Robotech Page 2

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  It seems an imprecise thought or ridiculously metaphysical question to some, I know, but I cannot help but wonder. If the Robotech Masters rid themselves of their emotions, where did those emotions go?

  Would there not be some conservation-of-energy law that would keep such emotions from disappearing completely but would see them transmuted into something else? Were they all simply converted to the Masters’ vast longing for power, hidden knowledge, Protoculture, immortality?

  And is that the by-product of stepped-up intellect? For if so, the Universe has played us a dreadful joke.

  Zeitgeist, Insights: Alien Psychology and the Second Robotech War

  COLD LUNA SWUNG IN ITS AGES-OLD ORBIT. IT HAD WITNESSED cataclysms in epochs long gone; it had watched the seemingly impossible changes that had taken place on Earth through the long eons of their companionship.

  In recent times the moon had been a major landmark in the war between Zentraedi and Human, and looked down upon the devastation of Earth, fifteen years ago.

  It was into the moon’s cold lee that Captain Henry Gloval attempted to spacefold the SDF-1 at the outset of the Robotech War. There was a grievous miscalculation (or the intercession of a higher, Protoculture-ordained plan, depending on whether or not one listened to the eccentric Dr. Emil Lang), and the battle fortress leapt between dimensions to end up stranded out near Pluto.

  But Gloval’s plan, using Luna as cover and sanctuary, was still a sound one. And today, others were proving its worth.

  Six stupendous ships, five miles from end to end through their long axes, materialized soundlessly and serenely in the dawn. They were as strong and destructive and Robotechnologically well-equipped as the Masters could make them.

  Still, they were wary. Earth had already provided a charnel house for mighty fleets; the Robotech Masters had no more Zentraedi lives to spend, and had no intention of risking their own.

  The voice of one of the Robotech Masters echoed through the command ship. He was one of the triumvirate that commanded the expedition, that ruled the ships, the Clonemasters, soldier-androids, Scientist Triads, and the rest.

  He had sprung from the humanlike inhabitants of the planet Tirol, creatures who were virtually Human in plasm and appearance. But the Robotech Master’s words came tonelessly, expressionlessly, and without sound; he was in contact with the Protoculture, and so spoke with mind alone.

  He sent his thoughts into the communications bond that linked his mind with those of the transformed overlords of his race, beings like him but even more elevated in their powers and intellect—the three Elders.

  The disembodied words floated in the chilly metallic passageways. We are in place, Elders—behind the moon of our objective, the third planet. All monitoring and surveillance systems are fully operational. You will begin receiving our primary transignal immediately.

  The technical apparatus of the ships pulsed and flowed with light, and the power of Protoculture. Some parts suggested blood vessels or the maze of a highway system, where pure radiance of shifting colors traveled; others resembled upside-down pagodas, suspended in the air, made of blazing materials like nothing that had ever appeared in the Solar System before.

  The enigmatic energies opened a way across the lightyears, to a sphere like a blue sapphire fifteen feet across. It threw forth brilliance, the glare splashing off the ax-keen, hawk-nosed faces of the three Elders who sat, enthroned in a circle, staring up at it. From far across the galaxy the Elders reached out with their minds to survey the Robotech Masters’ situation.

  The Elders were of a type, fey and gaunt, dressed in regal robes but looking more like executioners. All three had bald or shaven pates, their straight, fine hair falling below their shoulders. Under their sharp cheekbones were scarlike creases of skin, suggestive of tribal marks, that emphasized the severity of those laser-eyed faces.

  They studied the images and data sent to them by their servants, the Robotech Masters.

  One of them, Nimuul, whose blue hair was stirred by the air currents, mindspoke. His disembodied voice was thick as syrup. The first transignal is of the area where the highest readings of Protoactivity have been recorded. Preliminary inspection indicates that it is unguarded.

  That pleased the other Elders, but none of them evinced any emotion; they were above that, purged of it long ago.

  Hepsis, of the silver locks, cheek resting on his thin, long-fingered fist, forearm so slender that it appeared atrophied, watched the transignal images balefully. Hmm. You mean those mounds of soil and rock? His voice was little different from Nimuul’s.

  Yes.

  The three were looking at the transignal scene of the massive artificial buttes that stood in the center of what had once been the rebuilt Macross City. The transignal was showing them the final resting places of the SDF-1, the SDF-2, and the flagship of Khyron the Backstabber.

  All three ships had been destroyed in those few minutes of Khyron’s last, suicidal attack; all had been quickly buried and the city covered over and abandoned due to the intense radiation, the last place ever to bear the name Macross.

  Nimuul explained, Zor’s ship is probably—Wait!

  But he didn’t have to draw their attention to it; Hepsis and Fallagar, the third Elder, could see it for themselves. For the first time in a very long time, the Elders of the Robotech Master race felt a misgiving that chilled even their polar nerves.

  Three night-black figures wavered in the enormous transignal globe, defying the best efforts of the Masters’ flagship’s equipment to bring them into focus. The entities on the screen looked like tall, sinister wraiths, caped and cloaked, high collars shadowing their faces—all dark save for the light that beamed from their slitted eyes.

  Three, of course—as all things of the Protoculture were triad.

  The area is guarded by a form of inorganic sentry, Nimuul observed. Or it could be an Invid trap of some kind.

  Fallagar, his hair an ice-blue somewhere between his comrades’ shades, gave mental voice to their misgivings. Or it might be something else, he pointed out. Something to do with the thrice-damned Zor.

  The images of the wraiths faded, then came back a bit against a background of static as the transignal systemry struggled to maintain it. It seemed that the ghostly figures knew they were under observation—were toying with the Masters. The lamp-bright eyes seemed to be staring straight at the Elders.

  Then the image was gone, and nothing the Scientist Triad or Clonemasters could do would bring the Protoculture specters back into view. White combers of light washed through the blue globe of the transignal imager again, showing nothing of use.

  By a commonality of mind, the Elders did not mention—refused to recognize—this resistance to their will and their instrumentality. The guardian wraiths would be discussed and dealt with at the appropriate time.

  What do you wish to view next, Elders? asked a deferential Clonemaster.

  Nimuul was suddenly even more imperious, eager to shake off the daunting effects of the long-distance encounter with the wraiths. Show us the life forms that protected this planet from our Zentraedi warriors and now hold sway over the Protoculture Matrix.

  Yes, Elder, the Clonemaster answered meekly.

  Hepsis told the other two, The Humans who obliterated our Zentraedi are no longer present, according to my surveillance readings, my Brothers. But their fellows seem ready to protect their planet with a similar degree of cunning and skill.

  The transignal was showing them quick images of the Southern Cross forces: Cosmic Unit orbital forts and Civil Defense mecha, ATAC fighting machines, and the rest.

  One intercepted TV transmission was a slow pan past the members of the 15th squad, monitored from a Southern Cross public information broadcast. The Elders saw Humans with a hard-trained, competent look to them, and something else … something to which the Elders hadn’t given thought in a long, long time.

  It was youth. The camera showed them f
ace after face—the smirking impertinence of Corporal Louie Nichols; the massive strength of Sergeant Angelo Dante; the flamboyance of their leader, the swashbuckling ladies’ man, Lieutenant Sean Phillips.

  The Elders looked at their enemies, and felt a certain misgiving even more unsettling than that of the wraiths’ image.

  The three rulers of the Robotech Masters, privy to many of the secrets of Protoculture, were long-lived—would be Eternal, if their plans came to fruition. And as a result of that, they feared death, feared it more than anything. The fear was controlled, suppressed, but it was greater than any child’s fear of his worst nightmares, more than any dread that any mortal harbored.

  But the young faces in the camera pan didn’t show that fear, not as the Elders knew it. The young understand death far better than their elders will usually acknowledge, especially young people in the military who know their number could come up any time, any day. The faces of the 15th, though, told that its members were willing to accept that risk—that they had found values that made it worthwhile.

  That was disturbing to the Elders. They had clones and others who would certainly die for them, but none who would do so of their own volition; such a concept had long since been ground mercilessly from their race.

  There was once more that unspoken avoidance of unpleasant topics among the Elders. Nimuul tried to sound indifferent. It is hard for me to believe that these life forms could offer any resistance to us. They are so young and lack combat experience.

  He and his fellows were purposely ignoring an unpleasant part of the equation. If, in war, you’re not willing to die for your cause but your enemy is willing to die for his, a terrible weight has been set on one side of the scales.

  The Elders shuddered, each within himself, revealing nothing to one another. I’ve seen enough of this, Fallagar said, gathering his cloak like a falcon preparing to take wing, letting impatience show.

  What images would you view now, Elders? asked the unseen Clonemaster tentatively.

  Fallagar’s silent voice resounded through the viewing chamber. I think we have enough information on these life forms, so transmit whatever else you have on line. No matter how interesting these abstractions may be, the time has come for us to deal with the problems at hand!

  The globe swirled with cinnamon-red, came back to blue, and showed the headquarters of the Army of the Southern Cross.

  It was a soaring white megacomplex in the midst of Monument City. The countryside was marked with the corroded, crumpled miles-long remains of Zentraedi battlecruisers. They were rammed bow-first into the terrain, remnants of the last, long-ago battle.

  The headquarters’ central tower cluster had been built to suggest the white gonfalons, or ensigns, of a holy crusade hanging from high crosspieces. The towers were crowned with crenels and merlons, like a medieval battlement.

  It all looked as if some army of giants had been marshaled. The architecture was meant to do just that—announce to the planet and the world the ideals and esprit of the Army of the Southern Cross.

  The name “Southern Cross” was a heritage of those first days after the terrible Zentraedi holocaust that had all but eliminated Human life on Earth. Less damage had been done in the southern hemisphere than in the northern; many refugees and survivors were relocated there. A cohesive fighting force was quickly organized, its member city-states all lying within view of the namesake constellation.

  Yes; we are through studying this planet for now, Fallagar declared. Now establish contact with our Robotech Masters. It was time for decisions to be passed down, from Elder to Robotech Master, and so on down the line at last to the Bioroid pilots who would once more carry death and fire to Earth in their war mecha.

  Signals sprang among the six ships’ communications spars, which looked for all the world like huge, segmented insect legs.

  What you have shown us has pleased us, Fallagar said with no hint of pleasure in his tone. But now we must communicate with the inhabitants of this planet directly.

  While the Robotech Masters were being alerted to hear their overlords’ word, blue-haired Nimuul said to his fellows, I would make a point: these invisible entities who guard the Protoculture masses within the mounds on Earth may require special and unprecedented—

  Another voice came as the globe showed the gathered Robotech Masters. Elders! We hear and serve you, and acknowledge your leadership and wisdom!

  Younger and at an earlier stage of their Protoculture-generated personal evolution, the Robotech Masters looked in every way like slightly less aged versions of the Elders. The Masters had the gleaming pates, the chevronlike skin seams under each cheekbone, the fine, straight hair that reached far down their backs and down their cheeks in long, wide sideburns. Their mental voices had been given that eerie vibrato by direct exposure to Protoculture. They wore monkish robes with sash belts, their collars in the shape of a blooming Invid Flower of Life.

  Like virtually everyone in their culture, the Robotech Masters were a triumvirate. The slight differentiations among members of a triad, even differences of gender, served only to emphasize their oneness.

  The Masters stood each upon a small platform, in a circle around their control monitor, an apparatus resembling a mottled technological mushroom five feet across, floating some five yards above the deck. It was the Protoculture cap, source of their power.

  Nimuul held his perpetual scowl. Your transignal images were sufficiently informative, and you have reported that your war mecha are prepared. But now we must know if you are ready for us to join you.

  Twenty years earlier, the race that called itself the Robotech Masters had sensed the enormous discharge of Protoculture energy in the last battle on Earth. But their instrumentality was depleted because the rebellious genius Zor had sent the last Protoculture Matrix away in the SDF-1, and the Zentraedi’s destruction and the endless war against the Invid had made great demands on the remaining reservoirs.

  The Masters lacked the Protoculture power to send their armada to the target world by the almost instantaneous shortcut of hyperspace-fold generation. Therefore, the Elders had dispatched the six enormous mother ships, with their complements of assault craft and Bioroids, on a twenty-year voyage by more conventional superluminal drive. Now that the journey was over, the Elders meant to rejoin the expedition by means of a small spacefold transference—of themselves.

  But Shaizan, who most often spoke for the Robotech Masters, answered, his blue-gray hair flowing with the movements of his head. No, Elders! We are very close to regaining the lost Protoculture masses and recovering secrets that Zor attempted to take to the grave with him. But we must not make the same mistakes the Zentraedi made!

  We must know more about their strengths and weaknesses, added Dag, another Master, gazing up at the Elders’ image.

  Nimuul’s frown deepened. You must not fail. The Robotech Masters all bowed deeply to their own Masters, the Elders.

  When the Elders broke contact, the Robotech Masters looked in turn to the Clonemasters and the other triumvirates gathered below the hovering Protoculture cap. Shaizan, gathering his blue robes about him, his collar hanging like an orange flower around his neck, snapped, “Now, do you understand the plan, and do you anticipate any problems, group leader?

  The Clonemasters and the rest looked in every way like Human males and females, fair-skinned for the most part. They tended toward an aesthete slimness, with long hair and form-fitting clothing that might have come from the early renaissance, draped with short capelets and cloaks. Among their triumvirates there was little differentiation in appearance or clothing.

  The Clonemaster group leader replied in a voice somewhere between that of a Human and that of a Robotech Master. “Master, every Bioroid pilot is briefed and prepared to execute the first phase exactly as you have decreed The only problem is in keeping our operators functional; our Protoculture supplies are quite minimal.”

  Shaizan frowned at the group leader as the Elders had frowned upon
the Robotech Masters, with that same angry ruthlessness. “Then double the numbers of Bioroid fighting mecha assigned to the attack. You may draw additional Protoculture from the ships’ engines only if it proves absolutely indispensable to success of the mission.”

  Dag, more lantern-jawed than his triumvirate-siblings, the most intellectual of them, added, “If possible, I would like some Human captives for experimental purposes.”

  Bowkaz, the most military of the three Robotech Masters, contradicted, as was his prerogative in tactical matters. “No,” he told Dag. To the group leader, he added, “You will proceed, but only as per our original orders. Understood?”

  The group leader inclined his head respectfully. “As you will.”

  Shaizan nodded, inspecting the Clonemasters and the other triumvirates coldly. “Then we look forward to your success and trust that you will not fail.”

  The group leader said emotionlessly. “We understand the consequences of failure, Master.”

  As did everyone on the expedition, the Robotech Masters’ last desperate throw of the dice. The group leader met their scowls. The Bioroid war machines were waiting to bring destruction to the unsuspecting Humans.

  “We will not fail you,” he vowed.

  When the clone triumvirates had hurried away to execute the probing attack, the Robotech Masters summoned up an image of the maze of systemry in their flagship. The living Protoculture instrumentality suggested internal organs, vascular tubes, clear protoplasmic tracts strobing with the ebb and flow of energy.

  Dag bespoke his fellows. “If we could capture a Human, our mindprobe would reveal whether they’ve discovered any hint of the existence of the Protoculture Matrix.”

  “Not necessarily,” Bowkaz replied.

  They all looked at the shrunken mass of Protoculture left to them. The secret of making a Matrix had died with Zor, and there was no other source of Protoculture in the known universe. This Matrix was the Robotech Masters’ last chance for survival.