Metal Fire Read online

  Metal Fire

  By Jack McKinney 1987

  For Reba West, Jonathan Alexander, Tony Oliver, and the dozen others whose voices brought these characters to life

  CHAPTER ONE

  EXEDORE: So, Admiral, there is little doubt: [Zentraedi and Human] genetic makeup points directly at a common point of origin.

  ADMIRAL GLOVAL: Incredible.

  EXEDORE: Isn't it. Furthermore, while examining the data we noticed many common traits, including a penchant on the part of both races to indulge in warfare...Yes, both races seem to enjoy making war.

  From Exedore's intel reports to the SDF-2 High Command

  Once before, an alien fortress had crashed on Earth...

  Its arrival had put an end to almost ten years of global civil war; and its resurrection had ushered in armageddon. That fortress's blackened, irradiated remains lay buried under a mountain of earth, heaped upon it by the very men and women who had rebuilt the ship on what would have been its island grave. But unbeknownst to those who mourned its loss, the soul of that great ship had survived the body and inhabited it still-an entity living in the shadows of the technology it animated, waiting to be freed by its natural keepers, and until then haunting the world chosen for its sorry exile...

  This new fortress, this most recent gift from heaven's more sinister side, had announced its arrival, not with tidal and tectonic upheavals, but with open warfare and devastation-death's bloodstained calling cards. Nor was this fortress derelict and uncontrolled in its fateful fall but driven, brought down to Earth by the unwilling minor players in its dark drama...

  "ATAC Fifteen to air group!" Dana Sterling yelled into her mike over the din of battle. "Hit 'em again with everything you have! Try to keep their heads down! They're throwing everything but old shoes at us down here!"

  Less than twenty-four hours ago her team, the 15th squad, Alpha

  Tactical Armored Corps, had felled this giant, not with sling and shot, but with a coordinated strike launched at the fortress's Achilles' heel-the core reactor governing the ship's bio-gravitic network. It had dropped parabolically from geosynchronous orbit, crashlanding in the rugged hills several kilometers distant from Monument City.

  Hardly a coincidental impact point, Dana said to herself as she bracketed the fortress in the sights of the Hovertank's rifle/cannon.

  The 15th, in Battloid mode, was moving across a battle zone that was like some geyser field of orange explosions and high-flung dirt and rock-a little like a cross between a moonscape and the inside of Vesuvius on a busy day.

  Up above, the TASC fighters, the Black Lions among them, roared in for another pass. The glassy green teardrop-cannon of the fortress didn't seem as effective in atmosphere, and so far there had been no sign of the snowflake-shields. But the enemy's hull, rearing above the assaulting Battloids, still seemed able to soak up all the punishment they could deal it and stand unaltered.

  An elongated hexagon, angular and relatively flat, the alien fortress measured over five miles in length, half that in width. Its thickly plated hull was the same lackluster gray of the Zentraedi ships used in the First Robotech War; but in contrast to those organic leviathan dreadnaughts, the fortress boasted a topography to rival that of a cityscape. Along the long axis of its dorsal surface was a mile-long raised portion of superstructure that resembled the peaked roofs of many twentieth-century houses. Forward was a concentrically coiled conelike projection Louie Nichols had christened "a Robotech teat'"; aft were massive Reflex thruster ports; and elsewhere, weapons stations, deep crevices, huge louvered panels, ziggurats, onions domes, towers like two-tined forks, stairways and bridges, armored docking bays, and the articulated muzzles of the ship's countless segmented "insect leg" cannons.

  Below the sawtooth ridge the pilots of the fortress had chosen as their crash site was Monument City, and several miles distant across two slightly

  higher ridges, the remains of New Macross and the three Human-made mounds that marked the final resting place of the super dimensional fortresses.

  Dana wondered if the SDF-1 had something to do with this latest warfare. If these invaders were indeed the Robotech Masters (and not some other band of XT galactic marauders), had they come to avenge the Zentraedi in some way? Or worse still-as many were asking-was Earth fighting a new war with micronized Zentraedi?

  Child of a Human father and a Zentraedi mother-the only known child of such a marriage-Dana had good reason to disprove this latter hypothesis.

  That some of the invaders were humanoid was a fact only recently accepted by the High Command. Scarcely a month ago Dana had been face-to-face with a pilot of one of the invaders' bipedal mecha-the so-called Bioroids. Bowie Grant had been even closer, but Dana was the one who had yet to get over the encounter. All at once the war had personalized itself; it was no longer machine against machine, Hovertank against Bioroid.

  Not that that mattered in the least to the hardened leaders of the UEG. Since the end of the First Robotech War, Human civilization had been on a downhill slide; and if it hadn't come to Humans facing aliens, it probably would have been Humans against Humans.

  Dana heard a sonic roar through the Hovertank's external pickups and looked up into a sky full of new generation Alpha fighters, snub-nosed descendants of the Veritechs.

  The place was dense with smoke and flying fragments from missile bursts, and the missile's retwisting tracks. As Dana watched, one pair of VTs finished a pass only to have two alien assault ships lift into the air and go up after them. Dana yelled a warning over the Forward Air Control net, then switched from the FAC frequency to her own tactical net because the real showdown had begun; two blue Bioroids had popped up from behind boulders near the fortress.

  The blues opened fire and the ATACs returned it with interest; the range was medium-long, but energy bolts and annihilation discs skewed

  and splashed furiously, searching for targets. At Dana's request, a Tactical Air Force fighter-bomber flight came in to drop a few dozen tons of conventional ordnance while the TASCs got set up for their next run.

  Abruptly, a green-blue light shone from the fortress, and a half second later it lay under a hemisphere of spindriftlike stuff, a dome of radiant cobweb, and all incoming beams and solids were splashing harmlessly from it.

  But the enemy could fire through their own shield, and did, knocking down two of the retreating bombers and two approaching VTs with cannonfire. Whatever the damage to the bio-gravitic system was, it plainly hadn't robbed the fortress of all its stupendous power.

  Dana's hand went out for the mode selector lever. She attuned her thoughts to the mecha and threw the lever to G, reconfiguring from Battloid to Gladiator. The Hovertank was now a squat, two-legged SPG (self-propelled gun), with a single cannon stretching out in front of it.

  Nearby, in the scant cover provided by hillside granite outcroppings and dislodged boulders, the rest of the 15th-Louie Nichols, Bowie Grant, Sean Phillips, and Sergeant Angelo Dante among others-similarly reconfigured, was unleashing salvos against the stationary fortress.

  "Man, these guys are tough as nails!" Dana heard Sean say over the net. "They aren't budging an inch!"

  And they aren't likely to, Dana knew. We're fighting for our home; they're fighting for their ship and their only hope of survival.

  "At this rate the fighting could go on forever," Angelo said. "Somebody better think of something quick." And everyone knew he wasn't talking about sergeants, lieutenants, or anybody else who might be accused of working for a living; the brass better realize it was making a mistake, or come evening they would need at least one new Hovertank squad.

  Then Angelo picked up on a blue that had charged from behind a rock and was headed straight for Bowie's Diddy-Wa-Diddy. The attitude and posture of Bow
ie's mecha suggested that it was distracted, unfocused.

  Damn kid, woolgathering! "Look out, Bowie!"

  But then Sean appeared in Battloid mode, firing with the rifle/cannon, the blue stumbling as it broke up in the blazing beams, then going down.

  "Wake up and stay on your toes, Bowie," Angelo growled. "That's the third time today ya fouled up."

  "Sorry," Bowie returned. "Thanks, Sarge."

  Dana was helping Louie Nichols and another trooper try to drive back blues who were crawling forward from cover to cover on their bellies, the first time the Bioroids had ever been seen to do such a thing.

  "These guys just won't take no for an answer," Dana grated, raking her fire back and forth at them.

  Remote cameras positioned along the battle perimeter brought the action home to headquarters. An intermittent beeping sound (like nonsense Morse) and horizontal noise bars disrupted the video transmission. Still, the picture was clear: the Tactical Armored units were taking a beating.

  Colonel Rochelle vented his frustration in a slow exhale of smoke, and stubbed out his cigarette in the already crowded ashtray. There were three other staff officers with him at the long table, at the head of which sat Major General Rolf Emerson.

  "The enemy is showing no sign of surrender," Rochelle said after a moment. "And the Fifteenth is tiring fast."

  "Hit them harder," Colonel Rudolph suggested. "We've got the air wing commander standing by. A surgical strike-nuclear, if we have to."

  Rochelle wondered how the man had ever reached his current rank. "I won't even address that suggestion. We have no clear-cut understanding of that ship's energy shield. And what if the cards don't fall our way? Earth would be finished."

  Rudolph blinked nervously behind his thick glasses. "I don't see that the threat would be any greater than the attacks already launched against Monument."

  Butler, the staff officer seated opposite Rudolph spoke to that. "This isn't The War of the Worlds, Colonel-at least not yet. We don't even know

  what they want from us."

  "Do I have to remind you gentlemen about the attack on Macross Island?" Rudolph's voice took on a harder edge. "Twenty years ago isn't exactly ancient history, is it? If we're going to wait for an explanation, we might as well surrender right now."

  Rochelle was nodding his head and lighting up another cigarette. "I'm against escalation at this point," he said, smoke and breath drawn in.

  Rolf Emerson, gloved hands folded in front of him on the table, sat silently, taking in his staff's assessments and opinions but saying very little. If it were left up to him to decide, he would attempt to open up a dialogue with the unseen invaders. True, the aliens had struck the first blow, but it had been the Earth Forces who had been goading them into continued strikes ever since. Unfortunately, though, he was not the one chosen to decide things; he had to count on Commander Leonard for that...And may heaven help us, he thought.

  "We just can't let them sit there!" Rudolph was insisting.

  Emerson cleared his voice, loud enough to cut through the separate conversations that were in progress, and the table fell silent. The audio monitors brought the noise of battle to them once again; in concert, permaplas windowpanes rattled to the sounds of distant explosions.

  "This battle requires more than just hardware and manpower, gentlemen...We'll give them back the ground we've taken because it's of no use to us right now. We'll withdraw our forces temporarily, until we have a workable plan."

  The 15th acknowledged the orders to pull back and ceased fire. Other units were reporting heavy casualties, but their team had been fortunate: seven dead, three wounded-counts that would have been judged insignificant twenty years ago, when Earth's population was more than just a handful of hardened survivors.

  Emerson dismissed his staff, returned to his office, and requested to meet with the supreme commander. But Leonard surprised him by telling

  him to stay put, and five minutes later burst through the door like an angry bull.

  "There's got to be some way to crack open that ship!" Leonard railed. "I will not accept defeat! I will not accept the status quo!"

  Emerson wondered if Leonard would have accepted the status quo if he had sweated out the morning in the seat of a Hovertank, or a Veritech.

  The supreme commander was every bit Emerson's opposite in appearance as well as temperament. He was a massive man, tall, thick-necked, and barrel-chested, with a huge, hairless head, and heavy jowls that concealed what had once been strong, angular features, Prussian features, perhaps. His standard uniform consisted of white britches, black leather boots, and a brown longcoat fringed at the shoulders. But central to this ensemble was an enormous brass belt buckle, which seemed to symbolize the man's foursquare materialistic solidity.

  Emerson, on the other hand, had a handsome face with a strong jaw, thick eyebrows, long and well drawn like gulls' wings, and dark, sensitive eyes, more close-set than they should have been, somewhat diminishing an otherwise intelligent aspect.

  Leonard commenced pacing the room, his arms folded across his chest, while Emerson remained seated at his desk. Behind him was a wallscreen covered with schematic displays of troop deployment.

  "Perhaps Rudolph's plan," Leonard mused. "I strongly oppose it, Comman-"

  "You're too cautious, Emerson," Leonard interrupted. "Too cautious for your own good."

  "We had no choice, Commander. Our losses-"

  "Don't talk to me of losses, man! We can't let these aliens run roughshod over us! I propose we adopt Rudolph's strategy. A surgical strike is our only recourse."

  Emerson thought about objecting, but Leonard had swung around and slammed his hands flat on the table, silencing him almost before he began.

  "I will not tolerate any delays!" the commander warned him, bulldog

  jowls shaking. "If Rudolph's plan doesn't meet with your approval, then come up with a better one!"

  Emerson stifled a retort and averted his eyes. For an instant, the commander's shaved head inches from his own, he understood why Leonard was known to some as Little Dolza.

  "Certainly, Commander," he said obediently. "I understand." What Emerson understood was that Chairman Moran and the rest of the UEG council were beginning to question Leonard's fitness to command, and Leonard was feeling the screws turn.

  Leonard's cold gaze remained in place. "Good," he said, certain he had made himself clear. "Because I want an end to all this madness and I'm holding you responsible...After all," he added, turning and walking away, "you're supposed to be the miracle man."

  The 15th had a clear view of the jagged ridgeline and downed fortress from their twelfth-story quarters in the barracks compound. Between the compound and twin peaks that dominated the view, the land was lifeless and incurably rugged, cratered from the countless Zentraedi death bolts rained upon it almost twenty years before.

  The barracks' ready-room was posh by any current standards: spacious, well-lit, equipped with features more befitting a recreation room, including video games and a bar. Most of the squad was done in, already in the sack or on their way, save for Dana Sterling, too wired for sleep, Angelo Dante, who had little use for it on any occasion, and Sean Phillips, who was more than accustomed to long hours.

  The sergeant couldn't tear himself away from the view and seemed itching to get back into battle.

  "We should still be out there fighting-am I right or am I right?" Angelo pronounced, directing his words to Sean only because he was seated nearby. "We'll be fighting this war when our pensions come due unless we defeat those monsters with one big shot; the whistle blows and everybody goes."

  At twenty-six, the sergeant was the oldest member of the 15th, also the

  tallest, loudest, and deadliest-as sergeants are wont to be. He had met his match for impulsiveness in Dana, and recklessness in Sean, but the final results had yet to be tallied.

  Sean, chin resting on his hand, had his back turned to the windows and to Angie. Long-haired would-be Casanova of t
he 15th and of nearly every other outfit in the barracks compound, he fancied conquests of a softer sort. But at the moment he was too exhausted for campaigns of any class.

  "The brass'll figure out what to do, Angie," he told the sergeant tiredly, still regarding himself as a lieutenant no matter what the brass thought of him. "Haven't you heard? They know everything. Personally, I'm tired."

  Angelo stopped pacing, looking around to make sure Bowie wasn't there. "By the way, what's with Bowie?"

  This seemed to bring Sean around some, but Angelo declined to follow his comment up with an explanation.

  "Why? He got a problem? You should have said something during the debriefing."

  The sergeant put his hands on his hips. "He's been screwing up. That's not a problem in combat; it's a major malfunction."

  Some would have expected the presence of the fortress to have cast a pall over the city, but that was not the case. In fact, in scarcely a week's time the often silent ship (except when stirred up by the armies of the Southern Cross) had become an accepted feature of the landscape, and something of an object of fascination. Had the area of the crash site not been cordoned off, it's likely that half of Monument would have streamed up into the hills in hopes of catching a glimpse of the thing. As it was, business went on as usual. But historians and commentators were quick to offer explanations, pointing to the behavior of the populace of besieged cities of the past, Beirut of the last century, and countless others during the Global Civil War at the century's end.

  Even Dana Sterling, and Nova Satori, the cool but alluring lieutenant with the Global Military Police, were not immune to the fortress's ominous

  enchantment. Even though they had both seen the deadlier side of its nature revealed.

  Just now they shared a table in one of Monument's most popular cafes-a checkerboard-patterned tile floor, round tables of oak, and chairs of wrought iron-with a view of the fortress that surpassed the barracks' overlook.