The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 9

  Leonard was still basking in the afterglow of July’s strike against the aliens. The offensive had sent a clear signal to the people of his city, and a clearer one to the Zentraedi, that displays of malcontentism would not be tolerated. As a result, there were no antigovernment slogans in evidence along the motorcade route—though in fact Leonard had had his agents sweep the area of subversives beforehand. RDF troops from as far north as Cavern City and as far south as Buenos Aires had been called in to enforce martial law.

  By last count, some five thousand Zentraedi had fled the Goias uplands since July, leaving Zee-towns throughout the district abandoned and ripe for razing. Initially, Patty Moran had taken issue with Leonard’s actions, but he had since come to recognize their brilliance.

  “Remember on Macross Island, how they used their Destroids to gas us?” Leonard had said to the senator. “Those mecha put the fear into us, didn’t they, Patty? So you might say that I’ve simply borrowed an old RDF tactic for dealing with dissention.”

  By “us”, Leonard had meant the followers of Dr. Conrad Wilbur. Dubbed the Faithful, Wilbur’s cult had seen the Visitor as a kind of Pandora’s box, dispatched from hell to lure Humankind into worshiping technology over God. Both Leonard and Moran were followers, and though the aims of the Faithful had been underhandedly sabotaged by 2009, Wilbur’s beliefs had been given new life by the Church of Recurrent Tragedies, and heavy—if covert—funding by Leonard himself.

  Leonard waved and smiled at a group of people atop what remained of a concrete overpass. “They’re chanting ‘Brasília is for Humankind; the jungles, for Zentraedi,’ ” he told Moran when Moran asked.

  Leonard’s barrel chest swelled. This was how George Pattern must have felt after his World War II victories in Italy and France. Leonard had made a lifelong study of Patton, learning from Patton’s military successes as well as his political failures. Perhaps to humble him, Patton’s deskbound superiors had kept him from being the first to enter and lay claim to defeated Berlin. But Patton needn’t have listened to those REMF commanders. He had his own army by then, and that army would have followed him anywhere. Just as Leonard had now. And Leonard would do whatever he felt needed to be done to quash malcontentism, regardless of what the RDF or the newly formed UEG might have to say about it.

  The freakish aliens were the scourge loosed by the Visitor, the defilers and destroyers of God’s material domain. No one could argue that point now, not in the unholy light of the Zentraedi’s apocalyptic Rain of Death. And those who had ushered in the apocalypse had to be returned to the darkness whence they came—if not hurled back into the black void of space, then chased into the dark, forbidding interior of the Southlands. Chased into the jungles in the same manner the godless aboriginals had been chased there by Brazil’s God-fearing Portuguese and Spanish colonizers. Chased, contained, and eventually exterminated: by weapons, poisoned food, disease-impregnated blankets, whatever was required.

  Where in the Bible did it state that Humankind had to share its garden with otherworlders? Soulless, biogenetically created ones, at that. Earth had to be cleansed of them if Humankind hoped to be redeemed, just as every individual had to be cleansed of sin before he or she could stand naked in God’s light. Cleansed through the performance of degrading acts, if that was what it took: cleansed by whip, by slaps, by the piercing of body parts; made to crawl across splinter-laden floors to lick the high boots of the Cleanser, begging like a sick child for another taste of the strap, the pliers, the black stiletto heel …

  The motorcade was slowing as it approached the intersection with Esplanada dos Ministerios, where Leonard was to address the crowds gathered cm the red-earth walkways of Brasília’s pedestrian mall. The limousine had begun to brake and Leonard was just lowering himself to the back seat when three men and a woman hurdled the barricades on the east side of Rodoviario and made a mad rush for the open-air car. Dressed in ragged clothing and black back-packs of some sort, the quartet was screaming, “Kara-brek, kara-brek, kara-brek!”

  The Battlepods of Khyron’s Fist launched their attack at sunrise, arriving from the east, with Earth’s yellow star at their backs. The strategy of making tactical use of the rising sun would not have occurred to Bagzent, but the aboriginal called Narumi had convinced him to give it a try. Outgunned, the Human forces guarding the perimeter of the Southern Grand Cannon in the sector known as Venezuela were taken by surprise and easily overrun. Of the six Veritechs and six Destroids that had occupied the base only a week earlier, four of each had been ordered south to shore up Brasília’s civil defense forces. And of the fifty RDF soldiers who would have been guarding the cannon on any given morning, thirty were on leave in nearby Cavern City.

  The perimeter had been breached with a minimum of bursts from the Battlepods’ particle-beam cannons. Bagzent was reminded of Khyron’s minimal-fire, lightning-fast raid on the concert dome in Denver, when Lynn-Minmei and her lover had been taken hostage.

  The Backstabber would be proud of Bagzent’s action.

  Bagzent sat at the controls of his Micronian-capable Battlepod; the tattoo-faced Indian guide had the copilot’s seat. Narumi was the chief of his tribe, a position Bagzent equated with that of a brigade leader. Pairs of Zentraedi manned the other nine pods. They had left the Xingu River camp five days earlier, and in that time had run and hopped their way along one thousand miles of jungle trails, crossing countless rivers and ruined roadways, often at a rate of 175 miles per hour, or 250 horizontal feet per boostered leap.

  Bagzent was attired in a burgundy command uniform and a green campaign cloak chosen from items found aboard a rusting Zentraedi cruiser Narumi had led them to. The choice was deliberate—burgundy and green were the colors Khyron had worn during the Christmas attack on Macross City. One of the Human outcasts allied to the Zentraedi had decorated the exterior of Bagzent’s Battlepod with the glyph that now stood for Khyron’s Fist.

  The radio in the pilot compartment of the bulbous-bodied craft crackled to life. “Unit seven reporting,” a Zentraedi voice said. “Bagzent, respond.”

  “Report, Salta.”

  “We’re on the rim of the weapon. Communications and tram transport into the main shaft are disabled. We haven’t encountered many soldiers, mostly technicians. The place has been stripped clean.”

  “Any resistance?”

  “We killed six at the first security checkpoint, then four more in one of the tram cars. Units four, five, and six encountered resistance at the mecha field. Five and six are down.”

  “What’s our body count so far?”

  Salta was quiet for a long moment. “Twenty-one Humans, I think.”

  Bagzent grinned. “Keep up the good work. I’m leaving Qapai and the others here. Leave Aayth on the rim and rendezvous with me on level one in the weapon.”

  Much like its slagged counterpart in the Alaska wilderness, the miles-deep energy gun took the form of a gargantuan upside-down Y. Never completed, however, it lacked the enhanced-firefield lensing of the original—compensation for a network of satellite reflectors the UEDC hadn’t gotten around to lofting, much less positioning.

  Bagzent ran the pod from the high-voltage fencing at the perimeter to the ceramic rim of the weapon’s maw, then simply leapt over the side, following the tramlines down the central shaft and utilizing the jump jets to control the speed and direction of the fall. Narumi howled with delight, and Bagzent, too, experienced a gush of renewed vigor, in spite of his Micronized size. Oh, to be full-size once more, he thought. To occupy the pod in its entirety. To reunite with the Protoculture. To be one with the mecha!

  Moments later, at the base of the central shaft, the Battlepod dropped through a ragged, gaping hole in a concrete ceiling, opened by particle-beam cannon or perhaps by the passing of Salta’s craft. Bagzent landed the pod on its reverse-articulated legs and traversed the exterior cameras across a supply room of some sort. Salta’s pod was standing nearby. Ten or so Human techs were clustered in a corner of the room, cowe
ring.

  “Aayth is cm the rim,” Salta said. “No reports of further activity at the field. We’ve captured two mecha intact. Veritechs.”

  Bagzent nodded for the video pickups, then slowly walked the pod to within twenty feet of the Humans.

  “We’re not soldiers,” one of the Humans said through cupped hands. “We’re technicians, and we’re unarmed.”

  “My people in Brasília were unarmed,” Bagzent answered over the external speaker. “One thousand one hundred of them were blown to pieces.”

  A woman in a hard hat stepped forward. “We didn’t have anything to do with that. We deplore discrimination of any kind.”

  “Is that so, Micronian? Then tell me, how many Zentraedi are employed here?”

  The Humans regarded one another with confused misgiving.

  “I thought as much,” Bagzent told them. He enabled the twin autocannons that protruded from the base of the pod and swiveled the muzzles front and center. “Now, prepare to experience the wrath of Khyron’s Fist.”

  Reports of the incidents in Brasília and Venezuela arrived simultaneously at RDF headquarters in Monument City at nine hundred hours local time, and by eleven hundred hours that same morning, members of the general staff were meeting in emergency session. Reinhardt directed the briefing from his customary place on the command curve of the horseshoe-shaped table.

  Rick was late in arriving because of a call he had put through to Lisa at the factory. Already present in the room when he slipped in were Caruthers, Maistroff, Herzog, and Aldershot, along with their various aides and adjutants. Exedore was there as well, and, from the newly formed Special Operations Group, Director of Intelligence Niles Obstat and Deputy Director Dimitri Motokoff.

  “First things first,” Reinhardt said when Rick was seated. “One of the backpack bombs detonated early, killing all three male Zentraedi. The woman—a known sympathizer—survived, but she’s not expected to live. Twelve bystanders were killed, and more than two dozen were injured. Leonard’s driver was killed outright, and both Senator Moran and Leonard’s adjutant sustained slight injuries. Leonard himself escaped without a scratch.”

  “I’m sure he’ll take it as a sign from God,” Aldershot muttered.

  Reinhardt reserved comment. “At fourteen hundred hours Brasília time today, Leonard issued a proclamation naming himself field marshal of the Army of the Southern Cross. ‘A mobile force’—I’m quoting Leonard here—‘dedicated to stopping the spread of malcontentism in the Southlands.’ ”

  Grumbles of disbelief rose from the table.

  “I might add that he enjoys the full support of the people of Goias district. Senator Moran is pushing for UEG recognition of the Army of the Southern Cross as a legitimate organization. Which would, of course, entitle it to funding for weapons, bases, salaries …”

  “A cut in UEG funds could delay the Expeditionary mission by years,” Rick said. “Maybe scuttle it completely.” Lisa and Lang would be crushed, he thought.

  “It hasn’t taken the UEG very long to subvert us,” Herzog said. “Not that this comes as any surprise.”

  Reinhardt instructed techs in the control booth to display a map of the Southlands on the main screen. “Early this morning, the Zentraedi launched three coordinated strikes: against the Southern Grand Cannon, the commercial airport at Laago City, and the RDF armory in Cuiabá.” Reinhardt’s laser pointer projected green circles on the three sites. “They were successfully repulsed in Cuiabá, but they managed to hijack three jetliners and two Veritech VF-1 As from Laago, and they presently occupy the Grand Cannon, with a force of eight Tactical Battlepods.”

  “Is one group responsible for all three raids?” Rick asked.

  Reinhardt looked to Exedore, who was seated at the left foot of the table. The Zentraedi ambassador distributed reconnaissance photographs before speaking.

  “An analysis of the hand-painted markings on the plastrons of the Battlepods indicates that three separate groups are involved.” He held up an enlargement of a fistlike symbol. “This glyph, photographed at the Grand Cannon, is meant to be read as ‘Khyron’s Fist.’ ” He showed two more enlargements. “This one could be interpreted as either ‘Metal’ or ‘Steel’ Wind. And this felinelike third—from Cuiabá—is perhaps ‘Jaguar Skull,’ though it could have a more generic meaning, such as ‘Cat Skull’ or simply ‘Predator Skull.’ ”

  Maistroff was the first to respond. “Since when do the Zentraedi read and write—other than yourself?”

  “A fair question, Colonel,” Exedore said, turning to him. “And the probable explanation lies in the fact that many Zentraedi received instruction in glyphic reading from RDF trainers when it came to cataloging various objects, such as weapons and nutrients, obtained from the crashsites of Zentraedi warships.”

  “What’s more,” Niles Obstat interrupted, “they have Humans assisting them with jungle foraging and technical know-how. Most of them are escaped criminals and disenfranchised Indians. They don’t give a damn about Zentraedi rights, but they do have their own reasons for wanting to topple the existing order.”

  Obstat was tall and balding, though not so much as Gunther Reinhardt. He went on to detail how the intelligence division had placed a Zentraedi spy among the rebels. The operative was a former aide to Breetai, who had been working at the factory when approached about the infiltration mission and had agreed to be Micronized. Thus far, he had succeeded in making one intelligence drop—during reconnaissance of the armory in Cuiabá—which contained information about the rebels’ camp on the Xingu River, the resurgence of male-female segregation among them, the presence of as many as two hundred tribal Indians and outlaws, and a plan to turn the whole of the Southlands interior into a kind of Zentraedi control zone.

  “Our operative was unable to pass along a forewarning about the attacks on the Laako airport or the Grand Cannon. But we’re awaiting further drops from him.”

  “Fifty-six may have been killed in Venezuela,” Reinhardt added. “But if there’s a plus side, it’s that most of the weapons and usable supplies had already been lofted to the factory.” He paused for a long moment, then smiled ruefully. “Leonard has asked if we want his Southern Cross to spearhead the counterstrike.”

  “Like hell,” Aldershot said, leading a chorus of denunciations of the governor.

  Reinhardt made a placating gesture. “The UEG has sanctioned the use of force by the RDF, but we’re to limit ourselves to the Cannon. Just to keep this situation localized, we’ll let the Argentine Base handle the details. Rolf Emerson is in charge down there, but I want the Skull to carry out the raid.”

  “Why the Skull?” Rick asked.

  Reinhardt averted his gaze. “A request from the UEG. For purposes of propaganda, I suppose. Officially, the Skull will be on temporary duty with RDF South. I’ve notified Captain Sterling that he’s been placed in command of the team.”

  Rick was taken aback. “And Miriya?”

  “The UEG prefers that Miriya be dropped from our combat roster. Right now she’s more important to us as a role model than a VT pilot. A shining example of homemaker, mother, former freedom fighter … The fully acculturated Zentraedi, or some such thing.”

  Rick raised his eyes to the ceiling. Wait till Lisa got word of this.

  Reinhardt was frowning. “If it wasn’t for Cavern City, I don’t think the UEG would have even sanctioned a counterstrike. The Bureau of Reconstruction Management recently appointed a new governor to Cavern—a woman named Lea Carson. And because of Cavern’s proximity to the Cannon, Carson’s asked the RDF to make a comprehensive study of the city’s defenses. So as soon as this mess is cleared up, we’re going to send someone down there.” The general turned to his adjutant. “What’s the name again?”

  “Captain Jonathan Wolfe,” Reinhardt’s aide supplied. “Academy graduate, trained as a VT pilot on Macross Island and a tank commander on Albuquerque Base.”

  Reinhardt nodded. “Wolfe, yes. I’ve heard good things about him.
”

  Aldershot drew attention to himself with a meaningful cough. “Getting back to priorities, General, it seems to me that the situation in Venezuela calls for more than a surgical strike. Now’s the time to move against the Zentraedi’s camp on the Xingu as well—before they go and cache themselves in the heart of Amazonia.”

  Rick spoke up. “That’s exactly what we don’t want to do, Major. Unless we’re prepared to deal with rioting in every city between here and Brasília.”

  Aldershot smoothed the ends of his waxed moustache. “Begging the admiral’s pardon, but I’d prefer a few weeks of riots to who-knows-how-many years of guerrilla warfare and low-intensity conflicts.”

  “The UEG has its own reason for limiting us to a surgical strike,” Reinhardt said. He deferred to Obstat, who in turn deferred to SOG’s deputy director. A man of average height and build, Motokoff had blunt features and a mass of dark curly hair that covered his broad forehead and ears. Head of CD forces aboard the SDF-1, he was also credited with the planning of Operation Star Saver, the rescue mission mounted to save Minmei and Lynn-Kyle from execution by Khyron.

  “Our operative reports that the rebels are planning to hold summit talks in Cairo early next year.”

  “Summit talks with us?” Rick asked.

  Motokoff shook his head. “Among themselves. Where each group can make its demands known to the rest. The organizers are the Quandolmo, which Exedore tells me means ‘resurrected ones.’ They seem to think that Cairo’s high radiation count will keep us away.”

  “How are the Southland’s groups planning to reach Africa?” Aldershot wanted to know. “By swimming?”

  “That’s presumably what the stolen jetliners and VTs are for,” Motokoff told him.