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  Then it was gone again. Johnson punched up the recording of the intercept and put it up on the huge main screen. “Sir, I had a visual but I lost it. Countermeasures maybe; I dunno. Playback on screen alpha.”

  Something was out there all right, something enormous and blockish and headed for Earth, something with more mass than anything Humans had ever put in the sky. Something whose power levels made all the indicators jump off the scales, and made all the watching Southern Cross higher-ups clench jaw muscles.

  “Wish we could see that thing better,” Colonel Green muttered. Whatever Johnson had picked up, it was artificial and fast-moving; the zaggies in the sensor image kept it from telling them much more.

  And it’s coming right our way, Emerson contemplated.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The importance and power of the Global Military Police—the GMP—was directly attributable to the near-feudal nature of Earthly society at that time. The GMP constituted the only truly worldwide law-enforcement organization, and was a check and balance on those who had at their disposal the tremendous power of Robotechnology. As a result, the GMP was an organization with its own war machinery, combat forces, and intelligence network.

  A career in the GMP was a possible road to swift personal advancement, but the recruit had to say farewell to all outside friendships; such things could no longer exist for him or her.

  S. J. Fischer, Legion of Light:

  A History of the Army of the Southern Cross

  “WHAT COULD THAT THING BE?” COLONEL GREEN burst out. Emerson was already way ahead of him, wondering what the hell might lie in the lee of the moon.

  “Accelerating,” Johnson said. A fine sweat had appeared on his brow. The display symbol for the intruder was marking its progress with integrals corning much more quickly. It was coming at Earth fast; it was nearly upon Liberty.

  Just then there was a tremendous surge through all the sensor/commo apparatus, after which many indicators went dead.

  “Playing for keeps,” Green observed.

  An op near Johnson turned to yell, “Sir, we’ve lost commo with Liberty: voice, visual, everything on the spectrum.”

  “Patch in whatever you have to, but keep that bogie in sight,” Rolf said in measured tones. He turned to Lieutenant Colonel Rochelle, his adjutant “Get everything you’ve got on red alert. Get all the ready-reactions set for possible XT warfare. Prime the Hovertanks especially, and the VTs. Gimme everything, right? Everything!”

  Oh, Dana, Bowie! God keep you …

  He swung to the intel major, whom he knew to be an internal security fink. “Use whatever code you have to, Jackie, and get me a UEG telequorum, right now.” She looked away from his gaze at once, unable to meet it. Then she licked her lips, resettled her glasses, picked up a handset. She cradled the phone to her, turning her back to the others there in the command center, and punched out a code.

  Green came up behind Emerson to whisper harshly, “If they’re the Masters, d’you really think we stand any chance against them?”

  “Don’t sweat it, Colonel.”

  “But sir, we don’t even know who they are or what they can do to—”

  Rolf Emerson whirled on him angrily, then suddenly quieted. He rapped the knuckle of one forefinger against Green’s ribbons, decorations from another war and another time. Emerson wore just about as many; they were two graying men listening to alarms, knowing it was the death knell of the everlasting peace they had fought and hoped for.

  “This planet’s ours, Ted.”

  “But, General, isn’t there—”

  “Earth is ours! Maybe it is the Masters, but who cares? This planet is ours! Now go saddle up everything we’ve got groundside, and draw up a rapid deployment op-plan, ’cause we’re gonna need one real bad.”

  Ten days went by, and Dana figured she had miscalculated her worth. Or else, possibly, was there to be no war? In any case, she mouldered in solitary confinement, against all expectation.

  Hard rations of protein cracker and water scarcely affected her; things had been worse, much worse, on any number of training maneuvers; stockade was a Cakewalk.

  Mostly, she caught up on sleep, and worried about what was happening to the 15th, and stared out the window from her bunk. In her dreams there was a strange procession of images, and twice the haunting cry of the phoenix.

  The door viewslit slid back; Dana recognized the eyes she saw there, and the limp blond hair around the face. Colonel Alan Fredericks said in a voice muffled by the door, “Accommodations to your liking, Ms. Sterling?”

  Dana curled a lip at him. “Sure, it’s home sweet home, sir.”

  Fredericks said, “I’m glad you’ve held up so well for ten days. Anything to say for yourself?”

  Dana indicated her smudged face and rank, filthy uniform. “A hot bath and a change of clothes would feel nice. And maybe a manicure and a facial.”

  Fredericks allowed himself a thin smile. “No, no—we don’t want you to be distracted from contemplation of your crimes, do we now?”

  Dana sprang to her feet, holding her hands out to him imploringly. “Please let me return to my squad! Sir, we might be at war anytime now; I’ve got to be with the Fifteenth!”

  “Stop your whining!” Fredericks roared at her. “If it were up to me, you would have been drummed out of the Army of the Southern Cross!”

  He sniggered. “Little Dana, daughter of the great heroes, Max and Miriya Sterling! It seems blood doesn’t always tell, does it?”

  Actually, Fredericks was of the opinion that breeding did tell, and was glad that this halfbreed had proved it. But he dared not say such a thing with guards nearby as witnesses.

  Dana fell to her knees, nearly in tears, facing the cold eyes in the door viewslit. “Sir, I’m begging you: give me a chance to square things, to prove myself. I’ll never disgrace my family name or break a reg again. I swear it—”

  “Stop sniveling!” Fredericks shouted.

  The truth was, there was pressure on him from higher up to release Dana. Some of it came from her regimental commander, who needed her, and some from the Judge Advocate General’s office; the JAG thought ten days was more than enough. General Emerson had said a few words on her behalf in the right ears, too.

  But there was yet another source of pressure, one that Fredericks hadn’t quite been able to track down. Evidence pointed toward its coming through civilian channels—from very high up indeed in the scientific and research power structure. One name he heard had him surprised and cautious: Dr. Lazlo Zand.

  Zand had been the disciple of Dr. Lang, the high priest of Robotechnology. When Lang went off with Rick Hunter, Dana’s parents, and the rest in the SDF-3, Zand remained behind. Now Zand’s activities and whereabouts were so shrouded in mystery as to defy even Frederick’s efforts at investigation.

  “Since you’re so repentant, perhaps I will see what I can do,” Fredericks told Dana coldly. The viewslit slid shut.

  Dana, back on her feet, thrust her fist high into the air. “Yahooo!”

  * * *

  It was less than an hour later when the door of her cell rolled open. Dana stepped into the corridor to find Colonel Fredericks giving her his best basilisk glare. He held a leather swagger stick that resembled a riding crop, of all things. Standing on the opposite side of the doorway was Nova Satori.

  Someone else was approaching, being escorted by two rifletoting guards. Fredericks had arranged the chance meeting to see what would happen.

  “Hey, Dana!”

  She whirled, and a sunny smile shone on her face. “Sean! What’re you doing in solitary? No, don’t tell me; you, ah, made a pass at a general’s wife?”

  Sean Phillips, erstwhile CO of the 15th, gave her one of his famous roguish grins. He was even more famous as a Don Juan than as a fighter, a tall, athletic twenty-three-year-old with a boyish haircut and long brown locks framing his face.

  Sean gave her a wink. “Naw. They decided I needed a little privacy,
I guess; you know how it is when you’re a celebrity. Besides, they’re springing me tomorrow.”

  Nova caught a subtle signal from Fredericks, and barked, “Shut up and keep moving, Phillips!” The look on her face let everyone know that she was immune to his charms; she had put Sean in his place the moment he tried his Romeo routine on her. And the second time and the third.

  Sean was shoved into the cell Dana had just vacated, and the door rolled shut. Nova told Dana, “Just screw up one more time, Lieutenant, and you won’t even know what hit you.”

  Dana choked back the retort that came to her lips. “Yes, ma’am.” She saluted the two MP officers, did a right face, and moved out.

  “I don’t trust either of them, Nova,” Fredericks said quietly, slapping his palm with the swagger stick. “Keep me updated on her activities, and on Phillips’s, too, once he’s freed.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Dana’s release came just as the UEG made public the news of the aliens’ appearance. It was a brief, tersely worded statement ending with the fact that the ship had taken up a geostationary orbit some twenty-three thousand miles out in space.

  Of course, the entire Southern Cross Army was going to red alert; that was why she had been released. Dana soon found herself in a jeep with Nova Satori and two guards, being hustled back to the 15th. Her regimental commander wanted every Hovertank manned; there was some word that Sean might get an early release, too.

  At a Southern Cross base, the silo blast doors were open and the Earth’s most powerful missiles were primed. Captain Komodo, battalion commander, surveyed his instrumentation. He was a broad, powerful-looking man of Nisei descent, with a chestful of medals.

  A fire-control tech looked up at him. “Sir, is there any word on who these aliens are?”

  Komodo frowned. “It’s obvious they’re the same ones who attacked Moon Base. But now we’re ready for them.” Komodo had lost a brother in that raid; he hungered for revenge.

  He spun to face a commo operator. “I told you to keep me informed! Well?”

  The op shrugged helplessly. “No further orders, sir; we’re still instructed to stand by.”

  “Fools!” muttered Komodo. “We have to strike now!” He reached down to flip up the red safety shields and expose a row of firing switches. Then Captain Komodo looked angrily into the sky, waiting.

  At Southern Cross Command Headquarters, Emerson was in the eye of the storm.

  “Sir, the alien’s moving into a lower orbit,” a tech reported.

  “General, why are we waiting?” Green demanded. “With all due respect, sir, you must give the order to attack. Immediately!”

  Emerson shook his head slowly, watching the displays. “It is imperative that we find out who they are and why they’re here. We cannot fire first.”

  Green gritted his teeth. His hope that Supreme Commander Leonard or some other top brass would overrule Emerson had not come to pass. “But they killed our people, sir!”

  Emerson turned to him. “I’m aware of that. But what proof do we have that Luna didn’t bring the attack on itself by firing first? Do you want to start a war that nobody wants?”

  Green swallowed his angry retort. He was old enough to remember the Zentraedis’ first appearance and their disastrous onslaught.

  So was Emerson; the general had seen enough war to dread starting one.

  At the missile base the commo op looked to Captain Komodo. “Sir, the enemy spacecraft is descending from orbit—thirteen thousand miles and descending rapidly.”

  Komodo stood with teeth clenched, jaw muscles jumping. “Are you sure your equipment’s working, Sparks? That there’s been no command to open fire?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  Komodo’s fists shook. If those cowards at headquarters would just work up the guts to give me the green light, I’d blow those aliens out of the sky!

  With the Earth an ocean-blue and cloud-white gem beneath it, the Robotech Masters’ ship suddenly launched three sand-red objects shaped like pint whiskey bottles. Their thrusters howled, and they dove for the planet below.

  “Captain, landing craft of some kind have left the mother ship and begun entry maneuvers.”

  Komodo looked over the fire-control tech’s shoulder. “Got ’em on radar yet?”

  “That’s affirm, sir.”

  Komodo clapped a hand to the man’s shoulder. “Good! I want A and B batteries to take out the mother ship first; it won’t be launching any more sneak attacks. Charlie and Delta batts will target the attack craft.”

  The tech was looking at him wide-eyed. “What’s wrong? I gave you a fire-mission!” Komodo shouted.

  “But sir! HQ gave specific orders that—”

  Komodo caught the hapless youngster up by his torso harness and flung him aside. “You idiot! You want to wait until they blow the whole planet away?” His fingers flew over the control console; in moments the ground trembled.

  The huge, gleaming pylons—Skylord missiles—rose up in fountains of flame and smoke, shaking the base and the surrounding countryside.

  The Robotech Masters proved themselves not to be infallible or invincible; though they vaporized two Skylords with charged particle beams, the other two got through, making brilliant flashes against the huge mother ship.

  On Earth, Emerson and the others in the command center looked at their screens in astonishment. “Confirmed Southern Cross missile launch, sir,” someone said. “Heavy damage thought to have been suffered by the enemy ship; sensors indicate they’re floating dead in space.”

  Emerson turned on his subordinates with white-hot anger. “Who launched those birds?” There was confusion among them and, Emerson knew, no time to waste placing blame.

  Now we’re committed. “Open fire! Hit ’em with everything we can throw. Inform Supreme Commander Leonard and tell Civil Defense to get on the stick!”

  “War,” said Commander Fredericks, savoring the word and the idea. “Just my luck to be stuck here guarding a bunch of under-aged eightballs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nova answered. She wasn’t quite as eager to kill or be killed as her superior, but knew that it would be wise to hide the fact.

  “Still, little Dana should see some action,” Fredericks frowned, slapping his desktop with his swagger stick. “Probably do her good, too.”

  He rose from his chair. “Well, let’s see what we can do to guarantee that, eh?”

  The Skylords were all away; Captain Komodo stared in fury as the screens showed him how, one after another, they were blown to harmless mist by the energy weapons of the descending enemy. Not surprisingly, the alien assault craft were homing in on the source of the missiles that had damaged their mother ship.

  “Fire!” Komodo bellowed, and rack after rack of APC-mounted Swordfish missiles boiled away into the air, leaving corkscrewing white trails. Tremendously powerful pulsed beams from the assault ships blasted them out of the sky in twos and threes, while the aliens closed in on the base.

  Komodo gulped and watched the bottle-shaped vessels come into visual range. He looked around him for a rifle or a rocket launcher; he had no intention of running and he had no intention of going down without a fight.

  High above, access ports opened and enemy mecha swarmed out. Led by a red Bioroid like a crimson vision of death, the Masters’ warriors dove their Hovercraft and sought targets, firing and firing.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Hwup! Tup! Thrup! Fo’!

  Alpha! Tact’l! Armored! Corps!

  For-git Jody! For-git Dotty!

  Ay-tacks OWNS yo’ student body!

  Cadence chant popular among ATAC drill instructors

  IN THE READY-ROOM OF THE 15TH SQUAD, ATAC, TROOPER WINSTON was sitting with chin on palm and gazing at his squadmates sourly. “Finally, the balloon goes up—and we’re stuck here!”

  Next to him, Coslow, arms folded on his chest, nodded. “Why’s it always our turn in the barrel?”

  Angelo Dante nodded. “Al
l this terrific talent being wasted just ’cause both of our officers happen to be doing bad time.”

  They weren’t even suited up in armor. Express orders from Higher Up said that no Hovertank outfit would be allowed into a combat situation without a commissioned officer—preferably an Academy-trained one—in command.

  Bowie, pacing, crossed to Angelo. “Why don’t they just let you take over, Sergeant?”

  Angelo sighed philosophically and shook his head. “I’d love it, kid, but there’s just no way, know what I mean?”

  Any Hovertanker knew the drills and could act independently on a combat mission—could even take over command if it came to that—but the Hovertanks had to be able to do more. The knowhow to integrate with other types of mecha, with TASC units like the Black Lions and so forth; to interpret complex tactical scenarios; to understand the various commo computer languages; to see, in short, the Hovertank’s mission in terms of an entire Southern Cross op-plan, and to work to the maximum benefit of that overall plan was something that took years of study—study Angelo hadn’t received.

  Angelo raised his shoulders, dropped them. “This isn’t one of Dana’s drills. There’s gonna be lives on the line this time, Bowie.”

  Not to mention one of the first fully operational Hovertank outfits in the Southern Cross, a huge investment of time and treasure and technology. The UEG’s newest combat arm must serve well and protect the people who had paid its price tag.

  Louie Nichols was polishing his sidearm again. Word had it that he had figured out an unauthorized modification that would triple the power of its pulses; people edged away from him when he played with the handgun, not wanting to be at ground zero in case Louie overlooked some potential glitch.

  “No offense, Angelo,” Louie said, “but I’m a little too busy to die right now.”

  “Anyhow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Bowie,” Angelo finished.