Doomsday: The Macross Saga Page 6

  Gloval was silent a moment; his throat felt parched, and he began to wonder whether the in-close cameras were picking up the slight tremor of his hands. But he dared not risk looking at himself in the monitors. Rather, he cleared the quaver in his voice and continued.

  “My friends and fellow shipmates, I have some very bad news to report to you. I received word just a while ago that this ship and all its passengers have been ordered to leave the Earth immediately.”

  Gloval heard the cameramen and grips gasp; he imagined a collective gasp rising up from the entire city, strong enough to register on the air supply systems in engineering.

  Now for the most difficult stretch …

  “If we do not evacuate Earth, we’ve been warned that we risk attack by elements of our own Defense Forces. I know that you must find this unthinkable, but it is most unfortunately true. You cannot have failed to notice that for the past few days we have been taking on a wide assortment of supplies and provisions. I know it is of minor consolation, but I anticipate that we have enough in stores to undertake the journey ahead. And just where is that? You must be asking yourselves. Well, I will tell you: That journey will be to victory!”

  Without an audience, Gloval had no idea how it went over, so he risked a quick look at Lisa, who flashed a smile and thumbs up. But were the civilians buying it? Did they still have confidence in his ability to lead them to victory?

  Those lights seemed even hotter now; he felt dizzy from strain but pressed on.

  “I desperately need all of your cooperation in this moment of terrible responsibility. We must all work for the day when Earth will reaccept us. Until then, we will survive as best we can … I give you my most humble apologies …”

  No, this can’t be happening! he shouted to himself.

  But it was: He was sobbing, still on camera and sobbing.

  And suddenly Minmei was beside him, her hand on his shoulder. She picked up the mike from the podium and began to speak, the cameras tracking mercifully away from Gloval to close on her.

  “Listen, everyone, the captain really needs our support right now. Look, I don’t understand politics—after what Captain Gloval has told us, I’m not sure I want to—but I do know that the only way we’ll survive this is to pull together.

  “We’ve been on this ship for a long time, and I don’t know about you, but I think of the SDF-1 as my home now. Don’t forget, we have almost everything here that we could ever have on Earth—our own city and all the things that go along with it. We’ve all been through quite a bit, but look at how strong we’ve become because of it. I have more friends here than I ever did on Earth. You’ve been like a big family to me.

  “Someday we’ll return to our real home—we’ll never give up hope. But for now, I’m proud to be a citizen of Macross City and this ship!

  “No matter where we go in space or how long it takes, our hearts will always be tied to the Earth. So to help all of us express our feelings at this moment, I’d like to perform a song for you and dedicate it to the Earth we love so dearly …”

  And Minmei actually broke into song; white dress swirling, blue eyes flashing, she broke into song. And more than half of Macross joined her. She had touched something. Her words had given voice to some unarticulated feeling the residents of Macross shared. Throughout the city, people shook hands and began to view themselves as a new nation, a new experiment in human social evolution. It was true that many of them had family out there on Earth, but hadn’t most of them come to Macross Island in the first place to escape most of what passed for world events? Did anyone really want to be governed by such a heartless group of puppet masters as the United Earth Defense Council?

  So they celebrated a bittersweet victory. They shelved their dreams for the last time, and they took a long look around their city, as if for the first time. And many of them crowded to the ports and lights in the hull as the fortress lifted off, Earth already a memory, the unknown ahead.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  They [the Zentraedi troops] reacted like adolescents released from the behavioral constraints of their guardians. Suddenly there were worlds of pleasure and pure potential awaiting them—worlds that they’d been denied access to but that were now theirs for the asking, if not the taking … One doesn’t have to look far into the history of our own race to find examples of the same impulses at work. The so-called counterculture of late-1960s America comes immediately to mind, especially with regard to the central place given music and pleasure, and arising as it did from a decidedly antiwar movement.

  Zeitgeist, Alien Psychology

  “Talk about your ‘charms to soothe the savage beast’ [sic] … She had enough talent—enough magic—to bowl over an entire empire! So why not call it as it was?—a Minmei cult!”

  Remarks attributed to Vance Hasslewood, Lynn-Minmei’s agent

  The million vessels of the Imperial Fleet formed up on Commander Breetai’s flagship, positioning themselves by rank in the staging area—a multirowed column of Zentraedi firepower that stretched for thousands of miles into Luna’s dark-side space.

  In what was left of the command post bowl, Breetai stood tall and proud, his dwarfish adviser by his side, equally confident for the first time in months. The three returned agents were being regenerated in the sizing chamber, and here was Commander Azonia’s troubled face in the projecbeam field. Breetai had already informed her of his reinstatement. Exedore moved to the communicator to check on regeneration status while Azonia offered her reply.

  “So I hear,” she began. “You’ve assembled quite a fleet to deal with one small Robotech ship.”

  Breetai laughed at her sarcasm, gleaming faceplate riding the wrinkles of his grin. “You noticed … that ‘small Robotech ship,’ as you call it, has caused quite a bit of trouble. Even you, Commander, were beaten and humiliated.”

  “My defeat was humiliating only in that Khyron was responsible for it.”

  “A good commander keeps his troops in line,” Breetai started to say. But Exedore interrupted him deferentially.

  “Uh, sir, the sizing chamber … Our agents are ready to deliver their report.”

  Breetai regarded him briefly, then turned back to Azonia’s projecbeam image. “I’ll give you your assignment later,” he said dismissively.

  “But wait, I haven’t given you my report yet! Miriya Parino has—”

  “That will be all,” he told her, arms folded across his chest. “More pressing matters require my attention.”

  “Breetai—” she yelled as the image faded.

  “Ah, well done, my lord!” Exedore congratulated him. He then motioned to the corridor. “I believe they’re waiting for us.”

  “This report may turn the tide in our favor,” Breetai said as they left the command post.

  Breetai had no reason to doubt that this would be the case. He had no inkling then of the bizarre reversals that awaited him not only from his own agents but from another whose micronized presence onboard the SDF-1 was to come as a complete surprise.

  Rico, Konda, and Bron, clothed once more in the red uniforms of their rank, were brought to Breetai’s personal conference chamber, a sparsely furnished circular room dominated by an enormous exterior bay, currently filled with a view of the Earth and its cratered moon. Central to it was a round table surrounded with comfortable high-backed lounging chairs. The piled artifacts the agents had brought back with them made for a most curious centerpiece.

  Breetai reached out and pulled an item loose from the jumble. He regarded it quizzically, its three-legged form misleadingly heavy in his open hand.

  “The Micronians call that a ‘piano,’ m’lord,” Rico explained.

  “‘Piano,’” Breetai repeated. “What function does it serve?”

  Rico instructed him to press down on the keyboard of small white teeth. Breetai did so, displeased and strangely disturbed with the noise it emitted. He placed the thing out of reach on the table. Exedore studied it while Breetai hast
ily examined several other objects.

  “Is it alive? Some sort of Protoculture-animated Robotech device?” Exedore wondered aloud.

  “No,” Rico continued. “It makes music. Music is when different sounds are put together for entertainment. It’s really quite interesting when you get used to it. We came to enjoy it very—”

  “Explain ‘entertainment,’” Breetai demanded.

  Rico thought for a moment. “Uhh … diversion, m’lord. This, for example.” He selected a small, monitorlike device from the pile and held it up for Breetai’s scrutiny. “These seem to provide electronic images in much the same fashion as our own vid-scanners. But several of these can be found in each Micronian quarters for the purpose of observing and listening to ‘entertainment.’”

  Exedore made a thoughtful sound. “Undoubtedly the means by which they familiarize themselves with battle plans and such. Continue,” he told Rico.

  But all three agents started to talk at once, excitedly, eager to report their findings. A little too eager; Exedore began to worry.

  “One at a time!” Breetai said, silencing them. “Don’t force me to repeat the threats of our last debriefing.”

  Rico stood up. “What we brought back represents only a small part of the Micronian society and its customs,” he calmly began. “You see, they live a much different life than we do—”

  “They’re proficient at making repairs within their ship,” Konda interrupted, on his feet now and gesturing nonstop. “Indeed, they rebuilt an entire population center onboard using only salvaged materials. They adapt quickly to unfamiliar environments—”

  “And,” Bron blurted out, unable to contain his enthusiasm, “there are many Micronians besides soldiers onboard the ship. In fact, they join together many times during the day and move about freely—”

  “Males and females are together!” Rico shouted.

  Breetai and Exedore, who had been trying to follow these rapid deliveries like spectators at a high-speed tennis match, suddenly turned to each other in near panic.

  “Males and females together,” Rico was repeating to utterances of affirmation from the others.

  “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t seem to be as bad as we thought,” Konda started.

  “We forced ourselves to adapt to the presence of females all around us and were unable to discover any negative side effects,” Bron finished.

  Already Breetai had heard more than enough, but it went on like this for several more hours before he silenced them again, as confused as he was nauseated by their reports. If the results of the penetration operation had demonstrated anything, it was that further contact with the Micronians could not be permitted. It was obvious that his three agents had been brainwashed by some Micronian secret weapon, and to make matters worse, Exedore was now suggesting that he be allowed to investigate Micronian society firsthand!

  Dismissed, the three agents later regrouped in secret at Konda’s insistence.

  “I kept some Micronian artifacts in my pocket,” Konda was confessing to his comrades now. “Did you show them everything you had?”

  “No, I held out,” Bron admitted. Ditto for Rico.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got,” Konda said, pulling things from the deep pockets of his red jacket.

  Six hands began piling souvenirs on the table, a veritable dollhouse garage-sale assortment of miniatures: a double-burner stove, a small refrigerator, a circular end table, several video monitors, a chest of drawers, a space heater, a commode, a/v discs, CD players, a teddy bear, a set of golf clubs, a guitar.

  Konda said, “I’d rather have these than the cruiser commands we were promised.”

  “I brought along two of Minmei’s voice reproductions,” said Rico, Minmei’s first CD edged between his thumb and forefinger.

  Bron leaned in to take a look. “How about trading me one of those for something, eh?”

  “What piece do you plan to trade?” said Rico, a profiteer’s glint in his one good eye.

  “I’ve got a Minmei doll …”

  “Deal!” Rico answered.

  Bron squinted at the CD photo of a veiled Minmei.

  “You know, the other guys would sure be impressed if they could see this stuff.”

  Konda was nodding his head. “Yeah, we could get away with showing just a select few, don’t you think?”

  Within an hour there were eleven soldiers gathered around the table in what had become the agents’ clubhouse. Word had spread quickly through the flagship. There wasn’t a soldier aboard who hadn’t expressed some interest in hearing about the peculiarities of Micronian life, and now that there were, well, artifacts—actual objects to handle, look at, and listen to—Rico, Bron, and Konda couldn’t have kept them away if they tried. Of the eleven uniformed troops, three were already in dereliction of duty.

  The agents passed the artifacts around, pleased to be at center stage to be sure but sincere in their desire to share their experience and adventures aboard the Robotech ship with their comrades. Candies were sampled, objects examined, nuances of Micronian culture explained. But it was soon obvious which artifact among the lot was the hottest property.

  “‘To be in love,’” sang the doll as it took tiny steps along the tabletop, electronically synthesized voice full of pleasant vibrato, arms in motion, black hair buns like mouse ears.

  The soldiers were disturbed, then astounded, but ultimately captivated.

  “It looks like a Micronian, but what are those noises?”

  One of them, a massive, mop-topped, sanguine-faced brute betraying an uncharacteristic concern, squatted down, crossed eyes level with the tabletop, when the doll tipped over and ceased its song.

  “Uh, did I hurt it?”

  Konda set the doll back on its feet. “No, dummy. You can’t hurt it. It’s called a Minmei doll, and that ‘noise’ is called singing.”

  “You call that a ‘Minmei’?” someone said. “It’s incredible—I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “Amazing,” said another.

  “We should let some of the others hear this.”

  “Quiet! I can’t hear the Minmei when you’re talking.”

  For the remainder of the Zentraedi day, the doll repeated its two-song repertoire over and over again. More and more soldiers stopped by the clubhouse; rap codes and secret handshakes were exchanged, and Minmei’s name was being whispered like some password throughout the ships of the Imperial Fleet.

  * * *

  While the “Minmei” continued to gather a secret following among the troops of Breetai’s armada, the inspiration for that doll was attending a party at the plush Hotel Centinel, Macross City’s best, only a stone’s throw from the new skyway overpass. The dimensional fortress had left Earth, and while most of the city’s residents were making the painfully difficult readjustment to life in space, Macross’s who’s-who were drowning their sorrows in tabletop fountains of recently acquired sparkling spring water and vintage champagne. But this was no sour-grapes affair; it was an all-out bash held in celebration of the premiere of SDF Pictures’ first release, Little White Dragon, starring Lynn-Minmei and Lynn-Kyle.

  The film’s financial backers were there, some of the crew, engineers from EVE, the mayor and his crowd, selected extras, and assorted hangers-on. Kyle, too, a little surly tonight but looking dashing in a lavender suit, crimson shirt, and bow tie. But the female lead was conspicuously absent from the indoor merriment, the tables laden with gourmet foodstuffs, the wine and spirits. She had absented herself to the balcony for a breather; show biz was getting to her.

  There was a down side to it, she decided. The real thrill was in the performing, the real reward in the applause. But these parties weren’t fun at all; they were business, a place for the sycophants and profiteers to gather. This was where they performed, and money was their applause.

  Minmei wasn’t feeling jaded; it was too soon for that. But she couldn’t help but question some of the new directions she was taking, the new direc
tions Macross seemed to be taking. She thought back to the early days, the communal spirit that had rebuilt the city, the family ties that had developed, the sense of equality that had reigned. But things were changing all of a sudden, not only physically—what with skyway ramps, exclusive hotels, and gourmet foods—but spiritually. It seemed as though more than a few people had merely given lip service to the idea of SDF-1 “citizenry”; now that existence aboard the fortress was an open-ended reality, those same hypocrites were seeking to claim for themselves the best this place had to offer. A new class system was beginning to form itself, and the last place Minmei wanted to find herself was among a reborn aristocracy. It was so important to stay in touch with one’s past, to remember the people who helped you find your place—

  “Hey, doll, what’s going on?”

  Minmei turned from the view to face the sender of that slurred intrusion. It was Vance Hasslewood, her business manager, at least two drinks past his limit.

  “You’re the star of this party,” he said, toasting her with the drink he carried. “You should be inside having fun. What’s the problem?”

  “Looks to me like you’ve been celebrating enough for both of us.” She didn’t bother to conceal her disapproval, but Vance was too caught up in party momentum to catch it. He loosened his tie coyly, eyes closed behind the aviator specs.

  “Well, I’ll admit that I’m enjoying myself a bit … but I’ve got one heck of a reason. After the movie premieres you’ll be a star. We’re talking major talent, big, big bucks. You’ll need two more hands just to haul the money home.”

  He couldn’t have been happier.

  “I’m already a star, Vance,” Minmei reminded him. “What else can you offer me?”

  Vance laughed and put his arm around her. “Hey, it’s payday, kid. You want something, I’ll get it for you.”

  “I need a front-row seat for the premiere; it’s for someone I want to invite.”