The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 7

  “What about the pilots of those tanks?” Lisa asked. “Their action was calculated.”

  Reinhardt made his lips a thin line. “Leonard promises it won’t happen again. His forces will not enter a region unless asked to lend support.”

  “His forces,” Aldershot said. “He sounds more like a field marshal than a governor. What’s he telling us here, that he’s forming his own army? From what I hear, he fueled the riots by denying food to the Zentraedi.”

  Rick came to Aldershot’s support. “Captain Sterling told the Brasília newspapers that the VT pilots fired without provocation. And I’m more inclined to believe him than I am Leonard or any ‘official explanation.’ ”

  “You raise an interesting point, Admiral,” General Maistroff said from the other side of the horseshoe. “By going to the press with their account before reporting to us, the Sterlings—inadvertently, perhaps—have made things worse. No matter what their motive, their actions cast a shadow on their loyalties to the RDF.”

  Rick reddened with anger. “Are you saying we could have found some way to sugarcoat what happened in Brasília? Eleven hundred Zentraedi died, but a lot more lived, and, regardless of Max’s going to the media, my guess is that the survivors are already spreading the truth to every corner of the Southlands.”

  “And what about Miriya Parina?” Maistroff asked evenly.

  “What about Miriya?”

  “To many of her people, she’s a traitor. Her stepping forth in their behalf now could be viewed as an attempt to proclaim her renewed loyalty to the Zentraedi cause.”

  Lisa shot to her feet, but when she spoke her voice was controlled. “I’m sure General Maistroff recalls on whose side Miriya Parina fought at the end of the War. But just in case he doesn’t, let me say that she is as loyal to the RDF as either Breetai or Exedore. I caution the general not to go looking for ulterior motives where none exist. And I caution everyone here that any divisiveness at this time will sabotage all the good we’ve accomplished, as well as the work that remains to be done.”

  Maistroff took the rebuke in stride. Everyone else waited for Reinhardt to resume the briefing.

  “Indirectly, the RDF is responsible for Leonard’s rise to power,” Reinhardt said after a moment. “We never bothered to oppose Senator Moran’s appointment to the Southlands by the Bureau of Reconstruction Management. And we didn’t question it when Moran, in turn, appointed Leonard governor.”

  No one in the room needed to view a holo of the silver-haired Wyatt “Patty” Moran or hear a summary of his earlier contributions to the UEDC. Russo, Turichevskiy, Hayes, Zukov, Blaine, and Moran were all of a type to shoot first and ask questions afterward.

  “The point I want to make is that the RDF stands to bear the brunt of the backlash if any attempt is made to interfere with further demonstrations by the Zentraedi. Another incident like Brasília and we’re going to be accused of seeking some sort of ‘final solution’—that we’re out to exterminate them, loyals and demobilized hostiles both.”

  He paused for a moment. “I suggest, therefore, that we give serious consideration to Council President Milburn’s proposal that a new United Earth Government be instated, composed of elected officials representing all city-states, autonomous sectors, and non-aligned territories.” Reinhardt’s glance moved from face to face. “Let’s hand the business of running the Earth over to them so we can concentrate on our priorities, which are the building of the SDF-3 and the launch of the Expeditionary mission.”

  “In other words,” Aldershot said, “any future slaughters of the Zentraedi will be carried out at the behest of the UEG and not the RDF”

  Reinhardt shot him a look. “There are no military solutions to the Zentraedi problem, Major. There are only political ones.”

  “Who’s going to be our liaison with this new government?” Rick wanted to know. “We’d be fools to rely on politicians to make the right decisions.”

  Reinhardt turned to him. “Naturally, we would have to make certain that the RDF is fairly represented. We could support the appointment of Lang or Chief Justice Huxley. As for the hostiles, Milburn proposes that we designate Niles Obstat to head a special operations group to study the problem.”

  “Spooks,” Aldershot said in disgust. “Spooks and spies and smoke and mirrors.”

  “Military intelligence,” Reinhardt amended.

  The major snorted. “God knows there’s been little enough of that lately.”

  Long on a first-name basis with catastrophe, the survivors of Tokyo had rebuilt their city in half the time it had taken Lang’s core of Roboengineers to transfer Macross Two from the bowels of the SDF-1 to the high plains of the Northwest. New Tokyo was not, however, the one-thousand-square-mile conurban sprawl it had been at the turn of the century, but a tidier place of some quarter million inhabitants centered around the rebuilt Imperial Palace and the moats of the East Garden. The Ginza and Akihabara districts—known respectively for department stores and high-tech electronics—had been rebuilt underground, as had much of the shitamachi, the downtown. But gone were the nouveau riche enclaves of Harajuku, Roppongi, and Shinjuku, with their sleek high-rises and Western-style restaurants. North of the Imperial center, in the War-leveled Bunkyo-ku, were parks like the Koishikawa Gardens and temples like the Gokokuji, where in summer one could still enjoy the omnipresent me-me-me chirring of cicadas.

  Lang had always had a fondness for Tokyo and for things Japanese—noh dramas, kabuki, bunraku puppet plays, karaoke, and all-night beer drinking. He had been in Tokyo, lecturing on extraterrestrial observations, when the Visitor had made its controlled crash onto Macross—a happy circumstance that had allowed him to be the first scientist of any note to reach the Micronesian island.

  Post–Global War Tokyo had been home to the only off-island Robotech Research Center, and it was to Tokyo that Lang had returned soon after the Rain of Death to get the center operational once more. There, in underground rooms as fortified as the data storage and communication bunkers that had sheltered the residents of Macross Three during Khyron’s attack, were housed the still-undeciphered texts found aboard the SDF-1, including most of what had comprised Zor’s electronic library. And it was to Tokyo that Lang moved what had been obtained during the early-spring salvage operations in Macross: crateloads of additional yet-to-be-deciphered texts, the remains of the Invid battle unit Breetai had discovered aboard Khyron’s cruiser, and the peripheral systems of the SDF-1’s so-called mother computer. Known also as EVE—for Enhanced Video Emulator—the quantum machine had, among other things, provided simulated sunrises, daylight, clouds, and sunsets for the besieged population of inboard Macross.

  Lang attributed his failure to fully penetrate the computer to the loss of several key components during Breetai’s attack on Macross. He suspected that some of those components had folded with the island to Plutospace and were there still, orbiting in ice. His push for a mission to Pluto had less to do with gathering parts for the SDF-3 than with retrieving EVE’s missing subsystems.

  “Coming here, I always feel like I’ve arrived home,” Lang was telling Zand in the midst of their inspection tour of the refurbished facility. A quarter-mile along in the main corridor, they were on foot and dressed alike in long white jackets and hard hats emblazoned with the RRC insignia: the RDF fighting kite contained by a square. Lang was setting a brisk pace, leaving Zand to scurry at his heels, the ever-faithful and overeager pet.

  “If it weren’t for my duties aboard the factory satellite, I’d spend most of my time here.” Lang paused momentarily to inspect a motion-sensor device affixed to the corridor wall. “And now, what with all this talk about a possible role for me in the United Earth Government, I won’t even have the pleasure of dividing my time between Tokyo and the factory. I’ll be forced to include Monument City as well.”

  “You could decline a seat in the UEG,” Zand said, short of breath.

  “Ha! If it was only that easy, Lazlo. As you well know, I’m no polit
ician. But it’s clear someone has to look out for the needs of the RDF. Besides, I can’t in good conscience disappoint Reinhardt and the others by refusing. They’re all too aware of the dangers of factionalism, and neither of them trusts Milburn to play fair and square with the military.” Lang shook his head. “I’ve no real choice in the matter. But I do regret having to burden you with the increased responsibility of overseeing our research work on Protoculture.”

  “It’s no burden, Doctor, no burden, I assure you,” Zand said in a rush. “I welcome the opportunity, the challenge of it.”

  Lang nodded. “Without specimens of the Flower of Life or a functioning matrix, we haven’t a prayer of producing Protoculture. Our one hope lies in being able to synthesize it. I’m certain that the key to that process is to be found somewhere in EVE’s databanks, but they’re impermeable without the components we lost in Plutospace.” He shook his head in regret. “If only we hadn’t been so panicked after the fold. Then, of course, there were the lives of Macross’s fifty-six thousand to occupy us … And the Zentraedi.” He forced an exhale, as if to rid himself of the memory.

  “In the meantime, Lazlo, we must concentrate on the decipherment of Zor’s documents. But not to the exclusion of other courses of investigation, you understand. This Invid craft, for example. What we assume to be a lubricant may in fact be a crude form of Protoculture, an ur-Protoculture. And let’s not forget our Zentraedi test subjects: Rico, Konda, Bron—”

  Lang halted abruptly and whirled on Zand. “It gets into you, Lazlo. Above and beyond Protoculture’s effects on mecha, even beyond its effects on the space-time continuum, there’re its effects on living things. Exedore has told us what it did to the Masters, we’ve speculated on the effect the leaves of the Flower of Life had on Khyron, I know what it has done to me … I’m talking about punctuated equilibrium, Lazlo, genetic and evolutionary leaps. One day you’ll understand—you’ll see for yourself.”

  They had stopped by the Plexiglas sliders that fronted the center’s machine intelligence laboratory. Central to the space was the android, JANICE M, that had been created three years earlier by the center’s cybertechnician team. Hope ran high of seeing the astonishingly lifelike “female” automaton begin to think for itself soon.

  Lang was regarding JANICE M absently. “If the Sterlings could only be convinced to part with little half-Human Dana for a month or so of testing …”

  “Dana, yes,” Zand said with obvious eagerness.

  Lang eyed him guardedly. “You know, Lazlo, perhaps it’s unfair of me to burden you with all this work when you’ve got your own projects to attend to.”

  Zand was shaking his head back and forth. “You needn’t worry. I won’t disappoint you. I’ll—”

  “My seating on the UEG certainly won’t prevent Milburn and his gang from running things, in any case.”

  “You could find some way to keep tabs on them,” Zand said. “Learn what they’re plotting before they can carry it out.”

  Lang halted again. “Insert a spy into the UEG?”

  “Why not? They’ve spied on us in the past.”

  “True. But who do we know with a talent for espionage and unrestricted access to Milburn’s circle?”

  Zand rubbed his chin for a moment. “How about Lynn-Minmei? She could finagle access if she wanted to. And I recently heard her say that she’s searching for a new career. Maybe she’d be willing to add ‘spy’ to her resume.”

  Lang considered it for a moment, then laughed. “Nice try, but I don’t think so. I’ll grant that she’s a decent actress, but she’s utterly guileless. Our spy would have to have a broad amoral streak.” His eyes drifted aimlessly to the android once more. “No, Lazlo, we would have to create the duplicitous personality we need.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  A Zentraedi clone received his or her designation from a list of 300 primary names and 300 surnames, each of which was represented by a glyph or combination of subglyphs, for a sum total of 90,000 individual symbols, many of which were likewise the names for so-called everyday objects—combat-related objects, in the case of the Zentraedi. On its inception, each clone was subjected to a regimen of neurotutorials, which rendered it—him or her—capable of identifying its own name glyph, in addition to some five hundred others. An “educated” Zentraedi—a domillan or advisor, such as Exedore Formo, to mention one example—was capable of identifying, reading, as many as five thousand glyphs. Writing, however, was a separate matter, rarely practiced, let alone mastered.

  Cabell, A Pedagogue Abroad: Notes on the Sentinels Campaign

  “Thanks again for accepting my invitation,” UEG Senator Milburn told Minmei as he escorted her from the limousine to the majestic ballroom entrance of the Hotel Centinel. “I’m sorry it had to be last-minute, but I didn’t realize you were in Monument until yesterday evening.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Senator,” Minmei said. “I’m honored you thought of me at all.”

  Milburn smiled charmingly. “Who doesn’t think about you, my dear.”

  For a moment she thought he was going to kiss the back of her gloved hand. But instead he took hold of her elbow and walked her through the glass doors and down the carpeted stairway into the foyer of the grand ballroom. Hotel guests stopped what they were doing to stare at them, and several people in the ornate foyer applauded. Milburn acknowledged them with gracious aplomb.

  “I have to absent myself for a few minutes,” he said when they were well into the ballroom itself and swallowed by the crowd, “but I’ll catch up with you before long.” He grinned. “You think you can handle it?”

  Minmei returned the playful look. “I’ll do my best.”

  She accepted a drink from a passing server and gazed around the room, at the Hollywood-style gilded columns and the chandeliers and the posh draperies, unimpressed by the money the Centinel’s owners had lavished on the place. The same owners who had run the now-razed Macross Centinel. Although this third incarnation of the hotel—all within fifteen years—was by far the most out of touch with the times.

  Nevertheless, in keeping with the stately, anachronistic miasma of the evening—it was official now; the United Earth Government, like the Hotel Centinel, was to be reborn—Minmei was wearing the gold lamé dress she’d worn four years earlier to the Sterlings’ shipboard, outer-space wedding. And she had her hair styled for bygone times as well, bunned and braided like a Chinese princess.

  She had returned to the mainland the previous week. Monument’s warm weather was holding—it was downright hot for August—but she feared autumn would arrive in an unannounced rush. And just where had summer gone, anyway? Looking back on the months in Kauai, summer seemed like one long day of lounging in the sunshine, playing in the waves, drinking piáa coladas on the lanai. She’d spent the past week with Lena and Max, at their small house in the Monument ’burbs where she always had a room and where many of her souvenirs and keepsakes were stored. She often thought of herself as their boomeranging child, a title that would never apply to their son, Kyle. And like a child, she’d secluded herself in her room, rereading yellowing letters and scrapbooked articles clipped from the Macross City News and answering fan mail received since the telecast of Katherine Hyson’s interview. Minmei thought that she had come off reasonably well, in spite of the sloppy editing, though she wished she’d been more circumspect in talking about Rick.

  She wondered now if Hyson was somewhere in the ballroom or whether Milburn had been able to keep the media away.

  She spotted many old friends. There was Mayor Luan and his fusty wife, Loretta; nearby, Dr. Hassan and the always-affable Mayor Owen Harding of Detroit. Lots of folks she hadn’t seen in years: sports figures, actors, promoters and performers she’d met during the post-War “People Helping People Tour.” More than a few waved and smiled, and everyone was respectful of her privacy. There would be no autographs to sign, and no requests for songs, either, thank heavens.

  Lang was to have attended, bu
t Minmei had heard that he was still in Tokyo. She had hoped Rick would be there, but he wasn’t. She hadn’t seen him in more than six months now. She supposed he and Lisa were too busy … well, whatever it was they were busy doing.

  Exedore was the only Zentraedi in the room, and hanging on his crooked arm was none other than the voluptuous Marjory Prix—the former Miss Velvet, now simply Velvet—former spokesmodel for a chain of suntan clinics in inboard Macross. Posters of the barely clad Miss Velvet had been second in popularity only to those Minmei had done to promote enlistment in the RDF.

  Jan Morris was also there—yet another former celeb, now an author of occult books—on the arm of Monument Council Member Stinson.

  So was this what happened to all former stars? Minmei asked herself. They became the appendages of aging dignitaries at stuffy affairs in opulent hotels?

  Two days earlier she’d hired a pilot to take her and her teenage cousin Jason for a spin in the Ikkii Takemi–designed fanjet she’d won as Miss Macross of 2009. The pilot had flown them over the buried remains of Macross, now reduced to a monument to the past. As she herself was—

  “Lynn!” someone called out.

  Minmei turned to the cheerful voice and saw Jan Morris mincing toward her on stiletto heels. Blond and obviously fit, Jan looked better than she had in years. Certainly since the time they had literally bumped into each other at the premier of Little White Dragon and a tipsy Jan had almost spilled her drink all over Minmei.

  “Lynn, darling,” Jan said, kissing the air near Minmei’s cheeks. “How are you? You look positively radiant!”

  “I’m fine, Jan. Love your gown.”

  Jan waved a hand in dismissal. “I had to have it let out.”

  A tall, stoop-shouldered man with unsettling blue eyes had appeared out of nowhere and was standing alongside Morris. Jan introduced him as Reverend Houston.

  “Reverend Houston wrote the introduction to my book, Solar Seeds, Galactic Guardians.”