Doomsday Page 16

  She sensed that she might have done something wrong, but she had only been trying to show him how she felt about him. If flattery wasn't going to work, she had hopes that the restaurant she was leading them to would do it: beautiful view, great food, soft music...It was probably more suited to quiet dinners than early lunches, but it had been difficult enough to block out even a few midmorning hours from her busy schedule. And there were only so many excuses she could come up with to convince Kyle that she needed private time.

  Chez Mann was an anachronism, a sumptuously decorated theater

  restaurant with window walls, crystal chandeliers, and tuxedoed waiters, which, for all its pretensions, ended up looking like an airport cafeteria. An arrogant maitre d' showed them not to the secluded table Minmei requested but to a deserted-looking one along the window wall, while a lifeless pianist noodled his way soullessly through an old standard.

  "Do you like it?" Minmei said when they were seated. "My producer has a friend who's part owner. Movie stars come in here all the time," she continued, pressing her point.

  Rick regarded her quizzically. Minmei seemed incapable of accepting the present state of the world. Movie stars: There weren't more than a handful of entertainers left on the entire planet, let alone in Monument City! In fact, if anything, the notion of entertainment was reverting back to much earlier forms of story telling and what amounted to religious drama and reenactments.

  "Who cares about movie stars?" Rick said harshly.

  Minmei smiled at him. "Well, I'm a movie star, and you like me." "I liked you before you were a star, Minmei."

  Her first reaction was to tell him: I've always been a star. Miffed, she said: "You mean you don't like me just because I happen to be famous?"

  "I like you," he reassured her, but she had already turned her attention to something else. Rick glanced down at his watch and thought again about Lisa. When he looked up, Minmei was sliding a present toward him.

  "Just my way of saying thank you, Rick."

  He didn't want to accept it. It wasn't, after all, like he'd done her some sort of favor. But she insisted, claiming that she had looked all over for something special. Finally, he shrugged and opened the wrapping; inside was a winter scarf of hand-woven alpaca wool, as rare as hen's teeth these days.

  He put it around his neck and thanked her. "I'll think of you whenever I wear it."

  "It looks good with that suit," she commented, hoping the nervousness she felt wasn't visible. It was so important to her that he understand how

  she felt.

  "Makes me feel like Errol Flynn," Rick joked, striking a pose. She laughed. "All you need is a sword."

  Minmei wanted to reach out and take his hand, but just then the waiter appeared with cocktails and set them on the table. The moment spoiled, she looked across to Rick and said: "Why do waiters always seem to serve people at precisely the wrong time?"

  The waiter, a long-haired would-be actor with a pencil-thin mustache who had had a bad morning, returned: "And why is it that movie stars always seem to find something to complain about?"

  Rick stifled a laugh, happy to see Minmei taken to task. But it hardly fazed her. He joined her in a toast to "better times" and began to feel suddenly at ease. They began to talk about the old times-for the two of them, a period of scarcely four years. To Rick it felt like yesterday, but Minmei seemed to think those times a million years ago.

  "Some things time can't change," Rick said cryptically.

  She nodded. "I know. Sometimes I think my feelings haven't changed at all."

  It was an equally vague sort of response, and Rick, recalling Minmei's feelings, wasn't sure he wanted things to return to yesteryear. He decided to be straightforward-the way Lisa had been with him recently-just to see where it would lead.

  "I still think about you, Minmei," he began. "Sometimes at night, I-"

  There was some sort of commotion at the door; the maitre d' was shouting, insisting that the man who had shoved his way past him was required to wear a tie before entering. The long-haired man turned out to be Lynn-Kyle.

  Both Rick and Minmei had turned their attention to the scene; now they were staring at each other blankly. Minmei took Rick's hand, squeezing it, her eyes brimming with tears.

  "Please Rick, you've got to promise me: Whatever he does, whatever he says, you won't interfere."

  "But-" he started to protest. "Promise me!"

  Rick's lips became a thin line, and he nodded silently. In a moment Kyle was standing over Minmei.

  "I've been looking all over for you," he said, controlled but obviously angered. "You knew I scheduled a press conference. Come on, we're leaving."

  He made a move toward her, but she refused to budge.

  "Don't be obstinate, Minmei! Do you realize the strings I had to pull to get those reporters out here today?!"

  Rick held himself in check, the scarf still around his neck; Kyle hadn't bothered to acknowledge him. Rick guessed he was still sore about having had to be rescued. The dirt bag. Still, this was business, and maybe Kyle had a right to be angry. He decided to help Minmei out by offering to leave. But instead, she put him right in the middle of things.

  "We don't have to leave-I'm not going!"

  Now Kyle grabbed her by the wrist. "Oh yes you are!"

  "Get your hands off!" she retaliated. "You're hurting me, you bully!

  Who do you think you are, anyway?!"

  Surprisingly enough, Kyle backed off, and Rick offered silent thanks to the heavens, because if it had gone on another second, he would have been all over Kyle, promise or no promise, martial arts or no. The piano player had stopped his noodling, the restaurant patrons having found more accessible entertainment.

  Kyle grinned knowingly and turned to Rick. "This is how a professional acts...Attractive, isn't it?" He swung back to Minmei, raising his voice parentally. "That's enough of your whining! Why don't you try acting your age for once? People are waiting for you!"

  Minmei was standing at her place, her fists clenched. She grabbed her cocktail and downed the thing defiantly, shivering and trying to brave it out. Rick looked out the window.

  "I'm tipsy..." he heard her say. "I couldn't possibly talk to any reporters

  now."

  Kyle issued a low guttural growl, a dangerous signal that Minmei might have overplayed her part. With lightning speed he scooped up the water glass and threw it in her face.

  "That oughta sober you up."

  Rick was halfway out of his chair, his teeth bared, waiting for the next move. Minmei had begun to sob, and once again Kyle had her by the wrist.

  "Now, stop acting foolish and let's go."

  Kyle tugged, she followed; then she suddenly turned and shouted for Rick.

  "Kyle!" he screamed, expecting him to let go of her and come after him.

  Kyle, however, chose a subtler way to disarm him.

  "Don't you understand, Hunter?" he said, reasonably and in full possession of himself. "She's got too many things that have to be taken care of. It comes with the territory." When he saw Rick relax, he added: "Oh, and don't worry about lunch: We'll cover it-that's what expense accounts are for. Maybe you should just report back to your base, huh? Get back into your uniform or something. "

  Rick saw Minmei nod to him, sobbing but gesturing that he should do as Kyle said. Kyle tugged at her again, lecturing her about how he had given up everything, how she didn't care about her career anymore. Most of the patrons were bored by now; many had simply gotten up and left the restaurant.

  Rick avoided their stares and reached for his drink, fingering the new scarf. Some swashbuckler, he said to himself.

  It was almost noon, and the Seciele coffee shop was beginning to gear up for lunch, although the majority of its outdoor tables remained empty. The weather had taken a sudden turn, and most people were electing to take indoor seats. Lisa, however, was still at the table she had occupied since nine o'clock. She had already downed four cups of coffee and was sweating d
espite the sudden chill in the air. There had been no word from Rick, but

  she had decided to remain in case he tried to get a message through. Obviously he had been called in, but no one at the base knew anything about it or knew where he might be. If there had been an alert, she would also have been notified, but no such orders had been given. Still, Rick's being called in was the only possible explanation.

  The good mood she had enjoyed only hours before had long since abandoned her along with the morning's unnatural warmth. Were these quick turnabouts a sign of the times? she questioned-the mood swings, the reversals, the confusion? Only moments ago she had witnessed a small misunderstanding between a pedestrian and a motorist escalate into a violent argument. It made her wonder if Rick had been involved in an accident, perhaps run over!

  Anxiously, she checked the time and hurried to the vid-phone. There was no answer at Rick's quarters, so she toned in the base again, contemplating a fall leaf that had blown her way-the closest she might come to nature all day.

  "Communications. This is Lieutenant Mitchell."

  Lisa identified herself, but before she had an opportunity to inquire about a possible alert, Nikki Mitchell said: "Captain Hayes, I thought you were with Commander Hunter."

  Lisa instantly regretted phoning them. Her life had practically become an open book to the SDF-2 control room crew, Vanessa, Sammie, and the rest. It was one of those damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situations: When she was cool, calm, and collected, Lisa Hayes "the old sourpuss," no one bothered to interfere with her private life; but now that she had taken some of Claudia's advice and was speaking her mind, everyone was tracking her moves as if she was a regular entry in some sort of gossip column contest.

  "Aren't you supposed to be on a picnic?" Mitchell asked.

  In the background, Lisa could hear Kim say: "I bet that creep stood her up." Vanessa reinforced it: "See, I told you he wasn't interested in her."

  "Shut up!" Nikki yelled, and Lisa held the phone away from her ear.

  "You two sound like a couple of old hens!"

  "And what does that make you-the rooster?" Sammie countered.

  Lisa was furious. Not only was her private life being discussed behind her back, but it was being wagered upon and argued about!

  "Oh, never mind!" Lisa yelled, and hung up. "Busybodies," she muttered under her breath.

  Cut off by the Chez Mann bartender after countless drinks, Rick had drifted back to the right-hand-drive rented vehicle and started out for the airport. The scene that had taken place between Minmei and Kyle now seemed just that: an orchestrated act put on for the public, with a cameo by Rick Hunter, occasional hero. In the end Minmei had chosen to run along with Kyle, and that was all that really mattered: She hadn't changed, and Rick had been a fool to think she could. Presents, wistful walks down memory lane, postrescue embraces: it was all part of her repertoire. And now he had lost her for the umpteenth time and stood up Lisa to boot.

  Up ahead of him on the two-lane airport highway was a roadblock manned by a CD corporal wearing a white beret. The road was closed, Rick was informed.

  "Is there an alternate route to the airport?" he asked, leaning out the driver's window.

  "Airport's closed," said the corporal. "We've got Zentraedi trouble." "My plane's out there!" Rick shouted, not clearheaded enough to show

  his ID.

  The corporal's hand edged toward his sidearm. "I told you, buddy, the road's closed."

  Rick cursed him and stomped on the accelerator. The minivan shot forward, swerving around the barricade, while the sentry drew his weapon. In thinking about it later, Rick would ask himself why he had done this, wondering whether to blame Minmei or the alcohol. In the final analysis, however, he realized that he had done it for Lisa: He was going to have to tell her something!

  "Damn fool!" the sentry yelled, thinking twice about firing a warning shot and hurrying to his radio phone.

  A Battlepod ambled along the runway, destroying grounded Veritechs with blasts from its plastron cannon, while nearby a giant Zentraedi armed with an autocannon picked off fire and rescue vehicles that were tearing across the tarmac en route to crisis points.

  "These Micronians are no challenge at all!" he yelled in his own tongue, the lust for battle erasing all memories of his two peaceful years on Earth.

  A second giant in Botoru powered armor lifted a fighter from the field, pressed it over his head, and heaved it at a speeding transport truck several hundred feet away. The Veritech fell squarely on the vehicle and exploded, obliterating both.

  Veritechs appeared in the skies now, just as Rick was arriving in the minivan. Dodging gatling slugs, he made his way to the CD hangar, showed his ID, suited up, and commandeered an Excalibur. He had counted five giants-all armed with autocannons-a sixth in powered armor, and at least two Battlepods. Whether these were malcontents or members of Khyron's beaten band was immaterial: The CD unit was outpowered. And yet the base commander was giving him a lot of flack about clearance and warning him not to damage the mecha! Rick realized that Monument's recently gained autonomy accounted for this, but without a little help, there wasn't going to be much of a Monument left; so he humored the commander, shaking off the last of his alcoholic stupor.

  Meanwhile, a Battlepod was holing the passenger terminal with volleys of fire. His ally with the cannon had tired of firing on the private craft and now turned his attention to the terminal. Peering through a horizonal row of permaglass windows, he spied several Micronians huddled together behind the desks of a spacious office-the most laughable sight he had seen all day. It was too easy to blow them away as a group, so he first drove the muzzle of the autocannon through the plate glass to scatter everyone. Only then did he train the weapon on them, bolts of white energy flinging bodies

  to gruesome deaths.

  One of his less exacting comrades emptied his cannon against the building in an effort to collapse the entire wall.

  Rick stepped his mecha from the hangar in time to see a pod with its left foot posed above his small fanjet, preparing to stomp it out of existence. He got off a shot without thinking and managed to take the pod's leg off at the knee, sending the mecha backward and down on its back to the field. This captured the attention of the remaining Zentraedis, who swung around to find themselves face to face with two Excaliburs and a Battloid.

  "Zentraedi rebels!" Rick yelled through the external net. "Throw down your weapons at once or we will be forced to take immediate action!" He repeated it even as the soldiers and mecha were leveling their weapons against him.

  "Prove it!" said one of the giants, a purple faced, bluehaired clone with gorilla features. He gestured to his fellow warrior and opened fire, autocannon slugs raining ineffectively against the armored legs of Rick's Excalibur.

  "They're bluffing!" he shouted when his weapon had expended its charge.

  Rick smiled madly inside the cockpit. "Give them a demonstration," he ordered.

  Suddenly a drum-armed Spartan was looming into view on the other side of the airport terminal. Rick gave the word, and scores of missiles streaked heavenward from the mecha's launch tubes. The three Zentraedi giants tracked their course with frightened eyes and screamed as the missiles plunged homeward, exploding like strings of fireworks at the giants' feet. The three were blown from the strike zone, one flung to his death against a massive conduit, the others gasping for air as paralyzing nerve gas released from the missiles began to sweep over them.

  "Move in!" Rick said over the tac net.

  Reconfiguring to Guardian mode, the Battleloid went after the remaining Battlepod; but the Zentraedi mecha juked and sidestepped,

  facing off with Rick's Excalibur instead. Rick dropped his mecha to a crouch and tackled the pod, shearing off one of its legs as it passed overhead. Out of commission, the mecha hit the field with a ground-shaking crash, its severed leg bouncing along with it.

  The one giant who had survived the gas was easily dispatched by the second Excalib
ur, while the Veritech just as easily dropped the alien in powered armor.

  Rick ordered the civil defense units to collect the bodies, separate the living from the dead, and lock the former away for interrogation.

  "And radio the SDF-2 for me," Rick added as an afterthought. "Make sure you mention that I was here."

  With a little luck, Lisa would receive word of the uprising even before he made it back to New Macross.

  Lisa had switched over to cocktails, and by the time the robo-waiter cruised over to inform her that outdoor service was being discontinued, she had had so many Bloody Marys that she was seeing red. The waiting game had become some sort of crazed exercise in self-control. She had visions of Rick finding her skeletal remains here, her withered hand permanently affixed to the thermos or the picnic basket. The temperature had fallen a further fifteen degrees since noon, and the wind had picked up, gusting in autumn leaves that swirled around her feet. Once, a puppy had wandered by and she had fed him snacks from the wicker basket. She had been eyed by more than one Veritech jock and coffee shop poet. But now she was ready to throw in the towel. That Rick Hunter had died was the only excuse she was ready to accept.

  But no sooner did she hear Rick's voice than she went back on her word. He was running up the street toward her, dressed, oddly enough, in his one and only suit and wearing a long scarf around his neck. Hardly the picnic and hiking outfit she had expected, but she decided to at least give him a chance to explain.

  "Let's hear it, Rick," she said coolly from her chair.

  Rick was panting. "I didn't think you'd still be here...I checked your quarters first...You see, there was a Zentraedi uprising in Monument and-"