Doomsday: The Macross Saga Page 8

  Lisa breathed a sigh of relief and regarded the thirty-foot-high metal walls of their prison. She dropped her shoulder bag and turned to Rick, exasperated.

  “Hunter, aren’t you the one who was lost somewhere in this ship for two weeks?”

  “Look, how was I supposed to know? We had no choice! Anyway, none of this would have happened if you had gone with me to a shelter like I told you in the first place!”

  “That’s no way to be talking to a superior officer!”

  “What, now you’re going to pull rank on me?”

  Rick made a dismissive gesture and slumped down sullenly against the bulkhead, knees up, hands behind his head. Lisa followed suit in the opposite corner of the box, too frustrated to hold on to her anger. Distant rumblings filtered in.

  “Maybe we were attacked,” Lisa posited. “Of course, it could be target practice, Phalanx fire or the Spartans … I wonder how Sammie is doing? She’s new at this. But someone has to act as my backup. Claudia has her hands full, and of course Vanessa and Kim …” She looked over at Rick. “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” No response; Lisa smirked. “Are you planning to sulk for the rest of our time together? You know, you’re acting pretty childish, Rick. Come on, damn you, I’m going to go mad in here if you don’t talk to me!”

  “Well now, there’s a surprise,” Rick said suddenly. “Lisa Hayes actually needs somebody.”

  “Just what’s that supposed to mean?’”

  “I figured you were too tough to need anybody.”

  She glared at him, then softened. “All right, Rick, I’m sorry I exploded back there.”

  Rick smiled. “Me, too.” After a minute he added, “Reminds me of when we were stuck in that holding cell on Breetai’s ship.”

  “Don’t remind me. This place looks too much like it.”

  Rick looked around. “True enough. But even if this ship was designed by aliens, it’s our ship now—our home. We’ll just have to wait until she reconfigures.”

  “If it is a drill, that won’t be much longer.”

  They both grew quiet and introspective; but when another twenty minutes had passed, Rick broke the silence.

  “I still can’t figure out the Zentraedi’s tactics. We haven’t scored a decisive victory once. They’re always saving us from their own attacks.”

  “The captain thinks their command is divided. One side is convinced that we’re derived from Protoculture; the other disagrees.”

  “The magic word … if we only had some idea what it was.”

  All at once there was a third voice in the room; Rick and Lisa glanced up and saw a Petite Cola robo-vendor coursing around the upper landing of their enclosure.

  “What soft drink would you like?” the machine was saying.

  “Hey!” yelled Rick, on his feet in a flash.

  Lisa got up and moved to his side. The machine peered over the edge. “We’re out of that brand. Please choose again.”

  Rick shook his fist in the air. “You empty-headed tin can, bring some help! Help!”

  “We have ginger ale, Petite Cola, and root beer. Make your selection and deposit appropriate amount.” The vendor was circling around making whirring sounds.

  “You piece of junk, you no-good—”

  “Stop it,” Lisa said, tugging at his jacket. “It’s not doing any good to yell at it. It’s just a machine.”

  Resignedly, Rick said, “Yeah, I know.” He joined Lisa on the floor. “That is what Protoculture is all about. Whatever it is that makes those machines behave like idiots.”

  Lisa laughed. “I don’t think so, but we’d have to consult Dr. Lang to be sure.”

  “No thanks.”

  Again they both retreated to inner thoughts and fantasies, punctuated by muffled explosions from overhead.

  “I think Protoculture is more like the kung-fu force in the movie,” Lisa said at last.

  Rick’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, so you were in the theater.”

  “Yes, I was there. I know the manager. I had a seat in the back. Why are you so surprised?”

  Rick shrugged. “Just hard for me to imagine you at a movie.”

  “I do get out, you know.” She felt her anger building again.

  “Guess I always pictured you as a shut-in.”

  “And I picture you as a jerk, Hunter!”

  Rick made a show of acting miffed. “But sometimes I can read minds …” He put his forefinger to his lower lip in mock concentration. “Let’s see, you wanted to see this movie—even though it was a chop flick—because you’ve got a crush on one of the stars.”

  “Forget it, Hunter,” she said, turning away from him.

  “Right. You went to the trouble of reserving a ticket and dealing with those crowds just to see a film starring Minmei. No way. It has to be Kyle. Am I right?”

  “Back off, Rick. Besides, how do you feel about Minmei now—Minmei and Kyle, I mean? You’re still in love with her, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Rick had lowered his head and grown silent. Lisa apologized. “I was just trying to get you to stop making fun of me. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories. Believe me, I know what that can be like.”

  “Then tell me the truth,” he said without facing her. “You left the theater for the same reason I did. You couldn’t stand to see the person you’re in love with kissing someone else?”

  Lisa nodded, tight-lipped.

  “What a joke,” Rick continued. “Both of us running out of the theater at the same time. But how could you fall in love with that guy? He’s against everything you stand for.”

  “He looks exactly exactly like a man I was in love with. He had to go away, and then he died before we had a chance …” She began to cry in spite of all her efforts to be strong. “Sometimes when I see Kyle, Karl’s face comes back to haunt me and I just can’t bear it …”

  Rick passed her his kerchief.

  “But where would we be without love?” Rick mused. “Minmei’s the only meaning I have in my life.”

  “You’re right, Rick,” she sobbed. “But I just don’t want to feel this way. I just don’t want it.”

  They held on to each other for several minutes, neither of them speaking.

  “I’m glad I’m here with you,” Rick told her.

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Hunter.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. In fact, I think I could even get to like you—if you could stop being such a chauvinist sometimes.”

  Rick smiled at her, discovering her eyes as if for the first time. “That’s funny, ’cause I was thinking the same about you.”

  Perhaps they would have kissed each other then—no alien pressure this time, no hastily hatched escape plan in mind—but all-clear sirens and Sammie’s muffled voice on the city PA broke the spell.

  “Attention, please: The drill has ended. The ship will now be returning to its normal mode of operation.”

  “Time to return to reality,” Rick said as bulkheads retracted and hatchways lifted.

  Lisa stood up and brushed herself off. “Guess I should get back to the bridge.”

  Rick got to his feet. “I suppose so. But let’s not rush, okay?”

  Lisa grinned. “With you leading us, I don’t see that we have any choice.”

  Rick reached out and took her hand. They began to retrace their steps.

  There were numerous wrong turns, reversals, and dead ends, even a few hairy moments and tricky descents; but mostly there was a feeling of togetherness and a fresh spirit of adventure. Ill prepared for the modular transformation and coming as it did with so many people in the streets for Little White Dragon’s premiere, Macross City suffered more than its usual share of damage. Rick and Lisa passed overturned vehicles, debris from traffic accidents, and fallen girders and piers in new construction zones. Ambulances and fire crews tore through streets all but deserted now and unnaturally quiet. They would learn later that a mistake had, in fact, been made; what was supposed to have been a simpl
e drill had escalated into a small catastrophe. Sammie still had a lot to learn. Max Sterling, whom the bridge bunnies had spent so much time talking and worrying about, had never even left Macross, let along the fortress. According to the latest reports, Max was off in hot pursuit of some green-haired beauty in knickers who had caught his eye at the premiere. Minmei and Kyle had left the theater together and hadn’t been heard from since.

  No sooner did Rick and Lisa arrive on level one near the skyway, when a Petite Cola machine sidled up to them, begging a handout.

  “My drinks are undamaged. May I serve you, may I serve you?”

  Rick was ready to deliver a few well-deserved kung-fu kicks, but Lisa stopped him. She also insisted on paying for the drinks.

  “All right,” Rick allowed. “But only because I’d like to take you out to dinner next week.”

  Rick was just removing the cans of soda when he saw Kyle and Minmei walking toward the Hotel Centinel. He pulled himself and Lisa into hiding behind the machine.

  “You better stay here,” he told her without explanation. Later on he’d feel foolish, but right now he was feeling protective.

  “What’s going on?” she wanted to know.

  Rick was peering toward the hotel. “I didn’t want you to get upset.”

  Lisa gave a look: Arms linked, the leading man and leading lady were entering the lobby.

  “Like I said before, welcome back to reality. Guess we’ll just have to live with it.”

  “Look, Rick, let’s not worry about them. It’s not unusual for cousins to show affection and be close to each other.”

  Rick snorted.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Lisa.

  “Barracks time, huh?”

  She shook her head.

  “Let’s walk. I don’t have to report in until oh-eight-hundred.”

  “Just you and me?” he gestured.

  “Yeah,” she said, taking his arm. “Just you and me.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Say what you will about the retrospective critiques of Little White Dragon, it was Breetai’s review that mattered most!

  Rawlins, Zentraedi Triumvirate: Dolza, Breetai, Khyron

  A world of things we’ve never seen before

  Where silver suns have golden moons,

  Each year has thirteen Junes …

  Lynn-Minmei, “To Be In Love” (the rallying cry of Rico’s Minmei cult)

  “It appears to be some sort of battle record,” Exedore was saying.

  Breetai agreed. “A primitive fighting style at best. I don’t understand their interest in viewing such a record.”

  The Zentraedi commander and his adviser were side by side in the flagship command post. In the astrogational section of the bridge the rectangular field of the projecbeam glowed, outlined by the jagged, fanglike remains of the observation bubble. Lynn-Kyle, Little White Dragon’s male lead, was up a tree dodging arrows loosed by a small army of bowmen led by a crazed bearded commander with a black eyepatch and a plumed helmet.

  “Possibly an instructional requirement for their soldiers,” Breetai continued as Kyle’s leap carried him out of frame.

  Still anchored in space on the far side of the moon, the mother ship of the Imperial Fleet had locked into low-band transmissions emanating from the dimensional fortress. The two Zentraedi had been viewing these for some time, first with puzzled interest and now with growing concern. This longhaired Micronian in the black slippers and belted robe had executed some truly amazing maneuvers, albeit primitive, and now here he was soaring through space unleashing bolts of brilliant orange lightning from his fingertips. The recipient of these, a curiously uniformed hairless mutant wearing some sort of power-collar, was paralyzed and felled a moment later by the Micronian’s follow-up leap and kick.

  “Did you see what he just did? What was that?!” Breetai was aghast; reflexively he had unfolded his arms and adopted a defensive stance.

  Exedore’s pinpoint-pupilled eyes were wide.

  “Perhaps it is that legendary force the Micronians are said to possess.”

  “It’s a death ray! Our soldiers cannot win against such an incredible force!”

  “It seems beyond the power of Protoculture or Robotechnology.”

  Breetai straightened up decisively. “We must report this information immediately to Commander in Chief Dolza.”

  Elsewhere in the flagship Little White Dragon had a second audience, the dozen or so members of the growing Minmei cult. They were gathered around a monitor screen, jaws slack in amazement. Rico, Bron, and Konda had recognized Minmei in spite of the Zu-li over-the-shoulder braid.

  “She doesn’t look the way I thought she would,” said one of the group.

  “Yeah, what happened to your beautiful female?”

  “Bubbleheads,” Bron said calmly. “This is just a monitor. She’s much better-looking in person.”

  “That’s right,” Rico added knowingly. “You have to see her in real life. We were hanging out with the girl all the time.”

  This drew astonished looks from the cultists; they turned now to Konda, who added nonchalantly, “In fact, the three of us all became her close personal friends for a while.”

  On the screen, Kyle was going through his F/X routines, dispatching giants left and right and hurling lightning bolts.

  Rico recognized him. “These recordings must have been made before the Micronian began to think about putting an end to warfare.”

  “An end to warfare?” said one of the confused cultists.

  “ ‘Peace’ is the Micronian word for it,” Bron explained.

  But what grabbed the attention of this captive audience was the kiss Lynn-Kyle planted on Minmei’s lips after effecting her rescue. Cooing sounds surfaced through the speakers.

  “How strange,” said someone in the audience. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “It’s weird … Why do they do that?”

  “They seem to be enjoying it.”

  “Yeah,” Bron explained. “Something makes them do that all the time. It’s required.”

  “They make their people press their lips together?”

  “Yeah, it happened every day,” Rico answered, ringleader and gifted liar. He had his chair tipped way back, hands behind his head.

  One of the heavy-banged clones took his nose from the screen. “That’s fantastic! I wouldn’t have thought you could stand it. Did they force you to do such a thing with this girl?”

  “Yep, they sure did,” said Rico.

  “Often,” from Konda.

  Shocked faces, some gray, some yellow, some pure white, swung to catch each spoken word, each nuance.

  Then Bron picked up and carried for a while: “My lips got sore from always being pressed.”

  It has been said that there comes a point in the growth of every powerful cult or movement when something is needed to carry it over the top, to open it up to those who are aware and prepared but who have been afraid to act alone. Little White Dragon served this purpose for the Minmei cult. But it had less to do with the “death ray” Breetai saw than with the need to protect the film’s leading lady. Singing had reawakened long-lost emotions and impulses; music had reopened a long-locked pathway to the heart.

  There was scarcely a soldier in the Imperial Fleet who hadn’t heard of the singing doll by now. The film had instilled the rumors with a new momentum; sensational tales of the wonders onboard the SDF-1 were talked about in every corridor and discussed at every watch. The password spread. Micronian words were spoken and memorized. Posts were abandoned, duties left undone. Fights broke out over whose turn it was to carry around the life-size color poster of Minmei. Shock troopers and sentries began to rap on the clubhouse door and beg admittance, their armed and armored presence lending a new element to the gathering of green-uniformed cultists—an element that would soon spell peril for the Zentraedi high command …

  The little two-song dot-eyed doll continued to work its tab
letop magic, melting hearts hardened by conditioning and countless military campaigns and conquests. Rico’s roomful of former galactic warriors came to sound more like a maternity ward visited by a host of proud fathers.

  “So this is what they call ‘singing,’ huh?” said one soldier as he watched the doll go through its motions. “I think I like it.”

  “Singing is a way the Micronians make each other feel good,” Konda explained.

  “Makes me feel kinda funny …”

  “Makes me feel great!”

  “Is it true,” asked another, “that we could hear the real singer if we became spies and lived among the Micronians?”

  “It’s the truth,” said Bron.

  Rico folded his arms across his chest. “You’d like the real thing a lot more than you like this doll.”

  “Yes, but it’s unlikely that we’ll ever get the chance to see for ourselves, Rico. You three are surveillance operatives; we are soldiers.”

  A grin spread across Rico’s face, and he leaned forward conspiratorially, arms on the table. “This is something we should discuss …” he told them.

  It is also said that “loose lips sink ships.”

  Khyron’s second in command, Grel, reported to his commander that there was trouble afoot. Khyron had been brooding about his defeat and near death at the hands of the Micronians during the shield explosion and as a consequence ingesting powerful amounts of the dried Flower of Life leaves, so Grel braced himself for the worst.

  “You say there’s chaos aboard Breetai’s flagship?” said the Backstabber disinterestedly.

  “That’s right, m’lord. Exedore’s spies—Konda, Rico, and Bron—returned from their infiltration mission aboard the Robotech ship with a singing doll that is wreaking havoc.”

  “A ‘singing doll’? What are you talking about, Grel?”

  “A … device, Lord Khyron. It emits sounds that have affected the thoughts of the crew. Discipline has become a problem.”

  Khyron wore a look of distaste. “And you have seen this … device?”

  “No, m’lord, but—”

  Khyron turned his back to Grel. “I don’t think we need to concern ourselves with rumors.”