But it never came to that. The Irish fence contacted them at the hotel on Reforma Nueva: the shipment had been retrieved and there was something he wanted them to hear. They were to leave at once for an address on Victoria.
The address corresponded to a theater out by the pyramids. Teotihuacan’s Temple of the Sun—partially stripped for building materials—loomed over everything in the area. At the theater entrance, Wolfe and Malone were frisked by two armed Zentraedi sporting dark glasses, then escorted inside. A handful of Cassidy henchmen seated in the front rows were applauding and whistling in a mocking fashion.
On stage were Cassidy himself—left arm in a sling—and two others: an aged, dark-complected man in a bloodstained surgical gown, and the obvious source of that blood, a Zentraedi woman gagged and tied to an armchair. Just now her head was bent forward, and her long brown hair was touching her bare knees. The hair concealed much of her torso, and for that—and arriving late—Wolfe was grateful. If she wasn’t already dead, she would be soon.
“Ah, and it’s a fine day in Freetown,” Cassidy said in a theatrical voice. He gestured to the torturer. “Soldiers, meet Antonio Ramos … interpreter.”
Like Neela Saam, Ramos was a notorious name in Freetown. A noted heart surgeon before the War, he now controlled the trade in narcotics throughout Central America and was rumored to dabble in ritual black magic.
“I told you we’d find them, and so we have,” Cassidy continued. “Three were killed defending the truck they stole from me, but we’ve learned a good deal from this one.”
He walked to the chair and lifted the woman’s head by the hair; she was certainly dead. Malone clamped a hand over his mouth and angled his head away from the stage.
“The four were members of a group that calls itself the Senburu, though I’ve no proof that Neela set them on us. This one claimed they’ve been watching the Crimson Ghosts for some time, knowing the Ghosts are providing weapons and parts to any and all buyers—even those whose aims aren’t always in synch with the malcontents.”
Wolfe was appalled by Cassidy’s sadism, but forced himself to ask the man what else the Zentraedi had revealed about the Senburu.
“Only that they’re not operating in Mexico, as I was led to believe, but in the Southlands.”
“Where in the Southlands?” Wolfe pressed.
“She was mute on that point. But she did confess that her group needed the tank parts.”
Wolfe’s brow furrowed. “Did she say why?”
“For something she called a ‘stinger.’ ”
The first reports to reach Monument City were sketchy: all anyone knew was that a convoy under RDF escort had been attacked near the city of Goias, in the Southlands, and there were civilian casualties and extensive destruction. Then, as an accurate picture of the malcontent raid began to emerge, the UEG’s Select Committee on Military Policy convened in extraordinary session in the hardened subbasement of the Capitol Building. The government was represent by senators Milburn, Stinson, and Huxley; the RDF by Reinhardt and Hunter. Also in attendance were intelligence chief Niles Obstat and weapons specialist Dr. R. Burke. Burke had just arrived from the factory satellite and had yet to get his surface legs; Reinhardt and Hunter had just arrived from fly fishing in the Rockies and were still in their civvies.
“The most recent update lists 205 dead,” Huxley was saying, reading from a fax sheet. “That total includes two RDF pilots, a tank commander, and three enlisted-ratings attached to the construction battalion. Teams from Cuiabá Base are still picking through the wreckage, and Field Marshal Leonard is demanding to know what we intend to do about the attack. The Army of the Southern Cross has moved two companies into Mato Grosso, where they’re awaiting word from Leonard.”
Rick listened to Huxley’s report with growing alarm. If the RDF didn’t act decisively, Leonard would have the excuse he needed to assert control over the whole of the southern Amazonia. The showdown that could result carried the potential for military confrontation. The pattern that had led to the Global Civil War was being woven again.
“Do you have the names of the VT pilots?” he asked after a moment.
“First lieutenants Dieter Baumann and Liu Houze.”
Rick nodded gravely. “I know them. And I can’t accept that either of them would allow the enemy to get that close to the convoy.” His voice betrayed his bewilderment. “The rebels don’t have any mecha sophisticated enough to subvert our scanners or employ countermeasures. Exactly how many vehicles were hit?”
“One hundred and ninety,” Huxley said grimly. “Almost the entire convoy. It was a massacre.”
Rick wrote the number on a notepad. “Do we have reliable intel on the number of enemy mecha involved?”
Huxley cut her eyes to Obstat.
“One,” Obstat said.
Rick stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
Obstat cleared his throat. “Eyewitness reports state that one craft was responsible for all the destruction.”
“Impossible,” Reinhardt told him. “Even a fully laden Officer’s Pod isn’t capable of delivering that much destructive power. Cuiabá’s eyewitnesses are obviously in shock.”
Obstat’s expression confirmed that he had expected skepticism. “Cuiabá found no evidence of atomics, plasmics, or pulse lasers used against the vehicles. Detonation footprints point to the exclusive use of multiple independently targeted warheads—probably Decas and Mongooses. Descriptions supplied by the ten survivors who could talk were assembled and handed over to a computer for evaluation.” Obstat struck a key on his terminal that lit the wallscreen. “Here’s what the machine came up with.”
Approximately the size of a Gladiator, the headless mecha that appeared onscreen had armored limbs and carried a bulbous, twin-lobed thruster array on its shoulders. Everyone regarded the thing in bafflement.
“Any thoughts, Dr. Burke?” Senator Stinson asked.
The Robotechnician plucked nervously at his chin. “I’ve seen something like this before, but I’ll need to consult my files before I can say where or when. My inclination, however, is to suggest that it’s a variation of Zentraedi Female Power Armor.”
The most maneuverable of the aliens’ self-propelled exoskeletons, Female Power Armor—also known as the Queadlunn-Rau battle suit—was a deadly combination of missile launchers, autocannons, and triple-barreled pulse lasers, enhanced by a high-speed focusing sight built into the faceplate and an inertia-vector control system that regulated acceleration and fuel efficiency in the absence of Protoculture cells. Unlike the Battlepod, Power Armor had mechanically operated legs and arms, and was capable of speeds in excess of Mach four; and unlike Male Power Armor, which was essentially a deepspace labor mecha, it was designed to meet the rigors of intra-atmospheric flight.
Rick did some quick calculations on his notepad. “The total payload of Female Power Armor is only, what, about one hundred and twenty short-range missiles.”
“One hundred and twenty-six,” Burke corrected.
“Still, allowing for targeting errors and such, we’d have to be talking about at least two battle suits, possibly three.”
“Unless this one has undergone substantial modification, as is indeed suggested by the computer’s rendering.”
Rick looked to Obstat. “Have you had any advance intelligence on this weapon?”
“I think we have. From a Captain Jonathan Wolfe, squadron commander in Cavern City.”
Rick nodded. “I know Wolfe. What about him?”
“Seems he recently took it upon himself to visit Freetown to buy parts for some Centaur tanks he’s overhauling. In any case, his little shopping foray was almost thwarted by members of an all-female Zentraedi group called the Senburu. They apparently tried to hijack his tank parts to use for a mecha they’re assembling—something they referred to as a ‘stinger.’ ”
Rick glanced at the wallscreen. “Is that what we’re looking at—a Stinger?”
“They didn’t build this mac
hine out of twenty-year-old Centaur tank parts,” Burke said. “Destroid hardware, certainly. Along with an abundance of Protoculture circuitboards. There’s no other way to account for its operation by one or two pilots.”
Huxley glanced around the table. “Are Protoculture cells suddenly available on the black market?”
Obstat shook his head. “Not in quantity.”
“What about the Senburu?” Rick asked the intelligence chief. “If they’re headquartered in Mexico, why would they attack a convoy thousands of miles away?”
“We don’t know that they are headquartered in Mexico.” Obstat struck another terminal key, calling a map of the world onscreen. “This is our latest breakdown of malcontent bands and territories. All we show for Mexico and Central America are the Crimson Ghosts, an all-male group led by a Zentraedi named Jeram Salamik. The Southlands have three known groups: a band known as the Shroud, based in the north; the Paranka, or Burrowers, in the Argentine; and however many remain of Khyron’s Fist. Africa has the Iron Ravens and perhaps a splinter group from the Quandolma, and India’s seen some malcontentism by the Lyktauro. But the only all-female band we’ve heard about is the Claimers, whose actions so far have been restricted to Australia and New Zealand.”
Senator Milburn scarcely let Obstat finish. “It appears to me that the malcontents have continued to organize, despite Field Marshal Leonard’s move in Cairo.”
“The number and the talent pool of their Human allies must be increasing as well,” Burke said. “I can assure you, this Stinger’s control and management operating systems were not engineered without Human assistance. Or without someone with hands-on experience in mecha engineering.”
Milburn gave his head a mournful shake. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone here how news of this attack is going to be received in Monument and other cities. People are going to demand reprisals, and if we falter, they’re going to be looking to Anatole Leonard.”
Rick shot Milburn a look. “We can only take reprisals against the group responsible, and we can’t do that until we’ve located them.”
“I disagree, Admiral,” Stinson rejoined. “While the Senburu may have been directly responsible, they are obviously being funded and supplied by other Zentraedi—perhaps from the Arkansas Protectorate.”
“Arkansas’s aliens are friendlies,” Rick objected. “You can’t punish them for the violent actions of others.”
Milburn answered him. “But that’s precisely the point: we can’t tell the friendlies from the enemies. Besides, any action taken in Arkansas would be prophylactic, not retaliatory. What we’re really battling is the Imperative, and we simply want to assure those we’ve been empowered to protect that their safety comes first. Or would the RDF prefer to defer to the Army of the Southern Cross?”
Rick gritted his teeth. “I want it on record that I’m opposed to taking any action in Arkansas until proof of complicity can be established.”
“So recorded,” Milburn said. “The UEG will have to vote on any proposed action. In the meantime, I strongly suggest that the Expeditionary force reevaluate the security of its operations aboard the factory satellite.”
In the same way that self-images of obesity could live on in newly thin people, recollections of gianthood persevered in Micronized Zentraedi. Though self-image didn’t count for much when you found yourself at the receiving end of a tongue-lashing by someone the size of Breetai.
“The Protoculture cells used to power the Stinger could only have originated here,” the commander was telling his lieutenants, Jevna Parl and Theofre Elmikk, “and I want the flow of smuggled technology stopped immediately.”
Standing side-by-side on a Human-size catwalk on level seven of the factory satellite, Parl and Elmikk were no more than ten feet from Breetai’s huge, flesh-and-metal face—his eye filled with anger, his breath like malodorous gusts of wind, spittle flying like bucketfuls of water. Exedore was also on the catwalk, silent and observing, and somewhat out of the harm’s way.
“M’lord, the inventories have been checked and rechecked,” Parl replied, “and all Protoculture cells and circuitboards are accounted for.”
Breetai’s lip curled. “If all are accounted for, it’s clear that the contraband was never inventoried. The source is surely the warships our EVA teams are disassembling. What is the procedure for monitoring the workers?”
Parl relaxed somewhat as Breetai’s eye focused on Elmikk, who supervised the labor crews. It was only right that Elmikk bear the brunt of the castigation, Parl thought. As liaison to Lang’s technical crews, Parl rarely saw cells or boards until they were already installed in devices transported to the in-progress SDF-3.
“On reentering the factory,” Elmikk was saying, “both Human and Zentraedi workers leave their suits and gear in the airlock, where everything is scanned for Protoculture. Then the workers themselves are searched.”
“And the heavy work drones?” Sometimes referred to as “Mr. Arms,” the 220-foot-long, multi-armed robots were factory-programmed for hauling cargo and attending to all facets of spaceship maintenance and repair.
“They are thoroughly searched after each operation.”
“Detail how the workers are searched,” Breetai ordered.
“They are made to show their hands, spread their toes, lift their arms, open their mouths …”
“Are they scanned for Protoculture?”
“Your Excellency,” Exedore cut in. “Because of Protoculture present in the genetic composition of the Zentraedi, X-ray or magnetic scanning is considered unreliable.”
“Exedore, there are aspects to this operation that make it something more than mining ore from Fantoma. What if chips are being ingested and excreted?”
Elmikk hesitated. “I don’t know that anyone has addressed that possibility.”
Breetai smirked, and looked at Exedore. “It strikes me that cells might present a problem for the Human digestive system.”
“You are correct, my lord. Only a Zentraedi could carry and pass a Protoculture cell without harm to himself or the device itself. I will confer with Dr. Lang about developing a scanner capable of identifying the presence of other-than-systemic Protoculture.”
“That’s a beginning, but it may not be enough, Exedore. Since you are the sole Zentraedi allowed to travel routinely between the surface and factory, it can be deduced that Human coconspirators are responsible for smuggling the cells down the well.”
Exedore bowed his head slightly. “An astute deduction, m’lord.”
“Then this shouldn’t be our concern,” Elmikk said. “The Humans have their own security procedures for determining which are allowed access to the factory. Let them investigate this matter.”
Breetai regarded Elmikk for a long moment. “Smugglers require product, Elmikk, and that product is being supplied by Zentraedi laborers. Their actions imperil the lives of Human civilians as well as those of our comrades on Earth. So see to it that the work crews understand that Breetai wants the traitors found, and he vows to assume a personal hand in their punishment.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Chief among the RDF’s many failures during this period [the Reconstruction years, 2012–2017] was its tacit approval and participation in Operation Tiger. If Reinhardt and the command staff had been merely hoodwinked by the Milburn-Moran apparat, their actions could be excused as unfortunate; but since evidence abounds that Reinhardt was fully aware of what he was doing by authorizing the operation, the RDF’s participation appears all the more reprehensible. Reinhardt was not entirely to blame, however. Pressured by UEG on one side and by the REF on the other, he constantly ran the risk of alienating one by placating the other. Such were the circumstances forged by the Army of the Southern Cross and the Expeditionary mission. And caught in the middle were the Zentraedi, of all persuasions.… Given the conditions in the Protectorate, it is remarkable that only 32 of the 1396 detainees died.
Jill Boyce, Death Under Canvas
&
nbsp; With the destruction of Dolza’s fortress by the SDF-1, the ships of the Zentraedi Grand Fleet—deprived of any hope of Protoculture replenishment—were suddenly abandoned to the gravitational urgings of the small planet they had come halfway across the galaxy to obliterate. For reasons unknown, Wuer Maatai, commander of the Jiabao Battalion, had opted to steer for Earth’s daylight side; but of the 10,700 Jiabao warships that had survived the nuclear outpowering of the Grand Cannon, only 8,550 were successful in reaching Earth’s envelope, and of those, some 7,000 were soon reduced to little more than glowing meteors whose ballistic descents terminated in impact craters. 1,554 ships, bearing an estimated 1,860,000 animated and torpored alien warriors, struck the surface intact. Less than 100,000 survived. What with ensuing deaths from injuries, illness, and starvation, in addition to the diaspora to Macross and other cities of the Northlands, scarcely 4,000 remained in 2013, roughly a third of whom were full-size.
Because Wuer Maatai did not survive, it was never ascertained whether fate or the commander himself had delivered the Jiabao to south-central North America. The end result was fortuitous, in any case, in that the mountainous, oak, hickory, and maple-forested northwest corner of the former state of Arkansas comprised the calm center of a swirling firestorm that ultimately incinerated St. Louis, Atlanta, Dallas, and Oklahoma City.
Simultaneous with the fiery arrival of the Jiabao, the bulk of Arkansas’s Human population abandoned their homes and businesses and fled the area, only to die of radiation poisoning at the edges of their safe haven. The few that remained forged a wary truce with the Zentraedi, but one that grew stronger as illness and the traumatizing effects of defeat settled over the bereft aliens; and within months the two groups of survivors were working hand in hand—the Humans assisting in repairing the XTs’ nutrient synthesizers; the giants helping to rebuild what their warships had atomized or crushed.
The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 20
