Dr. Lazlo Zand,
On Earth As It Is In Hell: Recollections of the Robotech War
"Therefore, it is our conclusion, based upon the available information, that human and Zentraedi are descended from very nearly the same ancestors!"
Exedore leaned back in the chamber's straight-backed chair to cast a look around the circular table as the weight of his pronouncement sank in. Continued exposure to Earth's sun these past two years had brought out strong mauve tones in his skin and turned his hair an ochre red.
To his immediate right was the somewhat dour-looking Professor Zand, a shadowy figure who had emerged from Lang's Robotech elite; to Zand's right were two Zentraedi, micronized like Exedore and sporting the same blue and white Robotech Defense Forces uniforms. Clockwise around the table to Exedore's left were Claudia Grant, the SDF-2s First Officer-a handsome and intelligent representative of Earth's black race-Commanders Lisa Hayes and Rick Hunter (Made for each other, Exedore often said to himself), and Admiral Gloval, serious as ever.
The rich golden warmth of Earth's sun poured into the fortress through two banks of skylights set opposite each other in the conference room's cathedral ceiling.
Exedore had been working side by side with Dr. Emil Lang and several
other Earth scientists, deciphering some of the numerous documents Zor had thought to place aboard the SDF-1 over a decade ago. But his announcement of Terran and Zentraedi similarity came as the result of an extensive series of medical tests and evaluations. The distinction Human or Zentraedi no longer applied; indeed, it was beginning to look as though there existed-lost somewhere in time-an ancestor race common to both.
Exedore had noticed that the Terrans accepted this with less enthusiasm than might otherwise be expected. Perhaps, he speculated, it was due to the fact that they continued to reproduce in the natural way, whereas the Zentraedi had long ago abandoned that unsure method for the certainty of genetic manipulation. In Earthspeak the word was "clone"; the Zentraedi equivalent approximated the English term "being."
New discoveries awaited them in the documents, especially in the latest batch of trans-vids uncovered. Exedore had yet to view these, but there were indications that they would provide answers to questions concerning the historical origins of the Zentraedi race, answers that might shed light on the origins of the Terrans as well. All evidence pointed to an extraterrestrial origin, an issue hotly debated by Earth scientists, most of whom believed that the Human race evolved from a tree-dwelling primate species that had roamed the planet millions of years ago.
But if all these protohistorical answers were coming fast, the whereabouts of the Protoculture matrix Zor had built into the ship remained a mystery. Hardly a place had been left uninvestigated by Exedore, Breetai, Lang, and the others; and Zand had even suggested that the Protoculture was in hiding!
Responses to Exedore's announcement proved varied: The misshapen, gnomish Zentraedi heard Claudia's sharp intake of breath and Lisa Hayes's "Ah-hah," voiced in a fashion that suggested she had expected no less. Commander Hunter, on the other hand, sat with eyes wide in a kind of fear-the personification of a certain xenophobic mentality that permeated Terran Cultures.
Gloval was nodding his head, saying little. His white commander's cap
was pulled low on his forehead, so Exedore couldn't read his eyes.
"So, Admiral," Exedore continued, leaning into the table. "There is little doubt-our genetic makeup points directly at a common point of origin."
"That's incredible!" Gloval now exclaimed.
"Isn't it? While examining the data, we noticed many common traits, including a penchant on the part of both races to indulge in warfare."
This brought startled reactions around the Terran side of the table. "Yes," Exedore said flatly, as if to forestall any arguments before they
had a chance to flare up. "Both races seem to enjoy making war."
Rick Hunter held his breath, counting to ten. How could the Zentraedi believe his own words, he asked himself, when it was love and not war that had doomed the Zentraedi to defeat? The Zentraedi race had started the entire conflict, and Rick nursed a suspicion that this pronouncement of Exedore's was his way of letting himself off the hook.
Exedore seemed to be enjoying his so-called micronized state, and Rick further suspected that this had more to do with a new sense of power the small man had gained than it did with exploring the ship for this Protoculture factory that had yet to turn up. Exedore couldn't bear to admit to himself that his commanders had waged a war for something that didn't even exist; they had nearly brought destruction to both races, chasing after some goose that was supposed to lay golden eggs. Truly, this was the saga that would go down in their history as legend: the pursuit of a ship that supposedly held the secrets of eternal youth, the capture of one hollow to the core.
Rick looked hard into Exedore's lidless pinpoint-pupiled eyes. He didn't like the idea of Exedore poking into every nook and cranny in the fortress, acting as if it was more his property than Earth's. Only a moment ago the Zentraedi had seemed to be sizing him up, well aware of the effect of his words. Rick wasn't about to disappoint him.
"Well, with all due respect," he began acidly, "I disagree. We don't fight because we like to-we fight to defend ourselves from our enemies. So, under
the circumstances we have no choice in the matter. Do you understand?"
Rick's hand was balled up into a fist. Lisa and Claudia looked at him in surprise.
"That's nonsense, Commander," said Professor Zand, who had Dr. Lang's marblelike eyes. He stood up, palms flat on the table, to press his point. "There have always been wars in progress somewhere on Earth, even before the invasion from space. I think this clearly indicates the warlike nature of Humans."
Another Zentraedi sympathizer, thought Rick. And talking like an alien to boot. He began to stammer a response, always feeling outgunned when up against academics, but Zand interrupted him.
"A perfect example: Look what happened on Earth when the peacemakers tried their best to prevail. They formed the League of Nations and the United Nations, both of which failed!"
Rick got to his feet confrontationally. What did all this have to do with Humans enjoying war? The best he would allow was that some humans enjoyed war but most didn't. Most enjoyed...love.
"I can't believe you'd simplify the facts like that," Rick shouted. "You're practically rewriting history!"
"Facts, sir, do not lie," said Zand.
Rick was about to jump over the table and convince the man, but Exedore beat him to the punch, fixing Zand with that unearthly gaze of his and saying:
"We're merely telling you the results of our best data analysis. Please don't interject your opinions."
So when we have something to say, it's an opinion, and when they have something to say, it's a fact, Rick thought, restraining himself.
Gloval cleared his throat meaningfully.
"Fascinating...So we're all descended from the same race, are we? And who can say in what direction all of us are headed. We may never know..."
Rick dropped back into his seat, staring off into space. Whatever happens, he told himself, we mustn't ever allow ourselves to become like the
Zentraedi, devoid of emotions-no better than robots. Never!
The conference room, scene of Exedore's briefing, was located on level
34 of the new fortress, the so-called SDF-2, which had been under construction for almost as long as the city of New Macross itself. The space fortress was a virtual copy of the SDF-1 and currently sat back to back with it, linked to its parent by hundreds of transfer and service corridors, in the center of the circular human-made lake known now as Gloval, in honor of the admiral. The arid, high plateaus of northwestern North America seemed ideally suited to the reconstruction of the city that had once grown up inside the original super dimensional fortress. The area was cool compared to the background radiation of the devastated coastal corridors, untainted water was plentiful enou
gh, the climate was temperate, and there was no shortage of space. As a result the city had risen swiftly, prospered, and spread out from the lake, a burgeoning forest of skyscrapers, high rises, and prefab suburban dwellings. In the two years since its founding, the population of New Macross had increased tenfold, and its was considered (though not officially recognized as) the Earth's capital city.
New Macross had its share of Zentraedis, though not nearly as many as the cities that had grown up at alien crashpoints throughout the continent-New Detroit and nearby Monument City chief among them. The Zentraedi enjoyed less freedom than the Humans, but this was conceived of as a temporary measure to allow for gradual readjustment and acculturation. Most Zentraedi had opted for micronization, but many retained their original size. However, control of the Protoculture sizing chambers fell under the jurisdiction of the military government, the Robotech Defense Force, alternatively known as the Earth Forces Government. Micronization was encouraged, but the return to full size of a previously micronized Zentraedi was rarely if ever permitted. This had given rise to a separatist movement, spearheaded by Monument City, which advocated the creation of autonomous Zentraedi free states. Critics of these proposals pointed to increasing incidents of Zentraedi uprising as
justification for maintaining the status quo. The innate blood lust that had earned the Zentraedi their reputation as fearsome warriors was not always so easily overcome and controlled.
At factories in the industrial sector of New Macross City, humans and aliens worked together toward the forging of a united future. The Zentraedi were fond of work, having had no previous experience with it during their long history of enslavement to war. Manual labor or assembly line, it made no difference to them. Giants hauled enormous cargos of wood and raw materials in from the wastelands, while their micronized brethren worked at benches completing electronic components, adding Protoculture chips to Robotech circuit panels-chips that had been salvaged from the ruined ships that dotted the landscape.
But there was tension in the air on this particular day. Unused to a life without war, some of the aliens were beginning to question the new life they had chosen for themselves.
Utema was one of these. A massively built red-haired Goliath who had served under Breetai, he had worked in New Macross for eighteen months, first assembling steel towers in the Micronian population center, then here, scouring the countryside for usable materials. But on one of these forays, he had stumbled upon an encampment of former warriors who had abandoned the Micronian ways, and ever since he had harbored an anger he could not articulate. An urge to...destroy something-anything!
His eyes had seized on one of the factory trucks parked in the fenced-in yard, a harmless tanker truck used for the transport of fuels. He approached it now and booted it, experiencing a long-lost thrill as the toy vehicle exploded and burst into flames.
Laborers at their work stations inside the factory heard Utema bellow: "I quit! I can't stand it! I quit! This is stupid!"
The explosion had rekindled his rage. He stood with his fists clenched, looking for something else to demolish, ignoring the protests of his giant coworker. The two had faced off.
"It's worse than stupid-it's degrading!" Utema roared. "I've had enough!"
Violently, he side-kicked a stack of dressed logs, a guttural cry punctuating his swift move.
"Shut up and don't interfere," he warned his companion. "I'm leaving!" The second giant made no move to stop Utema as he stepped over the chain-link fence and headed off toward the wasteland. Two others had
arrived on the scene, but they too let him walk.
"But where are you going?" one of them called out. "Utema-come back!
You won't survive out there!"
"It's you that won't survive!" Utema shouted back, pointing his finger. "War! War is the only thing that will save us!"
At a supper club in Monument City, Minmei, wearing a gauzy blue dress that hung off one shoulder, stood in the spotlight, accepting the applause. It was nowhere near a full house, and, disappointed by the turnout, she hadn't put on her best show. Nevertheless, those few who had been able to afford tickets applauded her wildly, out of respect or politeness, she couldn't be sure. Perhaps because most of her fans rarely knew when her performance was off-she was her own most demanding critic.
The light was a warm, comfortable curtain she was reluctant to leave.
Kyle was waiting for her backstage in the large and virtually unfurnished dressing room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking sullen and angry. He was dressed in jeans and a narrow-waisted jacket with tails. She could tell he'd been drinking and wondered when he would go into his Jekyll and Hyde number again. No doubt he'd caught all her off notes, tempo changes, and missed words.
"Hi," she greeted him apologetically.
"That was terrible," Kyle snapped at her, no beating around the bush tonight. It was going to be a bad evening, perhaps as bad as the night he had kicked a bottle at her.
"Sorry," she told him mechanically, heading straight for the dressing
table, seating herself on one of the velour stools, and wiping off makeup.
Kyle remained at the wall.
"I'm worried about that charity concert tomorrow-if it goes like this." "I'll be okay," she promised him, looking over her shoulder. "There
were so few people tonight that I was really taken by surprise. Don't worry, I'll be all right tomorrow."
"This is a high-class club," Kyle persisted. "We let our patrons down."
She sighed. He wasn't going to let go of it. She couldn't do anything right anymore. He was constantly lecturing her and trying to change her behavior.
"I know," she said meekly, sincerely depressed-not for disappointing Kyle but for giving anything less than her all to the audience.
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now-the damage is done."
She began applying cr 鑝 e to her face. "You could have reduced the admission price a bit, right?"
"Y' get what you can," Kyle said defensively, shaking his fist at her or the world, she didn't know which. He approached her. "And then, don't you forget, my pet-we'll be sharing the dough we earn with all the poor people, right?"
His scolding voice was full of sarcasm and anger, hinting that she was somehow to blame for his actions: He had to charge a lot for the tickets because she was the one who insisted on splitting all the profits with the needy. Little did Kyle know that she would gladly have worked for no profit. It just didn't seem right anymore to work for money with so much need, so much sadness and misery, in what was left of everyone's world.
"Then why don't we give all the money to charity?" she asked, meeting his glare. "We have enough."
Kyle was down on one knee beside her now, anger still in his eyes but a new tone of conciliation and patience in his voice. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face.
"We have, but not enough to make our dreams come true. You certainly ought to be able to understand that!"
"Yeah, but-"
"We promised ourselves we'd build a great concert hall some day and do all our work there-right?"
She wanted to remind him that they had made that promise years ago, when such things were possible. A great concert hall now-in the middle of this wasteland, with things just beginning to rebuild and isolated groups of people working the land who never strayed five miles from home? But she just didn't have the energy to argue with him. She could imagine the accusatory tone in his voice: You're the one who ought to understand about dreams-you had so many...
"Now, get cleaned up," Kyle ordered her, getting to his feet. "After you get dressed, I'll take you out for a good dinner, okay?"
"I'm not very hungry, Kyle," she told him. He turned on her and exploded.
"We're going to eat anyway! I'll get the car."
The door slammed. She promised herself she wouldn't cry and went to work removing the rest of her makeup, hoping he would mellow somewhat by the time she met him at
the stage door. But that didn't happen.
"Come on, get in," he ordered her, throwing open the sports car's passenger door.
She frowned and slid into the leather seat. Kyle accelerated even before she had the door closed, burning out as they left the club. He knew that she hated that almost as much as she hated the car itself-a sleek, dual frontaxled all-terrain sports car, always hungry for fuel and symbolizing all that she detested in the old world as much as the new: the idea of privilege, status, the haves and have-nots.
"Where would you like to eat?" Kyle said unpleasantly, throwing the vehicle through the gears.
"Your dad's restaurant. We haven't been there in a long time." "I don't want to go there."
"Then why do you bother asking me where I want to eat, Kyle? Just let me off and I'll go there myself!"
"Oh?" Kyle started to say, but swallowed the rest when he realized that Minmei had thrown open the door. An oncoming van veered off, narrowly missing them, as Kyle threw the steering wheel hard to the left to fling her back into the vehicle. But he overcorrected coming out of the resultant fishtail and ended up in a swerve that brought him into oncoming traffic. The car went through several more slides before he could safely brake and bring them to a stop on the shoulder. Afterward he leaned onto the steering wheel and exhaled loudly. When he spoke, all of the anger and sarcasm had left him.
"Minmei...we could have been killed..."
Minmei was not nearly as shaken by the incident, having achieved some purpose.
"I am sorry, Kyle. But I'm really going there, even if I have to walk." She opened the door again and started to exit. "Good-bye."
"No, wait." he stopped her. "Get back in the car." "Why should I?"
"I'll...I'll drive you as far as the city line."
She reseated herself and said, "Thank you so much, Kyle."
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