Robotech

by Jack McKinney

  Just then the door to the ready-room parted and there stood Dana, in full spit-shined combat armor lacquered white, black, and scarlet, her helmet in the crook of her left arm. The armor, all ultratech alloy, somehow had the look of an earlier day to it—a flaring at the hips and shoulders that suggested both jousting panoply and whalebone corsetry.

  “Fall in!”

  The 15th’s collective mouth hung open. Angelo came to his feet. “I thought you were doing thirty days bad time. You’re not serious, right?”

  Dana beamed. “Wrong again. Crank it up, Fifteenth! We’re heading for a hotspot, to stop the enemy or die trying!”

  Angelo released a deep breath. “Yes ma’am.” But dying under the command of a diz-zo-max teenager—it isn’t exactly the way I’d hoped to go out.

  Louie walked by, holstering the pistol, eyes hidden in the dark goggles. “Well, when the whistle blows, everybody goes, Angie, so let’s get goin’!”

  This time they took the drop-rack one level deeper, leaping clear amid the Hovertank parking bays as the lights came up to full brightness. All were armored now, dashing to their craft with the sureness of constant drill. The overhead lights flashed white, red, white, red, to indicate the 15th was rolling on a priority wartime deployment.

  The Hovertanks were bigger than their pre-Robotech counterparts, and heavier; yet they lifted lightly on thrusters, turning end-for-end like pirouetting rhinos, very maneuverable and responsive. The 15th handled their mecha with manual controls; there was no need for the thinking caps yet.

  The bulky war machines followed as Dana led the way in her command tank, the Valkyrie, shooting up the access tunnel, following the glowing traffic-routing arrows embedded in the pavement.

  They left the base and the city behind, heading for their assigned objective. The Hovertanks took up a precise skirmishing formation behind her. The mecha’s headlights, under the downward sweep of the forward cowling, gave them the look of angry crabs.

  Today I show them I’ve got what it takes. Dana steeled herself.

  “Fifteenth squad will proceed ASAP to sector Q, I say again, Q for Quebec.” The order came over the command net. “Suspected alien landing site. Use extreme caution.”

  “’Kay; you all know what to do,” Dana told her ATACs. But inwardly she winced. Alien! I’m half alien, and I’m on my way out to put my hide on the line for this planet, you sorry sack!

  Yeah, now this is where I belong, Angelo thought, the wind harsh in his face, the tank shrilling beneath him.

  The Hovertanks were assemblages of heavy-gauge armor in angular, flattened shapes and acute edges, with rounded, downsloping prows, riding thruster pods. The angles, as in armor throughout history, were for deflection of rounds aimed at the tanks.

  The Hovertanks kicked up huge plumes of dust as they raced to sector Quebec. Long before they got there, the members of the 15th could see that they had drawn a hotspot; explosions blossomed as detonations threw debris high in the distance, while energy beams drew angry lines through the air.

  They topped a rise and looked down on a smoking battlefield. Scattered all around were blasted and burning scraps of war mecha, almost all of Earthly origin. A Civil Defense Flying Corps outfit was manning outmoded ten-year-old VTs. The aircraft had come to life and assumed Battloid configuration, but they lacked the size, firepower, and groundfighting ability to deal with the ravaging XT mecha.

  A tiny part of the enemy’s telemetry had been intercepted, most of it impenetrable. But using certain old Zentraedi decryption programs, the code breakers had come up with what they thought was the designation of the invaders’ war machines: Bioroids.

  Dana pulled on her helmet/thinking cap, which featured graceful wings at either side, and a curved crest like a steel rainbow along its center. As she made it fast to her armor, it sealed and became airtight; so protected, she could survive radiation, chemical agents, water, vacuum, high pressure—almost any hostile environment. The wings and crest gave her a look that validated the name with which she had christened her tank, Valkyrie.

  “Here we go!”

  She gunned her tank’s power plant, then set off, leading the way. The 15th raced after her.

  Down below, the CDs were doing badly. The enemy mecha were drubbing them terribly; as the 15th watched, two blue giants led by a red one, all riding the flying-saucer Hoverplatforms like futuristic charioteers or alien water-skiers, stooped for another kill.

  As the tankers charged in, the Bioroid trio led by the red one swooped in at two VTs who stood their ground in Battloid configuration. The red Bioroid, in the lead, fired quick, accurate bursts with the gun mounted on its control stem, and blew two of the VTs away, easily avoiding most of their fire and shrugging off the rest.

  The Hovertanks were in the air now. “Switch to Gladiator mode!” Dana called over the tac net. In midair the tanks shifted, reconfigured, mechamorphosed. When they landed, they were squat, two-legged, waddling gun turrets the size of a house, each with a single massive cannon stretching out before it. The big guns were the mecha’s primary batteries, even more powerful than the tank cannon.

  The Gladiators fired, shoulder to shoulder. It was like a cannonade from the heaviest artillery. Two blue Bioroids went up in furious explosions, then a third. Another jumped clear of its Hoverplatform just as the platform was blown to bits. The Bioroid fired in midair, with a Bioroid-size pistol shaped something like a fat discus held edge-on, and took cover immediately when it hit the ground.

  Other Bioroids were already there, having seen what intense fire the Gladiators could throw into the air. The aliens set up a determined counter-fire with Bioroid small-arms.

  Dana took a deep breath and hopped her Gladiator high, imaging the move through her thinking cap. She landed to one end of a Bioroid firing line to set up an enfilade. But an alien had spotted her, and swung to fire. Dana got off the first shot and holed the outworld mecha through and through with a brilliant lance of energy that left glowing, molten metal around the edges of the point of entry.

  “Gotcha!”

  The Bioroids continued a stubborn, grudging resistance, but it was clear at once that the Hovertank Gladiators had advantages the Veritech Battloids didn’t. They were bigger, more powerful, and more heavily armored, and carried greater firepower. On the ground, slugging it out toe to toe, the Bioroids had met their match.

  Deafening volleys of nova cannonfire hammered back and forth in the little valley; Bioroids fell, discovering that without their Hovercraft they were on an equal footing with the ATACs.

  The firelight raged on, neither side gaining or losing much ground. Suddenly, the red Bioroid leapt high from its position behind the blues. Showing great dexterity, it avoided the few cannon rounds that the startled Gladiators got off at it, to land between two 15th mecha. It blasted one at point-blank range, and turned to fire at the second even as the other Gladiator swung its barrel around desperately.

  The red Bioroid fired into the second Gladiator while the first was erupting in a fireball; the second Earth mecha, too, went up in a groundshaking explosion. The red jumped again, to continue its awesome offensive.

  Dana shook herself to get over the shock of it; two troopers dead in seconds, two mecha utterly destroyed, and the red bounding on to attack again. All right, Dana! she told herself firmly. Show ’em what you’ve got! “Dante, switch your team to Battloid mode, now!”

  She did the same, jumping her mecha to a better firing position. The craft went through mechamorphosis in mid-air, taking on the form of a huge Human-shaped battleship, an ultratech knight. Half the 15th reared up now in Battloid form, the remainder hunkered down in Gladiator to give fire support.

  The blue Bioroids seemed daunted, surprised at the mechamorphosis and unsure about coming to grips with the Humaniform machines. But the red Bioroid carried the attack once more, aiming the massive disc-pistol at Dana and unleashing a raging bolt of energy.

  “Oh, no, y’don’t!” She jumped her Battloid high as
the shot annihilated the ground where she had stood. At her command the Battloid took its plasma rifle—which was the tank’s cannon now reconfigured—into its hands as it flew through the air. Dana fired on the fly, muttering, “Now it’s your turn!”

  The red ducked, then raced to meet her as her Battloid landed with a deft flip. In moments they were ducking it out in the rocks nearby, springing up to fire at each other, then diving for cover again, while the rest of the 15th engaged the invaders once more. Without the red to lead them, the blues’ assault faltered.

  But in the meantime, Dana was fighting a desperate duel against a very capable foe. What’s more, she couldn’t lose the strange feeling that she knew this machine, knew something all-important and fateful about it. It was stronger than mere déjà vu, more like an emphatic Vision.

  She spotted Louie Nichols’s Gladiator on the cliffs above her. “Gimme some covering fire, Louie!”

  “Yo!” The magnification in Louie’s goggles was at normal, and they were letting in all available light even though they were still opaque from the outside. He relied on his tank’s range finder rather than on the one in his goggles as he swung hard on the steering grips, imaged the shot through his helmet receptors, and got ready to let one off.

  The red spied him just as he took aim, and leapt. Louie was so busy trying for the shot, trying to lead his bounding target just right, he didn’t realize one of the assault craft had swung in low over the battle.

  The cannon round hit the craft’s underbelly almost dead center, jolting it—perhaps the most bizarre event of a bizarre day. The Bioroids halted, seemed to listen to something, and began retreating.

  In moments their Hovercraft came to the surviving invaders, summoning them like faithful hunting hounds. The enemy mecha jumped aboard, and raced for their ship. As it turned to go, the red Bioroid paused to look at Dana one last time. It seemed to be staring right into her eyes, thinking thoughts that were meant for her. Once more she had the strange sensation, like some impossible memory, that she and the foe had some essential bond.

  “We did it, Lieutenant!” Angelo called out, elated, over the tac net. “Not bad for a baptism of fire!”

  “Sir, all enemy mecha and landing craft have withdrawn,” Green reported to Rolf Emerson. “They ran for it as if they weren’t going to stop until they were home. The mother ship has moved back to a geostationary orbit. You were right, General; we sent them packing once before and today we did it again! All units are at yellow alert and awaiting further orders.”

  Emerson turned from his contemplation of Monument City. “G2 Intelligence staff has concluded, and I concur, that the aliens are here for our Protoculture supply, gentlemen. You may be sure that we will see them again.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Rochelle, Emerson’s adjutant, looked dismayed. Colonel Green said gruffly, “Let ’em! My boys and girls’re ready, anytime!”

  But it was depressing news. Protoculture was essential to the operation of Robotechnology, and the Earth’s supply was limited. As far as Humans knew, all that remained of it was what was left after the Robotech War. The Zentraedi had originally invaded Earth to claim the Protoculture Matrix from Zor’s crashed ship, but subsequent investigation had failed to turn up anything. It seemed the last remaining means for the actual production of Protoculture was gone forever.

  Zentraedi and Humans alike were unaware of what lay beneath the three burial mounds near the ruins of Macross City—of the trio and wraiths who guarded the wreckage of the SDFs 1 and 2 and Khyron’s vessel, and the unique treasure they protected.

  “Damage report?” Emerson said.

  “Fighting was contained to unpopulated areas,” Green answered.

  “Minimal losses; Fifteen ATAC squad stopped those aliens’ butts cold, sir,” Rochelle added.

  Emerson nodded. “The Fifteenth, hmm? Looks like Lieutenant Phillips gets himself another commendation.”

  Rochelle ahemmed. “He wasn’t there, sir; they didn’t get him out of the slammer in time. Lieutenant Dana Sterling led the squad today.”

  Emerson permitted himself a proud smile. “Ah, Dana. Yes.”

  The drudgery of checking over all their mecha and equipment after the battle, preparing to go into combat again at a moment’s notice, was sobering work to the 15th. They had won, but they had taken losses, too; dead and wounded who might easily have been any of those who came through unscathed.

  After they got the order to stand down, they worked, fighting every instant and every portion of the battle again, over and over, among themselves; recounting and arguing, joking and lamenting.

  It was still going on up in the ready-room, when the door opened and Sean Phillips walked in, escorted by Nova Satori. “Hi, guys. Life pretty boring without me around, was it?”

  “We managed to keep ourselves occupied.” Louie grinned.

  Nova snapped, “By order of the commander, Alpha Tactical Armored Corps, Sean Phillips is reduced to the rank of private, second class.”

  Everyone in the room gasped. Nova went on. “And as for you, Sterling—”

  Dana snapped to attention. “Whatever I did this time, ma’am, I’m ready and willing to accept disciplinary action.”

  “Quiet!” Nova barked. “You’ve been promoted to permanent command of the Fifteenth, Lieutenant. Don’t blow this chance, because I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” Nova turned and exited. Except for Sean, everybody there was watching Dana.

  The computer-controlled bar that dispensed only non-alcoholic drinks to those on duty was ready to serve something a little stronger. Sean had already eased over to it, and was taking a long pull from a tall glass. “Private Second Class Phillips!”

  Sean spat out part of his drink as Dana shouted his name. “I’ll be watching you” she told him.

  Sean looked startled, then gave her a dose of the famous grin. “Just give the word. I’m yours to command, Lieutenant.”

  There was knowing laughter and some catcalling from the rest of the 15th, but Dana was satisfied that the point was made, and that everyone accepted the change of command. She couldn’t afford to have Sean second-guessing her, or having her troops expect him to.

  Sean was a great soldier and a definite asset, but she didn’t think much of the idea of putting a busted CO back in the outfit he had commanded. But it looked like she would have to live with it.

  Later, in the shower, she ran over the things she would have to get done as soon as possible. Replacements for the casualties and the destroyed Hovertanks would be coming in, and she would have to do some reshuffling of her Table of Organization and Equipment. There would be training and more training, to make the 15th a well-integrated fighting unit once more—and little time to do it in.

  In the midst of all her ruminations she suddenly stopped, standing stiffly, immobilized. As vividly as if it were actually there before her, she saw the red Bioroid again … felt again that strange sensation of a bond between them.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  I am satisfied that I’ve now ended any blasphemous talk of treating with the aliens, either among my subordinates or the Council. These aliens are an abomination, a violation of the Divine Plan; we must exterminate them all. That is our holy obligation.

  From the personal journal of Supreme Commander Anatole Leonard

  REASSURING MEDIA ANNOUNCEMENTS OF THE SITUATION were quickly followed by a formal declaration of war. The armored troops posted on street corners and patrolling everywhere were more for the civilians’ peace of mind than any deterrent value.

  But the Human race had been very much a military culture since the Global Civil War and, organized along feudal lines under the UEG, accepted the necessity that it must fight once again.

  “Headquarters’ thinking is that we can’t sit around and wait for them to make the next move,” Rochelle told the assembled officers. “The opinion is that their Robotechnology and scientific edge outweighs our numbers and home-field advantage. We’ve got to start calling the pl
ay—draw them out with fighters, lay in a missile barrage on that flagship. We’ve got to keep them off balance.”

  “It’s just not in our blood to sit and wait for them to call all the shots,” a G3 light-colonel agreed.

  A G2 intel major took off his glasses, shaking his head. “But their counterattack might end up annihilating our entire defense force, don’t you understand that?”

  “That’s right, it’s insane to attack now! It’s like jabbing a stick into a hornets’ nest—a very short stick,” a recon captain laughed harshly.

  “That will do!” Rochelle bit out the words, and the assembled officers subsided. Dana looked up and down the table, studying them.

  Marie Crystal was there; so was Fredericks. So were some other ATACs people, some Civil Defense—it was odd to know that her unit’s survival might depend on these people, or theirs on her.

  “The decision has been made,” Rochelle went on. “You in this Strikeforce will carry the war to the enemy. Lieutenant Sterling’s squad will handle rear guard and provide an entrenched fall-back position. There will be additional coverage from nearby missile and artillery bases and the various ready-reaction units. Lieutenant Crystal, your Black Lions will be our spearhead.”

  They already knew the plan, had the briefing files before them and the tactical displays on screens around the room, but he reviewed for them one more time anyway. When he was finished, Marie said, “We’ll be ready, sir.”

  Dana made a sour face. “Some people have all the luck. Don’t get your tail shot off, Marie.” Marie slipped her a wink.

  “Colonel Fredericks,” Rochelle was saying, “I’m putting these units and their installations on red alert as of now; I want the bases sealed and a full commo blackout imposed. This attack has to come as a complete surprise. No one enters or leaves or communicates with outsiders in any way except by my direct order, understood?”

  Fredericks seemed to be savoring the idea of having his MPs coop up the Strikeforce troops and make them toe the line. “Most affirmative, sir; you can count on it.”