Robotech - The Macross Saga: Doomsday, Vol 4–6 E-Book

Jack McKinney

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 848

Beschreibung

The electrifying second Robotech omnibus. Experience the struggles and triumphs of the Robotech Defense Force, led by the brilliant but unorthodox Captain Gloval, as they fight against the alien Zentraedi—only to find themselves fighting alongside their former enemy in a struggle against total annihilation. BATTLEHYMN For two years, Captain Gloval and his crew had been chased through the solar system, only to be made to feel unwanted and maligned when they returned to Earth. Now, in direct violation of Council orders, Gloval commands the Super Dimensional Fortress to rise from its landing site… FORCE OF ARMS Supreme Commander Dolza had amassed the largest fleet of Zentraedi warships the Universe has ever seen… and all their weapons are aimed at Earth! DOOMSDAY A war without victors. A war that brought two races to the brink of extinction. A war without spoils, save for the devastated Earth itself... A new-age ark, the Super Dimensional Fortress, returns to its ravaged homeworld. Those who lived through Armageddon began the painstaking process of reconstruction. But the humans had the Zentraedi to help them, former enemies who shared a common goal—survival! But all was not well in this bravest of worlds... Unaccustomed to a life without warfare, many of the alien giants revert to their old ways. One alien in particular promises to lead the Zentraedi back to their former glory —Khyron. A hero reborn vows to pick up where Dolza had left off!

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Kamikaze Run

Volume 01 Battlehymn

01

02

03

04

05

06

07

08

09

10

11

12

13

14

15

Volume 02 Force of Arms

Part 1: Showdown

Prologue

01

02

03

04

05

06

07

08

09

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Part II: Reconstruction Blues

22

23

24

25

Volume 03 Doomsday

01

02

03

04

05

06

07

08

09

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Robotech novelizations based upon the animated science fiction series produced by Harmony Gold and available from Titan Books.

THE MACROSS SAGA: Battlecry

Genesis

Battle Cry

Homecoming

THE MACROSS SAGA: Doomsday

Battlehymn

Force of Arms

Doomsday

THE MASTERS SAGA: The Southern Cross

Southern Cross

Metal Fire

The Final Nightmare

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Robotech – The Macross Saga: Doomsday, Vols. 4–6

Print edition ISBN: 9781803365695

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803365725

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: February 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

©1985–2024 Harmony Gold USA, Inc. ROBOTECH®, MACROSS®, and all associated names, characters and related indicia are trademarks of Harmony Gold USA, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

KAMIKAZE RUN

“BRACE FOR RAMMING!” GLOVAL BELLOWED. THE ENGINES SHOOK the great ship and drove it into a death-dive.

The two huge booms that reared above the ship’s bridge were aligned directly at the space mountain that was the nerve center of the Zentraedi fleet. The booms were separate components of the Main Gun, reinforced structures. Around their tips glow the green-white fields of a limited barrier-defense, making them all but indestructible.

The Zentraedi, prepared for close broadsides, only realized in a list, horrified moment what the SDF-1’s intention was. By then, it was too late. The SDF-1 had become an enormous stake being driven straight into the heart of the enemy.

VOLUME 01

BATTLEHYMN

FOR GABRIELA “GABBY” ARANDA

01

As far as I’m concerned [Gloval] has already disobeyed his orders; I’d urge the council to proceed with a court-martial if I could only come up with someone to replace him. What do you think, [name withheld], perhaps I could talk [Admiral] Hayes into accepting the position and kill two birds with one stone?… This issue of the civilians aboard the SDF-1 has turned into a real mess. Personally, I consider them expendable—along with Gloval, along with the whole ship, if you want to know the truth. Let’s face facts: The thing has already outlived its purpose. You and I are where we wanted to be. Why not give the aliens their damn ship and send them back where they belong?

Senator Russo, personal correspondence (source withheld)

THERE WAS SOMETHING NEW IN THE COOL SUMMER NIGHT SKIES of 2012… You remember sitting on the backyard swing, hands tightly gripping the galvanized chains, slender arms extended and head tossed all the way back, gazing up into the immeasurable depths of that black magic, teasing your young mind with half-understood riddles of space and time. All of a sudden, your gaze found movement there where none should have existed, as if an entire constellation had uprooted and launched itself on an impromptu journey across the cosmos. Your heart was beating fast, but your eyes continued to track that mystery’s swift passage toward the distant horizon, even though you were watching it upside down now and in danger of toppling backward off the swing. A screen door slammed, its report a signal that your cries had been heard, your father and his friends beside you trying to follow the rapid flow of your words, your shaking forefinger, pointing to unmoving starfields. “Past your bedtime,” your father said, and off you went. But you crept down the wide carpeted staircase later on, silently, invisibly, and heard them in the library talking in low tones, using words you couldn’t fully comprehend but in a way that proved you weren’t imagining things. You’d glimpsed the fortress, a heavenly city returned from the past, massive enough to occultate the stars… savior or harbinger of dark prophecies, your father’s friends couldn’t decide which, but “a sign of the times” in either case. Like blue moons, unexplained disappearances, rumors of giants that were on their way to get you… And on the front page of the following day’s newspaper you saw what the night had kept from you: a mile-high roboid figure, propelled by unknown devices twice its own height above a stunned city, erect, legs straight, arms bent at the elbow, held out like those of a holy man or magician in a calming gesture of peace or surrender. It reminded you of something at the edge of memory, an image you wouldn’t summon forth until much later, when fire rained from the sky, your night world annihilated by light…

*   *   *

In direct violation of United Earth Defense Council dictates, Captain Gloval had ordered the SDF-1 airborne. It was not the first time he had challenged the wisdom of the Council, nor would it be the last.

The dimensional fortress had remained at its landing site in the Pacific for two long months like an infant in a wading pool, the supercarriers Daedalus and Prometheus that were her arms positioned out front like toys in the ocean waves. And indeed, Gloval often felt as though his superiors on the Council had been treating him like a child since the fortress’s return to Earth. Two years of being chased through the solar system by a race of alien giants, only to be made to feel like unwanted relatives who had simply dropped in for a visit. Gloval had a full understanding of the Council’s decisions from a military point of view, but those men who sat in judgment were overlooking one important element—or, as Gloval had put it to them, 56,000 important elements: the one-time residents of Macross Island who were onboard his ship. Circumstance had forced them to actively participate in this running space battle with the Zentraedi, but there was no reason now for their continued presence; they had become unwilling players in a game of global politics that was likely to have a tragic end.

There had already been more than 20,000 deaths; how many more were required to convince the Council to accede to his demands that the civilians be allowed to disembark?

The Council’s reasoning was far from specious, it was crazed, rooted in events that had transpired years before, but worse still, rooted in a mentality Gloval had hoped he had seen the last of. Even now the commander found that he could still embrace some of the arguments put forth in those earlier times—the belief that it was prudent to keep secret from the masses any knowledge of an impending alien attack. Secrecy had surrounded reconstruction of the dimensional fortress and the development of Robotech weaponry, the transfigurable Veritech fighters and the Spartans and Gladiators. This was the “logic of disinformation”: There was a guiding purpose behind it. But the Council’s current stance betrayed an inhumanity Gloval hadn’t believed possible. To explain away the disappearance of the 75,000 people of Macross, the military had announced that shortly after the initial lift-off of the SDF-1, a volcanic eruption on the order of Krakatoa had completely destroyed the island. To further complicate matters, GIN, the Global Intelligence Network, spread rumors to the effect that in reality a guerrilla force had invaded the island and detonated a thermonuclear device. Global Times Magazine was then coerced into publishing equally bogus investigative coverage of a supposed cover-up by GIN, according to which the actual cause of the deaths on Macross was disease.

Just how any of these stories could have functioned to alleviate worldwide panic was beyond Gloval; the Council might just as easily have released the truth: that an experiment in hyperspace relocation had inadvertently ended with the dematerialization of the island. As it stood, however, the Council was locked into its own lies: 75,000 killed by a volcanic explosion/guerilla invasion/virus. Therefore, these thousands could not be allowed to “reappear”—return from the dead was an issue the Council was not ready to deal with.

The 56,000 survivors had to remain virtual prisoners aboard the SDF-1.

And if the Robotech Defense Force should win this war against the Zentraedi? Gloval had asked the Council. What then? How was the Council going to deal with the victorious return of the SDF-1 and the return of the dead? Couldn’t they see how misguided they were?

Of course, it was a rhetorical question.

Gloval’s real concern was that the Council didn’t consider victory an acceptable scenario.

Which is why he had taken it upon himself to launch the SDF-1. He was going to focus attention on the civilians one way or another…

*   *   *

There was panic on the ground and panic in the voice of the Aeronautics Command controller.

“NAC. ground control to SDF-1 bridge: Come in immediately… NAC. ground control to SDF-1 bridge: Come in immediately, over!”

On the bridge of the dimensional fortress there were suppressed grins of satisfaction. Captain Gloval put a match to his pipe, disregarding Sammie’s reminders. He let a minute pass, then signaled Claudia from the command chair to respond to the incoming transmission.

“SDF-1 bridge to NAC. ground control, I have Captain Gloval. Go ahead, over.”

Gloval drew at his pipe and blew a cloud toward the overhead monitors. He could just imagine the scene below: the eyes of Los Angeles riveted on his sky spectacle. He had ordered Lang and astrogation to utilize the newly revamped antigrav generators to secure and maintain a low-level fly-by, and so the enormous triple ports of the foot thrusters were scarcely a mile above the streets. There would be no mistaking this for some Hollywood stunt. And not only were people getting their first look at the airborne SDF-1, but also of the formerly top-secret mecha that flew along with her—fighters, Guardians, and Battloids hovering and circling a mile-high bipedal Robotechnological marvel. Forget the majestic colors of those sunset clouds, Gloval wanted to tell them. Here was something really worth photographing!

“Captain Gloval, low flights over population centers have been strictly prohibited except in extreme emergencies.”

Gloval reached forward and picked up the handset. “This is an emergency. We must maintain a low attitude holding pattern. Our gravity control system is not perfected, and the lives of our 56,000 civilian detainees are in jeopardy.”

Lisa Hayes turned from her station to throw him a conspiratorial wink.

“But sir, you’re causing a panic down here. Increase your altitude and fly out over the ocean immediately. It’s imperative.”

I have them where I want them! Gloval said to himself.

“I will comply with your order if you can give me permission to disembark these civilians.”

The speakers went silent; when the controller returned, there was incredulity and urgency in his voice.

“Sir, that’s impossible. Orders from UEDC headquarters state that no one is to leave your ship. We have no authority to countermand those orders. You must leave this area at once.”

It was time to let some of the anger show. Gloval shouted, “I will not rest until those orders are changed!”

He slammed the handset back into its cradle and leaned back into the chair. Vanessa had swiveled from her screen to study him; he knew what was on her mind and granted her the liberty to speak freely.

“Sir, isn’t it dangerous to be making threats while we’re on the aircom net?”

Claudia exchanged looks with Gloval and spoke for him. “This fortress is a symbol of the Council’s strength,” she told Vanessa. “If it gets out that the captain is resisting orders, the Council would lose face—”

“And there’s a chance,” Lisa added, “that our communication was being monitored.” She turned to Gloval. “Isn’t that true, Captain?”

Gloval left the chair and walked forward to the curved bay. The cityscape was spread out beneath the ship; Veritechs flew in formation, and great swirls and billows of lavender and orange sunset clouds filled the sky.

“I’m prepared to keep the SDF-1 here until we are monitored, Lisa.” He turned to face Claudia and the others. “I don’t think there’s much chance that the Council will reverse its decision. But politicians can sometimes be helpful, and it’s possible that someone in the government will get wind of this, see an opportunity, and step in.”

“But the Council isn’t going to like your tactics, sir,” said Vanessa.

Gloval turned back to the bay.

“Even if I face prosecution, this is something I must do. Civilians have no place onboard this ship. No place in this war.”

*   *   *

But for the time being the SDF-1 was stuck with its civilians. However, it had been outfitted with a reworked shield system. Dr. Lang had dismantled the pin-point barrier and liberated the lambent energy which animated it—the same energy which had materialized with the disappearance of the spacefold generators some time ago. His team of Robotechnicians had then reanalyzed that alien fire, careful to avoid past mistakes, tamed and cajoled it, and fashioned a newly designed harness for it. Where the former system relied on manually operated maneuverable photon discs that were capable of covering only specific portions of the fortress (hence the name “pin-point” system), the reworked design was omnidirectional, allowing for full coverage. It did share some of the weaknesses of its prototype, though, in that activation of the system drained energy from the weapons systems, and full coverage was severely time-limited.

If only the personnel of the fortress could have been similarly outfitted… but who has yet designed a shield system for the heart, a protective barrier, pin-point or otherwise, for the human soul?

Roy Fokker was dead.

The VT pilots of Skull Team had their own way of dealing with combat deaths: The slain pilot simply never was. Men from Vermilion or Indigo might approach them in Barracks C or belowdecks in the Prometheus and say: “Sorry to hear about Roy,” or “Heard that Roy tuned out.” And they would look them square in the eye or turn to one of their Skull teammates and ask flatly, “Roy who?” Some might think the Skull were kidding with them and press the question, but the response remained the same: “Roy, who?” Nobody broke the pact, nobody spoke of Roy, then or now. Roy simply never was.

Except in the privacy of their quarters or the no-man’s-land of their tortured memories and dreams. Then a man could let loose and wail or rage or throw out the same questions humankind has been asking since that first murder, the first death at the hands of another, the one that set the pattern for all that followed.

Perhaps that shell game the Skull Team played with death had found its way to the bridge, or maybe it was just that Fokker’s death was too painful to discuss—the first one that hit home—but in any case no one brought it up. Claudia and Rick were each separately cocooned in sorrow no one saw fit to disturb. Kim and Sammie talked about how sorry they felt for Claudia, knowing how much she missed Fokker, knowing that underneath that brave front she was torn up. But neither woman ever approached her with those feelings. Even Lisa seemed at a loss. That afternoon she had followed Claudia to the mess hall, hesitant at the door, as if afraid to intrude on her friend’s grief… Did it occur to her that Claudia and Rick—the lieutenant at the observation deck rail and Claudia seated not fifteen feet away—might have been able to help each other through it, or was Lisa also one of the speechless walking wounded, wounds in her own heart reopened, wounds that had been on the mend until Fokker’s death?

It was Rick she approached that afternoon, the City of Angels spread out below the observation deck like some Robotech circuit board. Rick looked drawn and pale, recuperating but still weak from his own brush with death from wounds he had suffered indirectly at her own hand. There was no mention of Roy, although it was plain enough to read in his dark eyes the devastation he felt. And the more she listened to him, the deeper she looked into those eyes, the more fearful she became; it was as if all light had left him, as if his words rose from a hollow center, somber and distanced. She wanted to reach out and rescue him from the edge. There was music coming through the PA, a song that had once welcomed both of them back from a shared trip to that edge.

“That’s Minmei, isn’t it, Rick? Have you two been seeing each other?”

“Sure,” he answered flatly. “I watch her on the wall screen, and she sees me in her dreams.”

No help in this direction; Lisa apologized.

Rick turned from her and leaned out over the rail.

“She’s been spending a lot of time with her cousin Kyle. You know, family comes first.”

“Well I’m glad you’re all right, Rick. I was worried about you.”

That at least brought him around, but there was no change in tone.

“Yeah, I’m feeling great, Lisa. Just great.”

She wanted to start from scratch: Listen, Rick, I’m sorry about Roy, if I can be any help toyou—

“So I hear we’ve got a new barrier system,” he was saying. “And I guess we need it more than ever, right? I mean, since the Council is refusing to allow the civilians to leave—”

“Rick—”

“—and it isn’t likely that the Zentraedi are going to call off their attacks.”

She let him get it all out and let silence act as a buffer. “The Council will rescind their order, Rick. The captain says he’ll keep the ship right there until they do.”

Rick smirked. “Good. And the sooner it happens, the better. I know we’re all anxious to get back into battle.”

Rick’s eyes burned into hers until she could no longer stand it and looked away. Was he blaming her somehow for Roy’s death? Had she suddenly been reduced to some malevolent symbol in his eyes? First Lynn-Kyle and his remarks about the military, and now this… Below she watched the traffic move along the grid of city streets; she looked long and hard at the Sierra foothills, as if to remind herself that she was indeed back on Earth, back among the living. But even if the Council had a change of heart, even if her father came to his senses and allowed the civilian detainees to disembark, what would become of the SDF-1 and her crew?

Where and when would they find safe haven?

02

LAPSTEIN: In light of the, well, “psychological” problems which beset the Zentraedi after the SDF-1’s successful return to Earth, isn’t there some justification for suggesting that Khyron should have taken over command of the Imperial Fleet?

EXEDORE: (Laughs shortly) We would not be having this interview, of this I can assure you.

LAPSTEIN: Of course… But in terms of strategic impact?

EXEDORE: (After a moment) It could be said that Khyron was more aware of the dangers of cultural contagion than many of us, but he was no longer thinking as a strategist. The SDF-1 was not his main concern; that the ship contained a Protoculture matrix was of little importance. He had by now come to believe that by destroying it he would put an end to what he regarded as a psychic threat to his race. I will leave it to your “psychologists” to examine his underlying motives. But I will add this: He was responding in pure Zentraedi fashion—he recognized potential danger and moved to eliminate it. My hope is that this will rescue his image from what many of your writers have termed “humanness.”

Lapstein, Interviews

Khyron was possessed by the Invid Flower of Life; without being aware of it, he was by now working against the Zentraedi imperative.

Rawlins, Zentraedi Triumvirate: Dolza, Breetai, Khyron

WELL WITHIN STRIKING DISTANCE OF EARTH, TWO ZENTRAEDI cruisers moved through space, silently, side by side, Gargantuas from an unholy realm. A day would come when the commanders of these ships would stand together at the gates of an even blacker void, released from an artificial past and feverish with exhilaration for a present in the making, hands and hearts linked, an evil pact made good, laughing into the face of death… But today there were harsh words and recriminations, a taste of what was to come for the rest.

Khyron slammed his fist down on the command post console, his right hand pointed accusingly at the projecbeam image of Azonia, her arms folded across her chest, as much in defiance as in defense.

“It can’t be!” the so-called Backstabber shouted. “Why are they ordering us to fall back?”

His lowered head and narrowed eyes peering from beneath bangs of sky blue gave him a demonic look.

Azonia addressed the projecbeam image on the bridge of her cruiser.

“I’m not at liberty to explain, but our orders are clear, Khyron: Until this new operation is terminated, you will do nothing but stand fast and wait. Is that clear?”

She tried to sound calm but knew that he would see through it. Khyron glared at her.

“Don’t play games with me, Azonia. That ship grows stronger day by day, while we sit and do nothing.”

“Khyron—”

“Your meddling in my plans allowed the Micronians to reach their homeworld. But it is not too late to undo the damage you’ve done: Destroy them now!”

“Enough!” she screamed at the screen. But he paid her little heed. An angry sweep of dismissal with his arm, bared teeth, and he was gone. The projecbeam compressed to a single horizontal line and vanished, but Azonia tried to raise him nevertheless.

“Khyron, come in, Khyron! Come in at once!”

Too late. She leaned forward to steady herself on stiffened arms, palms still flattened against the com buttons. She knew him well enough to fear him, but it wasn’t fear that was threatening to overcome her. These were darker feelings, utterly devoid of light, far worse than fear. And suddenly she recognized what it must be: Commander in Chief Dolza had relieved Breetai of his command, had entrusted her with the mission to retrieve Zor’s ship, and she had failed him.

Failed him!

Just then Miriya was admitted to the bridge, and Azonia felt a glimmer of hope. If anyone could help her deal with Khyron, it would be Miriya, the Zentraedi’s most skilled pilot. But Azonia was soon to learn that Khyron had already undermined these plans also.

“I’m glad that you’re here,” Azonia welcomed the female ace. “Commander Khyron is jeopardizing our mission. I’m going to need your help to keep him in line.”

Miriya lowered her gaze. “Commander, I…”

Azonia approached her with concern. “Miriya, what’s wrong? Out with it.”

“I have come to request your permission to enter the dimensional fortress… as a spy.”

Azonia was shocked. “Micronized?!”

“Yes. I have been studying the enemy’s language, and I am confident that my presence will profit our cause.”

“But why? Why would our finest pilot want to become a Micronian? You’re not making sense!”

“Please, Commander, I have no choice.”

“Nonsense! Tell me. I order you.”

Miriya’s deep green eyes flashed; she tossed back her mane of thick hair and locked gazes with Azonia.

“I have been defeated in battle… bested by a Micronian, an insignificant bug! I must find and destroy that pilot. Until then I’m of use to no one. You must permit me, Commander, for the glory of the Zentraedi.”

Defeat! thought Azonia. Failure! What was to become of their once glorious race?

*   *   *

Khyron wasted no time putting his attack plan into effect. Moments after breaking contact with Azonia he was on his way to the cruiser’s Battlepod hangar, where his lieutenants and squadron leaders would receive their briefing. Every minute lost brought the Zentraedi that much closer to defeat; of this he was certain. The Micronians were making repairs, taking on stores, readying themselves for another round…

Defeat… There was a time not long ago when the very word found no place in his thinking, let alone the idea. But recent events had reshaped his world view; dangerous possibilities were now entertained where none had existed before. This operation directed against the Micronians of “Earth” was beginning to assume portentous dimensions. Left in the dark to puzzle out the intricacies of this war that was not a war, Khyron had been forced to rely on instinct and rumor; he had implicit faith in the former but little use for the latter unless, as in the present case, he found corroborating evidence of his own. And at the center of the complexities was Zor’s ship, the Super Dimensional Fortress. That the fortress, with its Protoculture matrix, was a trophy worthy enough to justify the expenditures of the operation was beyond dispute. And that it had to be kept from the Invid, equally so. But surely the Robotech Masters would concede that at this point the fortress was expendable; the Micronians, having already unlocked some of its secrets, posed a threat greater than loss of the ship itself. And threats were best dealt with directly. But what should have been a straightforward eradication and mop-up exercise, no different from scores of similar operations effected throughout the quadrant, had become a hazardous hunt—an attempt to recapture the fortress intact at any cost. Had the Commander in Chief forgotten the Imperative?

The Zentraedi were a race of warriors, not gamesters.

Just what were Dolza and Breetai up to? Over and over again Khyron had put the question to himself. Were they serving the Robotech Masters or some rebellious design of their own? His suspicions had been temporarily laid to rest when Breetai had been relieved of his command, but now he was beginning to consider that this, too, was part of their plan. That Azonia had been chosen to head up the operation was disturbing—maybe a sign that the Old One was in fact losing his grip—but beside the point in any case. Azonia’s time had run out; once under way, the present attack plan would accomplish a secondary purpose in seeing to that. But Dolza’s next move remained to be seen; should Breetai be returned to command, Khyron would have no choice but to accept his rebellion theory as truth. But he also understood that a schism now would only add to an already perilous course. That was why the present situation had to be defused.

In the cavernous lower chambers of the Zentraedi cruiser, the assault group was assembled. In addition to the usual complement of Botoru tri-thruster assault ships, carapace fighters, and scout recons, there were scores of specialized mecha outfitted with ECM and radar jamming devices. Khyron laid out his simple plan: The dimensional fortress was to be destroyed.

As Khyron prepared to strap into his Officer’s Pod assault ship, he exchanged some final words with Grel, who would man the helm in Khyron’s absence. The square-jawed face of the First Officer was on the overhead screen in the central hold.

“Wait until I approach the fortress and activate ECM before you follow and land your fleet, Grel.”

“Although Earth’s atmosphere makes it difficult to maneuver, we will obey.”

“See that you do. Intelligence reports indicate that the Micronians care a great deal about their miserable world, so if we bring the fight there, the fortress and the planet will be ours for the taking.” Khyron noticed Grel’s eyes shift back and forth. “Questions, Grel?”

“No, sir… But we are going against Azonia’s orders again, aren’t we?”

Khyron laughed maliciously. “Just carry out your orders. I’ll take care of her after we return.”

Khyron lowered the canopy of the Battlepod. He ingested two dried leaves from the Flower of Life and brought his mecha to the edge of the cruiser port.

*   *   *

The first controlled firing of the main gun, the Daedalus Maneuver, the return to Earth: three “whoopees” in two long years of warfare…

But now there was cause for genuine celebration on the bridge of the dimensional fortress: Gloval’s ploy had worked. The North American Ontario Quadrant, one of a growing number of separatist states seeking autonomy from the Council’s stranglehold, had agreed to accept the civilians. Ontario had its own reasons for doing so, but the captain wasn’t about to ask questions. Gloval felt as though an enormous weight was about to be lifted from his shoulders—he could practically feel the worry lines on his face beginning to fade. Now, if Dr. Lang could only figure some way to transfer Macross City as well, lock, stock, and barrel.

News of the recently received crypto-communication spread like wildfire through the ship. Spontaneous parties were already under way in the streets of the city, and Gloval would have been given a ticker-tape parade if there had been any ticker tape available. Residents were hastily packing and making preparations to leave, embracing one another, sobbing good-byes, taking last looks around. As expected, there were more than a few who wished to remain onboard, but there were to be no exceptions to the captain’s orders: All civilians had to go. Perhaps when the war was over, like some “city in flight” the SDF-1 would be taking Earth’s children to their destiny…

But most of that was for starry-eyed dreamers and science-fantasy buffs; most of Macross wanted out. The tour was finished; it was time to get back into the real world, reconnect with family left behind, tear up the premature obituaries, and start living again. No more alert sirens waking you up in the middle of a false night, no more military scrip or play money, no asteroid showers, no more—thankheavens!—modular transformations. Many of the residents forgot that these same hopes had been dashed only short weeks before.

The Defense Force was never polled as to its feelings, though the results no doubt would have proved interesting. To some, Macross was the ship’s heart, and they had fought hard on Earth and in deep space to protect that transplanted center. To be appointed guardian of their homeworld would have been a fair enough trade-off, but that was not to be the case. The Council had already made this clear: Their orders were to lead the aliens away from Earth, to bring the war back into deep space where it belonged, to act as a decoy until such time as the Earth was suitably prepared to deal with invasion. In other words, they had been singled out for sacrifice. If there was supposed to be some sort of grandiose nobility attached to this, it was not readily apparent. But fortunately for the Council, the Earth, and the dimensional fortress commanders themselves, there were few members of the Defense Force in possession of all the facts.

Rick was belowdecks in the Prometheus when Max and Ben brought him the news from the bridge. He was in uniform, number-two torx driver in hand, standing alongside. Skull One—Roy Fokker’s Veritech. An opened access panel in the nacelle below the cockpit broke the unity of the fighting kite insignia, but Rick missed the symbolism. Nevertheless, he stared into the exposed circuitry, even tinkered a bit, as if searching for memories of his lost friend. The fighter had been fully repaired and serviced; there were no signs of damage, no evidence of the fatal rounds sustained, but that didn’t mean the exorcism had been complete. Roy’s presence lingered palpably.

Rick closed the panel as the two corporals approached. “Just doing some maintenance,” Rick said by way of explanation. Yeah, self-maintenance.

“I’m not surprised,” said Max. “Lisa Hayes told us you were down here.”

Ben eyed the fuselage numerals. “Hey, this is Commander Fokker’s Skull One, isn’t it? I didn’t know you were going to be flying it.”

“Uh, yeah,” Rick answered distantly. “Guess I was lucky to get it as my aircraft assignment.”

He turned away from them and put his right hand against the mecha almost reverently. “Nice touch of irony, don’t you think? Commander Fokker was always so proud of the fact that he’d never gone down. Now he’s… gone, and I get his plane. Me… the guy who’s always being shot down—even by our own ordnance. Just kind of ironic, that’s all.”

Rick’s friends exchanged concerned looks, but Max broke out of it and into a smile. He told Rick about the civilians, and the lieutenant said, “Terrific.” Undaunted, Max continued.

“Apparently the North American Ontario Quadrant will be accepting them, and the official announcement will be given tomorrow by Captain Gloval.”

“So how’s about we get a jump on the celebration?” Ben said, full of good humor. “We could hit Macross for some food, drink, whatever else comes along.”

“You could use the recreation, Lieutenant,” Max hastened to add.

Rick’s slow smile was a signal that he’d already made up his mind. He had to climb out of his funk somehow, and he didn’t see how low spirits could stand a chance in Macross just now.

“It sounds good, guys. In fact, it’ll be my treat.”

Ben beamed. “Well how about that, Max?” He moved between his friends, a head taller than both, draping his arms over their shoulders and leading them away from the Veritech. “Doesn’t that sound like something the new pilot of the Skull One would do? C’mon, let’s get going before he changes his mind.”

Rick glanced over his shoulder at the silent mecha; then he surrendered himself to Ben’s lead.

*   *   *

Khyron’s assault unit launched from the cruiser and plunged into Earth’s atmosphere, triple-thrusters brilliant orange against a peaceful field of cloud-studded blue.

The dimensional fortress, still configured like an upright winged techno-knight, was over the city of Toronto when radar alerted the bridge of the impending attack.

Vanessa leaned over her console and entered a series of commands. She leaned back in her chair as “paint” and directional symbols began to fill the large screen.

“Multiple radar contacts in five, six, and seven. A squadron of alien spacecraft.” Her words came in a rush. “Pods, recons. Small ships, mostly. Coming in from an altitude of twenty miles, north-northwest.”

Gloval didn’t want to believe it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered emphatically.

Sammie moaned, “Oh, no!” as both Lisa and Claudia turned from their forward stations to regard the threat board.

“Just as we were entering the Ontario Quadrant.”

“Exactly,” said Claudia in a way that meant: typical!

Gloval had not moved from the command chair; his hands were tightened on the arms, as much to prevent himself from rising as to get a grip on the situation.

“We cannot afford to come under attack here,” he announced. “Commander Hayes, order all pilots to red alert immediately!”

*   *   *

“Here you are, mister, one giant top sirloin, medium rare,” the chef said as he placed cutting board and cut in front of Ben.

He, Max, and Rick were in the Kindest Cut, one of Macross City’s finest steak houses. They had elected to sit along the circular counter which ringed the central grills—“close to the action,” as Ben put it. Exhaust fans and an enormous copper hood overhead took care of most of the smoke, but you had to be a real red-meat lover to deal with the odors, the sizzle and pop that were inescapable up front.

“Thanks a lot, pal,” Ben said, pulling the platter-shaped cutting board toward him.

His friends were staring at the steak in disbelief.

“Does this smell great or what?” He had knife and fork poised, ready to dig in.

“Looks like a lot to eat,” Max said tentatively.

A massive hunk of meat was impaled on Ben’s fork. “I’m so hungry, I might order another one!” He laughed loudly, then opened his mouth widely, the forkful a scant inch from his mouth when an announcement blared over the citywide PA.

“Attention, all fighter pilots: red alert, red alert. This is not a drill…”

Max and Rick were already on their feet and heading for the door by the time the message was repeated. Ben, however, was still anchored to his seat, wondering if he had time for just one more bite.

“Hey, Ben, move out!” he heard the lieutenant say.

Ben stood up and contemplated the top sirloin, the small, round potatoes, the heavenly garnish of mushrooms and onions…

“Don’t move,” he told the meal. “I’ll be back.”

03

And, lo, I saw a winged giant walking among the clouds in the western sky, haloed within a globe of radiant glory, and his body set to gleaming silver in the sun. And tho his hands might be raised in supplication, his heart burned with all the fury of holy fires. And I say unto you that this is the Temple of Mankind, risen and returned to do battle with the forces of evil!

Apocrypha, The Book of James

VERITECHS WERE ALREADY BEING MOVED TO THE FLIGHT elevators by the time Rick, Ben, and Max reached the hangar of the Prometheus. They had their “thinking caps” and harness packs on, likewise their respective red, gold, and blue flight suits. Cat crews and controllers were keeping things orderly; after two years of almost constant fighting, they had the routine down to a T. Lisa’s voice was loud and clear through the speakers:

“All fighter squadrons: red alert, red alert. This is not a drill, this is not a drill…”

They wished each other luck, separated, and ran for their individual fighters. Skull One was waiting patiently for Rick, wings back and Jolly Roger—emblazoned tailerons folded down. He clambered up into the cockpit and strapped in as he ran a quick status check. He thought of Roy as the canopy descended.

Well, Big Brother, looks like I’ve been elected to fill your shoes. I’m not looking forward to it. Now, don’t get me wrong… But piloting your fighter in combat is going to take some getting used to.

Rick was waved forward to the elevator. Once on the flight deck, he spread the mecha’s wings and raised the emblemed tailerons while coveralled hookup crews readied the ship for launch. Finally the go signal was given. Rick flashed thumbs up and dropped back against the seat. A fleeting image of Roy Fokker appeared on one of the commo screens.

“Well, ole buddy, this one’s for you,” Rick said aloud. Then, flipping toggles, he contacted the bridge and added, “This is Skull Leader. We’re movin’ out.”

The engines were activated, power and sound building. The cat officer dropped, the shooter ducked, and seconds later Skull One was accelerated off the flatdeck’s hurricane bow and airborne.

On the bridge of the SDF-1, Claudia turned to Lisa. “Did he say, ‘Skull Leader’?”

“That’s right, Claudia.” There was almost a note of pride in her voice. “Lieutenant Hunter’s taking over Commander Fokker’s Skull One as of today.”

It took Claudia by surprise, but she smiled and turned to the bay, hoping to catch a glimpse of the takeoff.

“Roy would have liked that.”

*   *   *

“Skull Leader to Skull wing: I’ve got bogies on my screen. Estimate fifteen seconds until first contact.”

Rick and his men were in a delta formation; below them, also in triplicate, were Indigo and Vermilion, along with several other VT teams. Max and Ben were on the lateral commo screens in Skull One’s cockpit.

“Are both of you ready to get the job done?”

“You bet we are, Lieutenant,” Ben said.

Max added, “Ready for combat.”

Rick felt a reawakened sense of purpose that bordered on sheer exhilaration. It was not the usual prebattle adrenaline rush or any other endorphin high but a settling of the storm that had raged inside him since the ship’s return to Earth and had peaked with Roy’s death—a storm that had whipped him into a frenzy and left him depleted of spirit, faith, the very will to go on. But now, out in this wild blue yonder, those storm clouds were breaking up, and with them that ominous sense of doom and impenetrable darkness. Skull One was airborne again; Rick Hunter was airborne again. Where before he had seen irony, he now felt a curious but calming harmony. He would prevail!

In the lead ship of the alien assault group, Khyron was thinking the same thing. But where Rick’s thoughts were tuned to life, Khyron’s were attuned to death—as clear an example as any of the differences that separated human from Zentraedi. “They’re dead ahead,” Khyron told his pilots. “Keep your shields up and fire when ready. Let’s get them now!”

So saying, he engaged the ship’s boosters, signaling his wingmen to follow suit, and threw his forces against Hunter’s.

The two groups met head-on, filling the skies with thunder. Explosions bloomed and erupted like some hellish aeroponic garden. Brilliant blue and yellow tracers crisscrossed with contrails and the smoke and fire falls of destroyed ships. Wingmen broke away from their leaders to engage the enemy mecha one on one in an aerial free-for-all. VT pilots sometimes used the analogy of boxing versus street fighting: There were no rules; your opponent was unskilled but mean-spirited and more than likely unstoppable.

Zentraedi snub-nosed tri-thrusters, triple-finned and resembling stylized faucet controls, tore through the Veritech formations, plastron cannons blazing, blue fire holing craft and pilots alike. Twin top-mounted rockets were elevated to firing positions, launched, and more often than not found their mark, throwing fiery debris into the arena. Balls of flame that were once Veritechs plunged from the sky.

But the Robotech forces hit back.

Skull One banked sharply to avoid the debris of an exploded craft, angry blue fire deep within its aft thrusters, red-tipped pyloned heat-seekers eager for release. Rick trimmed his ship only to find that he had four more bandits on his tail. He led them on a merry chase, up into a booster climb to the edge of night, then down in a power dive they hadn’t anticipated.

Rick threw down the G lever and thought the mecha through to Guardian configuration. He flew into the face of his pursuers like a bird of prey, taloned legs engaged and rear undercarriage guns erupting when he’d cleared their formation. Orange fire blazed from beneath the wings.

A Zentraedi ship exploded, then a second, as it kamikazeed in on Skull One, an expanding cloud of orange death. Divine wind, indeed, thought Rick.

The Guardian was ho vering now, utilizing the downward-pointing foot thrusters for loft and stability and pouring out fire against the two remaining ships. And once again, Rick’s thoughts and shots found their mark.

He heard Ben’s voice above the racket on the tac net.

“Hey, Skull Leader, that was mighty fine flying, but you’ve got to be more careful!”

But it was Ben who wasn’t being careful: An enemy mecha had him locked on target and was about to open up. Fortunately, Max Sterling had been monitoring the approach; he had the craft lined up in his reticle, and he loosed two rockets to take it out.

Rick heard Ben’s cry of surprise, then delight, as Max brought his blue-trimmed ship alongside Dixon’s port wingtip.

“You okay, Ben?” Max asked, a lilt to his voice. “Yeah, sure, now I am, thanks.”

“Well, stay alert, big guy.”

“Better believe it. Nobody tunes out Ben Dixon!”

*   *   *

Rick was too involved in the battle to notice that several alien ships had peeled away from the attack group and established a holding pattern not far from the SDF-1. This did not go unnoticed on the bridge of the fortress itself, however, or onboard the cruiser commanded by Khyron’s second.

Grel, arms folded across his chest, studied the blue projecbeam field. Deep within a schematic representation of the planetary rim, a bright red light bar flashed once, then twice more. And over the com came the voice of one of the fleet commanders.

“Sir, the radar-jamming tactic appears to be working. Shall we now proceed?”

Grel leaned forward over the console. “Yes, proceed as planned.”

As he gave the word, five enormous warships began a slow descent toward Earth.

*   *   *

Gloval stood at the forward bay of the bridge, white cap pulled low on his head, eyes heavy with concern. In the western sky flashes of devilish fire marked the battle zone, discs and crescents in the dusk. South, a cluster of enemy craft in a curious holding pattern, and below the fortress, a city in chaos—a city in peril. What were the residents to make of these unannounced fireworks? Gloval wondered. The SDF-1 was headed north at a good clip, but would it clear these population centers before the battle escalated? He knew it would. He closed his eyes to shut out the scene. He had brought the fortress here to disembark the civilians, and in so doing he had endangered yet another group. Was there no winning this thing—on any front?

“Sir, radar is destabilizing.”

Gloval didn’t bother to turn and face Vanessa; wearily, he said, “The Zentraedi are jamming our signal… One thing after another… Alert Skull Team to begin a recon sweep of the area.” Then he swung around. “Put the new barrier system on standby and be prepared for new enemy activity.”

Claudia exercised her prerogative by pointing out that activating the shields would draw power from the weaponry systems, but the captain was way ahead of her; he had little patience left for ground already covered. “I understand the problem, but I must consider the safety of all personnel aboard. Now, put the new system on standby immediately!”

“Yes, sir,” Claudia deferred. “Stand by to engage…”

*   *   *

Meanwhile, a solitary ship of bizarre design was on a low, silent approach to the dimensional fortress, taking advantage of a ridge of low hills to conceal itself from detection and involvement in the raging battle. The mecha was insectlike in appearance, with a globular twin-hemisphered body, pincer arms, two cloven legs, and a pointed proboscis cockpit module. It was not a Botoru ship—one of Khyron’s Seventh Mechanical Division—but a Quadrono. And held in the grip of the armored right hand, contained in a transparent chamber similar to that which had delivered three micronized spies into the SDF-1, was the female ace of that fleet, Miriya Parino. She wore a sleeveless blue-gray sackcloth of a dress, belted with rough cord, and carried no weapons.

It was this last that worried the female pilot of the mecha. Seloy Deparra had visual contact with Miriya via the curved screen in the cockpit, audio through the helmet communicator.

“Miriya, this is dangerous!” Deparra said, “Are you certain you want to board the Micronian ship with no weapons?”

“I won’t need weapons.”

“But Commander Azonia is already upset about the failure of this operation…”

“Upset, but not with me. It’s Khyron who has made a mess of things.” And some of us are aware of the special rivalries that exist between Azonia and Khyron, she wanted to add. But Miriya had no quarrel with the Backstabber. He was now doubly responsible for her mission and her present micronized size: first by alerting her to the Micronian ace who had bested her in battle, and second by launching yet another unauthorized attack against the SDF-1. The battle had simplified the infiltration considerably. But these facts were of no use to the pilot. “Just deliver me to the Micronian ship,” Miriya said sternly.

*   *   *

Khyron had removed himself from the aerial arena; his command mecha was positioned at the southern perimeter of the skirmish, and he had managed to raise Grel on the com. The lieutenant’s face appeared on a secondary commo screen in the cockpit while explosive flashes of battle light strobed against the outer hull of the ship.

“We’re hovering above the surface, awaiting your further orders, my lord.”

Khyron was pleased enough to compliment his second. “Excellent, Grel, you’ve done a superb job. Now, prepare your attack, but don’t open fire until I join you.”

“My lord!” Grel saluted.

*   *   *

Following Gloval’s orders, Skull Team had also temporarily absented themselves from the battle to recon south of the fortress. Rick had patched the infrared scanners, wide and long-range, into the commo system; center and lateral screens now afforded him an image-enhanced sweep of the horizon. In a moment he had radar contact and upped the magnification on the screens. Gloval was right: Zentraedi cruisers!

Rick activated the scrambler and went on the tac net.

“Lisa, are you monitoring?”

She answered, “Affirmative,” from the bridge and notified the captain: “Skull has visuals on five alien cruisers; range, seventy miles, south-southeast, vector headings coming in now…”

“All right,” said Gloval, hands behind his back at the forward bay. “Claudia, activate the omnidirectional barrier at once!”

In the new shield system control room, more than a dozen techs and specialists readied themselves. Situated aft and well below the bridge in a huge hold, the room itself was little more than a flyout platform equipped with a central readout table and numerous manned consoles and viewscreens. But the device responsible for the energy barrier was something else again. Blue rings of pulsed energy filled the hold as Gloval gave word to engage the system. Power began to build in the field generator—an enormous gearlike dish with eight hydraulic closure teeth—while its mate telescoped down on a thick shaft from the hold overhead. Short of meshing, the generators exchanged phrases of fire, forming and containing a sphere of effulgent energy.

On the bridge the energy sphere registered schematically on Claudia’s console monitor as a globe-shaped grid fully encompassing the upright SDF-1.

Externalized, the sphere was a yellow-green cloud that grew and expanded from the ship’s center, gaseous and slightly luminescent, haloing the fortress in the night sky.

Grel was viewing its formation on the command center screen as Khyron entered, his harness pack and hip blasters still in place.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Grel didn’t bother to salute. “There’s a large energy shield surrounding the Micronian ship.”

Khyron snorted. “I don’t care. Open fire, now!”

*   *   *

It was as if someone had scribbled across the sky with a light crayon… that many rockets were launched from the Zentraedi warships. Ninety-eight percent of them found their mark, enveloping and obscuring the dimensional fortress in a minute-long symphony of explosions. But to the amazement of human and Zentraedi alike the shield absorbed the deadly storm, and the fortress was left unscathed.

“It’s unlike anything we’ve encountered,” said Grel, commenting on a profile schematic of the Micronian shield. “And it seems to be fully protecting the ship from our attack. So what now?”

“Yes…” Khyron answered slowly. “Advance the group and continue firing until I order you to cease.”

And continue they did, employing pulsed lasers and cannon fire. Streaks of horizonal lightning converged on the SDF-1, but to no avail. What the shield didn’t absorb, it simply deflected.

Captain Gloval was cautiously optimistic; the barrier system was holding, but Vanessa’s threat board showed that the enemy had advanced well into the yellow zone.

“The enemy is continuing their attack,” she warned him.

His hopes dashed, the captain gave voice to his fears. “This time they won’t stop coming until they’ve destroyed us.”

Sammie turned her frightened eyes to him. “Sir, couldn’t we radio headquarters and ask for some support or something?”

“That won’t work,” Lisa chided her. “The captain knows a request like that would just be ignored.”

“Because we’ve been making so many demands about the civilians?” Kim asked.

It was the wrong time for foolish questions, but Gloval fielded them patiently. “It has more to do with our proximity to the ground,” he told her. He’d placed his own head on the chopping block; it was unlikely that anyone in the Council would come to his rescue.

“Message, sir.”

Gloval turned his attention to Claudia’s overhead monitor. It was one of Lang’s Robotechnicians.

“We’ve got a serious problem, Captain. The barrier system is beginning to overload!”

*   *   *

Rick and the members of Skull Team had been watching the bombardment in awe, but Lisa was now ordering them to counterattack the warships.

“You’ve got to draw their fire, Lieutenant Hunter. The shields can’t take any more. If you fail…

“There isn’t going to be any ship to return to.”

Her eyes shifted on the screen, as if trying to find his across miles of sky. “It looks bad, Rick. Captain Gloval wants you to know that as of this moment, the safety of every single person on this ship rests in your hands.”

The safety of every single person on this ship rests in your hands… Bottom of the ninth: bases loaded, two outs, Hunter on deck…

Skull Team descended on the cruisers like vengeful eagles. They had reconfigured to Guardian mode for the drop and to Battloid now as they touched down on the first warship, skimming over its armored green hull, blue foot thrusters blazing like power skaters. Gatlings resounding, they moved toward the stem, taking out turret guns and sealing weapons ports. But that still left four ships emitting unbroken lines of blue death.

*   *   *

The once clearly defined schematic sphere was now a vaguely circular blotch bleeding sickly colors across the Zentraedi projecbeam field.

“You see,” Grel said knowingly, “their energy readings are dropping quickly. The shield is at its limit.”

Khyron laughed through his teeth. “Now these Micronians will be mine. Mine!”

*   *   *

Inside the SDF-1 the barrier system generators lost their grip on that shared and maintained globe of energy; the ball flattened, grew savagely oblate, then lost its circumference entirely and began to arc untamed throughout the hold.

The bridge was in chaos.

“Barrier generators four and seven are losing power due to intense core overheating,” Claudia reported to Gloval. Her monitor schematic revealed weakened coordinates along the shield grid.

The captain quickly ordered her to switch to subsystem power.

Meanwhile three of the nine screens at Kim’s station and two at Sammie’s had blacked out; two others were flashing a field of orange static.

“We have an overload situation in the outer field circuits…”

“Number seven converter has exceeded its limit…”

“Emergency backup crew, report to your service areas.”

Lisa brought her hands to her ears and went on the aircom net. “Skull Leader, keep your comline open for emergency orders.”

The threat board showed the Zentraedi warships continuing their advance. “They’ve just entered the red zone, Captain!” Vanessa shouted.

Then, suddenly, there was a blood-curdling scream through the patch lines from the shield control room and primary lighting failed. The bridge crew looked like the living dead under the eerie glow of console lights. Klaxons and warning sirens were blaring from remote areas of the fortress. Sammie’s station screen had gone fully to orange.

“It’s reaching critical mass,” she yelled. “It’s going to explode!”

*   *   *

Rick heard the panic in Lisa’s voice. “Skull Leader, evacuate your team at once—the barrier system is about to chain-react. Evacuate—”

Rick, Max, and Ben thought their Battloids through an about-face. Beyond the rim of the Zentraedi warship they could see the barrier transubstantiate: What appeared as the selfsame shield was in fact shot through and through with submolecular death.

Rick watched as radiation detector gauges came to life in the cockpit. He raised his teammates on the tac net and told them to clear out on the double.

Behind them the shield expanded, its internal colors shifting from green through yellow and orange to deadly red; then, after a blinding flash of silent white light, the shield was gone. In its place a hot pink hemisphere began to form, an umbrella of horror fifty miles wide.

The three pilots ran their Battloids along the armored hull, past turrets and singed bristle sensors already slagging in the infernal heat; they reconfigured to Guardian mode and launched themselves, the spreading shock wave threatening to overtake them.

Rick glimpsed one of the warships rise from the pack and accelerate to safety. But the rest were annihilated, atomized along with every standing structure and living thing on the ground.

Skull One was tearing through fuchsia skies, fire nipping at the fighter’s tail. Inside, Rick searched desperately right and left for a sign of his wingmen. Max’s ship came into view to port, but Ben was nowhere in sight.

“Ben, Ben!” Rick cried.

“Behind you, Lieutenant!”

Rick found Dixon’s radar blip on the screen; Ben was converting to Guardian for added thrust.

“Hit your afterburner—now! Do you copy?”

Ben’s voice was terror-filled: “It’s too late, Rick! I can’t make… Aaarrrggghhh!…”

Rick shook his head wildly, as much to deny the truth as to keep the sound of death from his ears.

He crossed himself as Ben’s radar image began to fade. A second friend lost… color gone out of the world…

04

All of a sudden it seemed everything was out of control. Here we were back on Earth, feeling more displaced than we’d felt in deep space. The Council refused to hear us out. The Zentraedi attacks continued unabated, we’d lost Roy Fokker and Ben Dixon, and thousands of innocents had been killed. I wasn’t alone in feeling this sense of hopelessness. But it was something we weren’t supposed to discuss, as though we had all agreed to some unspoken rule: By not talking about it we could make it go away… Day by day it was becoming more difficult for us to find any sense of comfort or acceptance in Macross, and here was Lynn-Kyle adding fuel to the fire, spearheading a peace movement which could only farther undermine our attempts to defeat the aliens. Not that there wasn’t ample justification for civil unrest. But we were one ship, one cause—no thanks to Russo’s Council—an independent nation at war with the Zentraedi! I had personal reasons for disliking [Kyle], but I now found reasons to distrust him as well. That he had turned Minmei against me, I accepted as given. But I couldn’t stand still and allow him to threaten the ship, that military/civilian integrity essential for our survival.

The Collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter

THE ENEMY ENERGY POURED INTO AND ABSORBED BY THE barrier cloud had chain-reacted; at the center of the ensuing explosion the SDF-1 was left relatively untouched, but on the ground countless thousands were dead. Within a twenty-five-mile radius from the fortress the Earth’s surface was scorched and flayed beyond recognition.

As a consequence, the Ontario Quadrant subcommand had refused to allow the SDF-1 civilians to disembark; those onboard who had heard the rumors early on ceased their premature celebrations and faced the heartbreak.