Robotech

by Jack McKinney

  Guards stood on ledges all along the way. Dana wondered if they realized they were scarcely more than so many pop-up targets before the armor and firepower of the Hovertanks. They didn’t seem worried, and that worried her.

  But while she didn’t have words to explain it, something told her that what she was doing was right, that against all logic, what she was doing was what she should be doing. Again she felt connected to something much greater than herself, and breathed a quick prayer that it wasn’t some kind of self-delusion. It was nothing but faith, really, but if she had understood her Academy philosophy courses, what cognitive process wasn’t?

  The guard runabout stopped at a bulkhead hatchway as big as a hangar door, and the tanks settled in behind it, idling.

  “From this point, Musica and two others may continue, but no more. The exchange will be made at once.”

  Dana stood in her cockpit-turret, taking up her tanker’s carbine and slinging it over her armored pauldron. Her winged helmet, with its crest of bright metal, and her flashing armor seemed to daunt the guards a little. “That’s you and me, Bowie.” She couldn’t figure out why the Masters weren’t luring Zor in, too.

  “Right.” Behind Bowie, Musica rose to her feet, to show that she was ready.

  Valkyrie and Re-Tread were escorted among more of those stone-faced corridors Dana remembered so well, and through more technological-looking passageways as well. At last the runabout leading them stopped, and the tanks settled to a halt. At Dana’s signal, Bowie and Musica dismounted to join her, both ATACs carrying their carbines. They were led to a triskelion hatch that rotated open.

  Emerson looked up with a resigned smile. “It’s you.” Dana knew some of it was for her, but most of the general’s warmth was for Bowie.

  “Rolf,” Bowie said simply.

  “General Emerson!” Dana strode over to him, carbine still at sling-arms, as Dennis Brown and Marie Crystal helped him to his feet. “You’re wounded.”

  She could see there wasn’t much she could do with her combat med kit that Brown and Crystal hadn’t already done with theirs. “It’s nothing serious,” the general told her, a lie and they both knew it. “I’m glad you’re here, Dana.”

  Then he turned to Bowie, who stood rooted. “Good to see you, soldier.”

  Bowie inclined his head to his guardian. “Pleasure to be here, General.” But his eyes danced behind his helmet visor, and Dana took an instant from her scheming and calculating to be glad. Whatever had gone wrong between the two had somehow been made right again.

  Dana was figuring the best order of march, meaning to use Musica as insurance—something Musica had already agreed to—when there was a muffled cry. Dana whipped around, the carbine slung down off her shoulder butt first and the muzzle coming up, to see Musica being borne back, wrenched from Bowie’s grasp, and carried through two firing ranks of clone guards. The guards had appeared from nowhere, their backs to what she had assumed was a solid wall—she had fallen for an old trick. The ranks closed, and the guards assumed firing stances.

  “Dana!”

  Sean had never quite heard that tone in Angelo’s voice before, but there wasn’t much time to stop and reflect on it. Sean himself had been preoccupied, worrying about Marie.

  But Dana had left her mike open, and there was no mistaking the sound of a firefight or the lieutenant’s yell for reinforcements.

  “I’ll come with you!” Angelo roared, as the tanks’ thrusters blared. Nova, riding with him, was all for that, thinking of Dennis Brown.

  Sean automatically reverted to a command voice, even though the big sergeant now outranked him.

  “You know your orders! Hold this position! And you, too, Louie; you’ve got to secure the escape route!” Sean fired up Bad News and bashed through the hatch before him while Angelo was still making strangled objections.

  It wasn’t too hard to find the way; Dana and Louie each had a transponder in their armor’s torso-instrumentation pack. Then, Dana’s vanished from the display screen.

  But Bowie’s still functioned, even though Sean couldn’t raise him or the lieutenant over the radio. Sean had clones ducking low every which way, indifferent to their puny small arms fire, laying out an occasional burst just to keep them discouraged.

  The race to get there seemed to take forever. Dana’s signal was dead and she might be, too; and Marie was in there, along with the others….

  He bashed through a final hatch like an iron fist through rice paper, holding fire because he didn’t know where friend or foe might be. Energy bolts began coming his way at once.

  Still he held fire, trying to get his bearings. It was a singular piece of discipline; as someone in an earlier war had remarked, you would shoot your own mother if she happened to charge across your field of fire in battle.

  Bad News settled in for a low hover, as a triad of guards concentrated their fire on it. Sean would wonder later if the clones had any real idea of warfare, would feel as though he had simply executed them. But in the heat of the moment, seeing there were no friendlies near, he laid out a single bolt from the cannon and was on the move even while the immolated bodies were turning to ash.

  He was too zoned-up for combat to feel sorry for them; there was only one thing he cared about, and the voice Sean heard then sent waves of relief and joy pushing through him, remarkable in their intensity.

  “You took your time getting here!” Marie scolded from behind a fluted column, snapping off judicious shots with a fallen guard’s rifle.

  “But my heart was with you all the while. Believe me, my little pigeon!”

  The romance had started, for him, as just one more conquest. When did she come to mean everything to me? Sean couldn’t help wondering, even while trying to keep his mind on business.

  Maybe it was because Marie Crystal wasn’t dazzled by him, having more than enough medals and decorations of her own; or maybe it was bound up in that spooky destiny stuff Dana kept yammering about and Sean refused to accept. Most likely, if he and Marie lived to be together again and spent their whole lives that way, they would still never figure it out, he decided.

  He thought all that in a tiny slice of time, pivoting the Bad News and laying out heavy suppressive fire, blowing beautiful friezes to cinders and fountaining tiles from the deck to keep the enemy’s head down.

  The clones didn’t seem to care about their own lives. Some stood right up into the fire and shrapnel; their small arms counterfire was radiant dotted lines running at every angle across the compartment.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  Emerson! Shoulderer of sorrow!

  Champion of the light! Although—

  It wasn’t given him to know that

  Until his work was done

  Mingtao, Protoculture: Journey Beyond Mecha

  ROLF EMERSON LOOKED UP, CLUTCHING HIS WOUNDED ARM to him, to see Bowie and Musica sheltering in the lee of a column not far away, and a guard clone angling to get a clear shot at them from behind.

  Dispassion and logic were no part of it; Emerson was sprinting headlong through the gauntlet of weapon blasts before rationale had any chance to come to bear. The space between his cover and Bowie’s column was fairly safe; the shots were well directed by then. Emerson launched himself through the air just as the clone pressed his cheek against the stock of his rifle for maximum accuracy, down on one knee.

  There was a split-second image of Musica’s face, frightened, worried for him, Emerson could see.

  So beautiful, it occurred to the general as the charge hit his back. Perhaps she’s the better part of us all; we must listen to her.

  The bolt hit him squarely in the back, vaporizing flesh and singeing bone, setting his tunic afire. The next thing he knew, he was in Bowie’s arms and the clone rifleman had been mowed down by Dana’s fire.

  Sean was walking his tank’s secondary-battery fire back and forth in the compartment; most of the enemy withdrew and the rest died. In moments, the violent echoes gave way t
o silence.

  Bowie threw his helmet aside, kneeling to gather Emerson into his embrace, smelling the charred flesh. “Rolf. Father …”

  Emerson found his hand, gripped the cold alloy. “I heard your music. The night before they sent me to take over ALUCE base, I stood under the barracks window and listened to you play. It was beautiful, Bowie; you have a gift.”

  “I wasn’t—I haven’t—” Bowie wanted to talk about love and found only apologies on his lips, and knew there was no more time.

  Emerson’s hand squeezed the metal-sheathed fingers. “You and Musica … it’s such a good thing, Bowie. You must both teach it. Son.”

  Emerson was still alive for another few seconds, though he would never speak again. He looked up over Bowie’s shoulder to see Dana with her helmet faceplate open. Her armor was seared where the enemy bolt had burned out her transponder, but failed to wound her.

  She might have even more to teach than Bowie or Musica, it occurred to him. Dana gave him a nod, knowing words wouldn’t serve. Then she slipped away out of sight, rifle held at high port.

  Emerson saw with some surprise that the world wasn’t going dark, the way traditional lore said it would. Instead, the range of his vision and perception went out and out, encompassing things wonderful and terrible, things defying all description—a terrible beauty beside which mortal life seemed a lesser matter.

  There was a celebration of light around him, and he threw himself forth willingly. The Universe embraced him, opening all secrets, answering every question.

  In his protected sanctum, Dr. Zand, monitoring the battle through technical relays and paths of information of his own, suddenly straightened as if he were about to suffer a stroke. But he relaxed again in a moment, breathing raggedly.

  He grasped the front of Russo’s tunic. “Emerson is dead! The Moment comes! Gather my special equipment!” He sent the smaller man on his way with a shove.

  As Russo slunk away, Zand began unbuttoning his uniform jacket. Nevermore would he wear false colors! It was time to garb himself in more fitting vestments.

  Today a new Universe begins!

  Nova was wearing a spare suit of ATAC armor, a thing with long horns that had originally belonged to Cutter, who had died in that first assault on the mother ship. She looked a little like a metallic steer, gazing back in the direction from which the two tanks—formerly three—had come on their rescue mission.

  “I don’t see Zor anywhere,” she leaned down to tell Angelo Dante. “He’s sneaked off somewhere.”

  In another part of the mother ship, Zor stepped his red Bioroid forth, stalking the passageways, willing to die so long as he could work his revenge. For a moment the image of Dana’s face was before him, for no reason he could name, but he thrust it aside and went on again, the ultimate intellect, bereft of any thought but revenge.

  “Sarge, these passageways all look the same to me!” Louie called over the tac net. “How’ll we ever find them?” Some new interference was jamming all long-range commo and even blotting out Bowie’s transponder.

  “We keep lookin’,” Angelo said. Damn Phillips anyway, for not marking his trail!

  Just then figures came dashing and dodging from a side passageway up ahead, fire ranging all around them from behind. “It’s Lieutenant Crystal and Lieutenant Brown!” Louie yelled.

  Bowie and Musica came close after, ducking for cover at either side of the passageway, as the two TASC pilots did. Intense fire from the guards splashed from the bulkheads. The guards’ counterattack was so sudden and determined that the Humans had been forced to leave Emerson’s body behind.

  Sean’s holding action back in the “senate” chamber wasn’t keeping all the guards pinned down. More showed up, from the other direction, with a clear line of fire. But before they could cut down their prey, a sustained burst from a Hovertank’s secondary batteries felled them all in a squall of blazing rapid-fire bolts.

  Bowie and the others turned and, stunned, saw Dana drift her Valkyrie to a stop, its quad-barrels sending up shimmering heat waves.

  Bowie was momentarily confused. Hadn’t Re-Tread and Dana’s tank been parked in the other direction? He hadn’t seen her slip away while Emerson lay dying, to make an almost suicidal dash for her mecha.

  Now she jumped up in her cockpit and fired with her carbine, afraid that the heavy guns might hit friend as well as foe. A last guard pitched from a ledge just above her friends’ heads. Then she whirled and fired into a guard runabout that was bearing down on her from the opposite side; the runabout’s windshield melted and the little vehicle rolled, throwing guards every which way, and plowed to a stop.

  Sean fought his way free and caught up, as Angelo, Nova, and Louie came to a stop with blaring retros. While Dennis Brown and Bowie supported Sean in holding back the guards who had chased them from the “senate,” Marie Crystal jumped into the runabout and got it started up.

  Musica, Bowie, and Brown piled in. Marie gunned away, convoyed by the four Hovertanks. It was only then that Dana realized Zor was missing.

  The decision had been made to strike, the Humans’ determination to fight notwithstanding.

  “We must consolidate our strength,” Dag declared. “Eliminate all clones functioning beneath an efficiency factor of eighty percent.” The other four mother ships and most of the combat vessels were almost useless for combat now, depleted as they were; the flagship was the only remaining hope.

  Jeddar started to object. He knew that the Master didn’t mean simply denying the clones Protoculture, but also to eject them from the flagship.

  “They may not submit to elimination, m’lord,” Jeddar pointed out.

  “Then confine them for the moment!” Shaizan lashed out. “And get ready to dispose of them. Begin the assault on the buried Matrix below!”

  Even the fanatic loyalty of the guard clones failed before the massed firepower of the tanks; in time the running firefight became an unchallenged withdrawal. Dana couldn’t believe the Masters didn’t have more of their Triumviroids around—but why weren’t they using them?

  The ATACs had lost their bearings, and even Musica couldn’t tell where they were. They burned through hatches, and came at last to a hangar deck where whiskbroom-shaped assault ships were ranked side by side.

  There was only time for brief kissing and hugging—passionate between Sean and Marie, more reserved but plainly heartfelt between Nova and Dennis—before the question of how to get out alive took center stage.

  Marie and Dennis weren’t sure if they could fly an assault ship; planetary approaches in an unfamiliar spacecraft were a lot different from joyrides in a guard runabout.

  “See what you can do,” Dana said, revving Valkyrie. “I’m going back for Zor.”

  Angelo felt like tearing out his hair. “Lieutenant, this just ain’t fair! It ain’t army!”

  “I’m not working for the army anymore, Angie,” she threw back, the tank pivoting on its thrusters. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, go on without me.”

  She was scarcely gone when Bowie and Musica went to stand before the sergeant hand in hand. “I’m going back, too,” Bowie announced. “Musica says her people are in terrible danger.”

  “I can sense it,” she explained. “My sisters and I are linked—are one.”

  Bowie touched her shoulder gently. “It’s all right; we’ll find them.” Perhaps this was part of the teaching that Rolf Emerson had said he and Musica must do; in any case, Bowie knew he couldn’t abandon Musica’s people.

  Suddenly, Nova stepped forward, letting go of Dennis’s hand. “I’ll go with you. Dana’s right: We’re not working for the army anymore, and it’s time for the dying to stop.”

  Then Brown joined her, and Marie; Angelo Dante surrendered to the inevitable. The flying officers outranked him, but that meant nothing since this was a Hovertank operation. “Sean, you ‘n’ Lieutenant Crystal stand pat here with Bad News and hold this position! See if you can figure out how to fly these things. Rest of
ya, do me a favor and try not to screw up.”

  The Southern Cross had rallied everything it had, mobilizing reserves and arming any willing civilian, no questions asked. Cops, students, robots, convicts, bureaucrats, homemakers, kid gangs—the Human race readied its remaining resources for a last-ditch stand.

  What regular forces there were would go out and meet the approaching flagship head-on; the rest would wait, to fight it out on home soil if that was what it came to.

  Supreme Commander Leonard heard details of the hasty preparations, then dismissed his staff for a moment to see to a matter of personal readiness. Opening his desk drawer, he checked to make sure that the charge in his pistol was full.

  He burned again with his loathing of the aliens. Leonard tucked the gun into his tunic and closed the drawer. He had no intention of letting those monsters take him alive.

  It smashed its way through a stone partition and came face to face with three red Bioroids. Perhaps they recognized Zor’s mecha as that of their onetime battle lord, or perhaps not; it made no difference.

  Even if they had been operating at peak efficiency, the Triumviroids would have found Zor a formidable opponent. But they were depleted—scarcely any kind of match for him at all.

  He dropped them with fast, accurate shots from the thick, discus-shaped handgun his Bioroid carried, its muzzle bigger than a howitzer’s. But as he stepped into the compartment, three more reds dropped from above, springing their ambush.

  Zor proved how experience counted; his Bioroid held up a great slab of stone to shield itself from the ambushers’ fire, then blazed away in response, leaping high. He dropped one, two, three, holed through at the point where their operating clones sat curled in the control spheres.

  Zor broke into yet another compartment only to see a high ledge lined with Triumviroids, dozens of them, waiting for him. Here and there were armed guardsmen, looking like insects among the mecha.