Before the Invid Storm Read online

  Mars base had had its ups and downs over the decades. Founded just after the turn of the century, Sara Base—as it was then known—was already in ruins by 2010, when the RDF engaged the forces of Khyron's Botoru Battalion on the Martian surface. Rebuilt in 2016, during the readying of the SDF-3, the base was abandoned in 2022, only to be resurrected two years later, deriving most of its funding from a conglomerate of Asian concerns. It has been suggested that its closing, in 2030, was the direct result of the Shimada Family's advanced knowledge of the imminent arrival of the Masters; for, shortly thereafter, the upper management of each of those Asian concerns relocated to subterranean Tokyo.

  From the introduction to Shi Ling's

  Sometimes Even a Yakuza Needs a Place to Hide

  The Emerson property had become an armed camp. Western larch and pine from the higher elevations had provided lumber for six watchtowers, all of which were linked by a tall palisade crowned with concertina wire. Behind the stake fence stood three Hovertanks, which had been found abandoned in Monument City. Named Livewire I, Bad News II, and Trojan Horse II after the mecha the 15th had had to leave aboard the Masters' flagship, the squat, reconfigurable tanks, with their thruster pods and down-sloping prows, had belonged to the 13th ATAC and were running on empty. Louie, Sean, and Angelo were in charge of the mecha, while the towers were manned by the more militant triumvirates of the clones from Tirol. Though in command of the camp, Dana and Bowie had refused to so much as don armor, much less arm themselves.

  It had been when Dana had proposed the cabin as an alternative to Monument City that the original band had splintered. Marie Crystal and Dennis Brown had been eager to learn what had become of the Black Lions, and Nova, of course, had felt compelled to report to GMP headquarters—

  whether it was standing or not. So when Nova later showed up at the cabin, seated at the controls of a GMP personnel carrier, the first thing Dana asked her was, "Are you out for a joyride, Lieutenant, or is that APC your new office?"

  "Just release the gate and let us inside, Dana," Nova said from the opened driver's-side door. "We're here on official business."

  Dana made no move to unbolt the reinforced gate. "Official? On whose authority?"

  "On the authority of the provisional government."

  Every Human within earshot on the secure side of the perimeter laughed.

  Nova and Dana had a long history of such clashes, dating back to Nova's first visit to the cabin some three years earlier, as a mouthpiece for Nigel Aldershot and his coterie of RDF dissidents. She had come then to enlist Rolf's support for a planned coup against the Southern Cross. But something about Nova had roused Dana's competitive instincts then, and it had been that way between them ever since.

  Throughout the war, they had had run-ins over procedures and protocols; but their rivalry hadn't peaked until Zor Prime entered the scene. After being debriefed by the GMP, the seemingly amnesiac alien defector had been attached to the 15th ATAC, where his actions could be monitored. And both Dana and Nova had fallen in love with him.

  "Lieutenant Sterling, you are in violation of UEG decrees by harboring prisoners of war," Alan Fredericks announced as he climbed from the APC. "The clones you captured aboard the flagship have to be debriefed—either by the GMP or Southern Cross intelligence. You decide."

  Dana directed a calming gesture to the nervous Tiroleans in the nearest tower, then swung to face Fredericks. "War's over, Major—or hadn't you heard? These people are asking for political asylum. Which means that they'll only deal with a recognized member of the 'provisional government.'" Nova stepped out of the vehicle and approached the gate. "General

  Vincinz isn't going to be as patient with you as we are, Dana."

  "General Vincinz? Last I remember, he was a colonel—and not a very competent one. And we're not about to kowtow to some default commander." Dana grimaced. "As if Leonard wasn't bad enough."

  "Be reasonable, Sterling," Fredericks said. "We agree with you about Vincinz—and Leonard—but these clones—"

  "These 'clones' saved our asses, Fredericks." Dana glanced at Nova. "Tell him, Nova. You were there."

  Fredericks rolled his eyes. "That's like saying that the SDF-1 saved us."

  Dana's expression hardened. "Tell him about Zor Prime, Nova. His last words were that no harm would come to Earth. And he kept his promise. He destroyed the flagship." She lowered her voice. "He couldn't have known that his actions would wind up spreading the spores."

  Nova was quiet for a moment; then she walked to the gate. "Remember how some people were crediting Breetai with helping to end the war against Dolza? It's the same thing, Dana: Maybe the Tiroleans did help, but it was too little, too late. And now we need to talk to them about the Invid. Surely, as a commanding officer, you can see the importance of that."

  Dana folded her arms across her chest. Behind her, Bowie, Angelo, Sean, and Louie were advancing. "I've resigned my command."

  "You've deserted, you mean," Fredericks snapped.

  "No, I've resigned—from the killing." She looked at her squadron mates. "That goes for all of us."

  Nova's heart-shaped face reddened. "Then you should surrender your Hovertanks. The UEG is appropriating all mecha and supplies of Protoculture. Any attempt to seize or withhold Protoculture will be treated as treason."

  Angelo Dante planted his hands on his hips. "You can't seriously believe that people are going to honor that edict. With the Southern Cross being held accountable for the war? Oh, sure, if the SDF-3 suddenly appears out of spacefold, then maybe you'll see ex-soldiers surrendering their mecha. But until then, you don't have a prayer. Not here, and definitely not in the Southlands. While you're standing here arguing with us, people are stashing

  Protoculture wherever they can."

  Nova considered it, then smiled ruefully. "Then why all this—the fence, the watchtowers, the Hovertanks—if you've resigned from killing?"

  "Killing and defending are two different things," Sean Phillips answered. Tall, with the rugged good looks of a swashbuckler, he had once lived and breathed for Nova, but there was little evidence of that in the stare he showed her now.

  Fredericks snorted disdainfully. "And what about the Invid?"

  Dana thought about the hallucinatory vision she had had aboard the flagship. Beware the spores, the sprite had told her. Beware the Invid . . . but she wasn't about to start rambling as she had at the Macross mounds. "When the Invid come, a lot of people are going to fight and die for nothing," she said. "There's something inevitable about the outcome of the next war. I don't think we could win it, even if we had the SDF-3 at our backs."

  Nova was shaking her head, her long mane of black hair flowing. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. You're giving up. You're ready to surrender the planet to the Invid."

  As well as they thought they knew her, even the members of the 15th were stunned by Dana's response.

  "Yeah. In a sense, I guess I am surrendering the planet. But only because my destiny requires that I take a different path." She cut her eyes to Louie. "My detiny. No one else's."

  Fredericks gazed at her questioningly. "It almost sounds like you know some way out of this mess."

  Dana started to speak, but bit back the worth. "I, I can't explain." "You're going to head for the hills, is that it?"

  Dana compressed her lips and remained silent.

  "Well, personally, I don't care where you end up," Nova said at last. "But before you go, there are two missions that only you can execute—and neither bears on the fate of the Tiroleans. So at least hear us out, Dana. You owe us that much."

  Dana disagreed, but opted not to debate the point. "Start talking," she told Fredericks.

  The GMP major stepped forward. "General Vincinz has dispatched lieutenants Marie Crystal and Dennis Brown to Space Station Liberty, with orders that the station should attempt to reestablish contact with the factory satellite."

  The tankers of the 15th exchanged baffled looks. The moonlet-size facility had dep
arted Earthspace three years earlier, under the stewardship of several hundred Micronized—downsized—Zentraedi. It had not been their aim to escape the Masters, but to serve as a decoy. The destruction of the factory was to have alerted Earth that the Masters had arrived in the Solar system. The Masters, however, had either overlooked the factory or chosen to ignore it.

  "Liberty will advise the Zentraedi that the Masters have been defeated," Fredericks was saying, "and that we want them to return to Earth."

  "But, why?" Dana asked in disbelief. "Not to defend us against the Invid—"

  "Yes—in a way," Nova said. "We want their help in destroying the Sensor Nebula."

  Fredericks glanced at Nova, then Dana. "The Flowers of Life are taking root faster than we can eradicate them. The damned things have a will of their own. It's as if the spores are deliberately seeking out the most arable areas of the world—the Northlands plains, Venezuela, northern Argentina, central Europe . . . Research and Development is trying to develop a sensor so that we can go after them with Logans and such, but so far no one's had much success."

  Nova exhaled with purpose. "The Flowers seem to be some type of tripartite, pollen-producing angiosperm, but they disperse spores, which should classify them as gametophytes. And yet, even what we're calling spores turn out to be more like seeds, which resemble minuscule parasols."

  Dana quirked her brows together. "But how's the factory supposed to destroy the Sensor Nebula, when it isn't even armed?"

  "By transporting one of our crippled destroyers in its belly," Fredericks explained.

  Dana gave it some thought. "It won't work."

  Nova and Fredericks spoke at the same time. "Major Carpenter seems to think it will work."

  Dana gave her head a mournful shake. Barely emerged from spacefold, the REF commander had erred tactically by engaging the Masters' fleet and losing his ship. "You're going to trust what he says? The man's space happy."

  "You trusted him enough to believe what he had to say about the Expeditionary mission and the Sentinels," Nova pointed out.

  "That has nothing to do with it."

  Fredericks was eyeing Dana with suspicion. "Do you have specific data relating to the Sensor Nebula that we haven't seen?"

  Dana shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that the plan won't work.

  What I mean is, that it won't matter. The Invid will come." "Not if their beacon is destroyed."

  Fredericks' tone of voice told Dana that the matter had already been decided. "All right, so you're recalling the factory satellite. How does that concern me?"

  Nova and Fredericks traded brief glances. "We want you to serve as our emissary," Nova said. "We want you to persuade the Zentraedi to help us."

  "You're practically one of them," Fredericks added. "So it stands to reason . . ."

  Dana laughed—not because there was anything funny about the proposal, but because Nova had asked the same of Rolf on the day she and Dana had met—even though Rolf wasn't one of them. General Nigel Aldershot had hoped that Rolf could entice the remaining Zentraedi to side with the Robotech Defense Force in a coup against the Southern Cross.

  "Assuming for the moment that you can convince the Zentraedi to return, I'll accept the assignment," she told Nova, "in the spirit of old times. Now, what's this other business I'm uniquely suited for?"

  "It involves Lieutenant Terry Weston," Fredericks said, taking delight in Dana's surprised reaction. "It's come to our attention that Weston enjoys considerable cachet among the yakuza organization that purchased Lazlo Zand's research facility in Tokyo. We have information that Shimada's researchers have found a way to interface with machines, without the need for Protoculture."

  "Your past relationship with Weston is no secret," Nova interjected. "We've recalled him from ALUCE to serve as your introduction to the Shimada Family and the researchers they employ." She turned to Louie Nichols, who immediately pushed his goggles up onto his forehead. "In the interest of opening a scientific dialogue with Tokyo, we want Corporal Nichols to accompany you."

  Though battered and bruised by the Masters, Space Station Liberty still hung at its Trojan Lagrange point, close to the moon. For more than ten years Liberty had combined the functions of outpost fortress, communications nerve center, and way station along the routes to ALUCE and Mars Base—now closed. Its complex communication apparatus— apparatus that wouldn't function as well downside—was Earth's only method of maintaining even intermittent contact with the factory satellite.

  Marie Crystal and Dennis Brown had been on board for close to a week now, awaiting orders from Southern Cross command to drop back down the well or to continue on to ALUCE, which was where they both wanted to be. But it was becoming obvious that Vincinz was no more capable of commanding the Army of the Southern Cross than Senator Barth Constanza was the "provisional" Earth government. Where Crystal and Brown initially had been given to believe that Liberty would constitute nothing more than a brief stopover, orders received since then made it appear that they were being permanently reassigned to the station, while at the same time they were being considered for the Sensor Nebula mission, should the Zentraedi agree to it.

  Frustrated by the slew of contradictory transmissions from Southern

  Cross temporary headquarters in Denver, the two lieutenants had whiled away the week effecting repairs on their Logans, jogging on the track retrofitted into Liberty's "handle"—for the station resembled a colossal version of a child's rattle—and trying hard to maintain objectivity in an atmosphere steeped in paranoia.

  Sitting duck that it was, Liberty was your posting only if you'd scored brilliantly on no less than twenty psychological tests and you had been evaluated by a dozen psychologists, neurometric analysts, and behaviorists. Still, the recent war had taken a toll on everyone aboard, and, what with the Invid lurking in Earth's imminent future, there wasn't a watch officer or communications tech who hadn't been placed on a regimen of mood elevators or mild tranquilizers. All it took now was a hunk of war debris turning up as paint on some radar screen and the station went to full alert. The turrets that concealed the gleaming snouts of Liberty's twin- and quad- barreled batteries were never closed, and the threat-assessment boards and signal-warfare countermeasures computers were serviced twice a day, lest some glitch allow the Invid to arrive in the Solar system undetected.

  Despite her best efforts, however, Marie was growing frazzled. When she regarded herself in the mirror, her normally pale skin looked positively ashen; her oblique blue eyes—which people liked to call exotic—were bloodshot; and her black hair appeared more intractable than unruly. ALUCE notwithstanding, she would have preferred ridding local space of the Masters' depleted hover platforms and assault ships over pacing Liberty's narrow, duct-lined corridors waiting for orders that might never come.

  Dennis didn't have to say as much in order for Marie to recognize that he felt the same. Until three weeks earlier, they'd only known each other as fellow unit commanders in the Black Lions. But then came the hastily planned mission to rescue Rolf Emerson from the crippled Tristar, and their subsequent capture by the Robotech Masters. Marie could recall every detail of those events: the Tristar's ruined bridge; Emerson's blood, puddled on the command chair; the metallic smell of the cramped, alloy-

  armored ejection module; the maw of the Masters' flagship; the eerie tonality of their voices . . .

  Will you make your species see reason and surrender? one of the monkish-looking Masters had asked them. We cannot allow your stubbornness or the fate of one tiny world to endanger the establishment of our Robotech universe. Your small-mindedness merely illustrates how primitive you are . . .

  She couldn't help but wonder whether the Invid would soon be posing the same questions and uttering the same condemnations; and whether some new Rolf Emerson would arise to inform them that Humankind would never surrender their world, and that what didn't kill us only made us stronger.

  The Masters had communicated with the 15th ATAC in the hopes o
f orchestrating a hostage exchange: their two prize defectors—Zor Prime and Musica—for the lives of Emerson, Marie, and Dennis. But no honest accord had been reached. No sooner had the Hovertanks of the 15th been brought aboard the flagship than all hell had broken loose, and Emerson had been killed. It was his death, perhaps more than any other single event, that had forged the bond between Marie and Dennis, and as well between Marie and Dana Sterling, with whom she had been at odds nearly from the day Dana had graduated from the Academy and had been appointed acting CO of the 15th ATAC.

  Dana came to mind now, as Marie was staring over the bony shoulder of a communications tech named Rawley, who had called to screen several real-time views of Earth's North- and Southlands. Following the destruction of Macross City, Dana's father, Max Sterling, had helped rid the Southlands of malcontent Zentraedi. But several hundred acculturated Zentraedi had allied themselves with the REF and shipped for Tirol aboard the SDF-3. Still others had exiled themselves on the factory satellite. Marie asked herself how she might feel if she were Dana, knowing that her people, so ill-treated under the reign of Chairman Moran and Supreme Commander Anatole Leonard, had now been asked to lend support in the fight against the Invid.

  "I've seen turn-of-the-century recon-sat opticals," Rawley was saying, "and I swear you'd think you were looking at a different world." A sharp- featured man of about twenty-five, he had long, narrow hands and an enormous Adam's apple, which bobbed when he spoke. "Just here," he continued, indicating the bulbous northeast coast of the Southlands, "all this used to be dense forest, fronted by sandy beaches. Now it's wasteland— as devastated as anything in Africa or Asia."

  "The Rain of Death," Marie said, referring to the assault by the Zentraedi Grand Fleet in 2012, the catastrophic conclusion to the Robotech War.

  "The Zentraedi Rain of Death," Rawley amended nastily. "And now we're inviting them back." He shook his head disapprovingly and called new views to screen.

  While newborn Marie had lost her family to the Rain, she had never really known them, and so had no feelings one way or another about the Zentraedi—an attitude not uncommon among the so-called orphaned generation. "We need their help," she told Rawley.