-----The Representative of the Everlasting Funk-------
--<Presley H. Cannady II>--<cannady@magiccarpet.com>
"Do not encamp on entrapping terrain. Unite with your
allies on focal terrain. Do not remain on isolated
terrain. Make strategic plans for encircled terrain.
On fata terrain you must do battle...."
-- Wu Sun-tzu, fourth century B.C.E.
----<http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/1731/index.html>
----<http://members.tripod.com/~revprez/index.html>--