equal.
And yet, even having taken those steps, he felt no closer to her than before. Her love had no fixed center; it was spread across the board and parceled out in equal packets for one and all to enjoy. A hero wouldn't even be enough for her because she belonged to everyone. She was more spirit than woman, more dream than reality.
Rick slipped into fitful sleep for a short while, only to have Roy wake him out of it. Fokker was just checking in, reminding him that they had to be up early tomorrow.
"Your first combat mission is always the worst, kid. I sympathize with you. Now, get some sleep-count fanjets or something."
Everyone had such encouraging words: At the briefing they'd been told to wrap up their personal business, and now Roy tells him that tomorrow is going to be the worst. Minmei had behaved like a cheerleader, his commanding officer thought him a lecher...It had been quite a day.
So Rick actually took Roy's suggestion-he began counting fanjets-although it wasn't sleep he found in the high numbers but an uncomfortable half state where Commander Hayes and the three bridge bunnies mocked him, and the giant enemy soldier he had confronted on Macross Island was reborn to stalk him.
The reveille call came too quickly. Rick felt like one of the walking dead as he gathered up his gear and zombied his way through morning rituals with the other VT pilots. There was a second preflight briefing, more detailed than the first. Then the men were loaded into personnel carriers and conveyed to the Prometheus. Roy and Rick's group drove through Macross City, past the park where he and Minmei had been together only hours before. The city was asleep, peacefully, blessedly unaware.
Even before the transport vehicle had come to a halt in the hangar of the supercarrier, pilots were hopping out and rushing toward their propped Veritechs. The Thor-class Prometheus-one of two ships that had been caught up in the spacefold and had since been grafted on to the main body of the SDF-1 was like an active hive, and every drone aboard save Rick
seemed certain of his or her duty. He lost Roy in the crowds and stood by the transport scanning for a familiar face among those now rushing by him. He recognized Commander Hayes's voice coming through the PA system.
"All Veritechs report for roll call at Prometheus...All Veritechs report immediately for roll call at Prometheus...Orange, Blue, and Red squadrons will commence flight preparations on second-level afterdeck...All remaining squadrons prepare for takeoff from preassigned locations...Reactor control, bridge requests status report on first and third plasma shields..."
Suddenly Fokker had him by the arm and was propelling him through the hangar, filling his ears with last-minute instructions and words of advice. He gave Rick a quick embrace when they were alongside Skull Team's twenty-three and was soon swallowed up in the crowds again.
Rick was assisted into the pilot's crane sling by two techs, who also issued him boots, gloves, and a "thinking cap"-a sensor-studded helmet that was in some ways an outgrowth of the Global Civil War "virtual cockpits" and essential for rapport with the mecha.
Rick regarded the plane as he was being lowered into the cockpit module. In Fighter mode, the mecha was similar in appearance to the supersonic jets of the late twentieth century. But in actuality, the Veritechs were as different from those as cars were to horse-drawn wagons. The aliens who had engineered the super dimensional fortress had found a way to animate technological creations, and working from examples found onboard the SDF-1, Dr. Lang and his Robotechnicians had been able to fabricate the Veritechs in much the same way-"chips off the old block," as the scientist called the VTs.
Once inside the cockpit, Rick strapped in and donned the helmet; from this point on he was mind-linked to the fighter. There were still plenty of manual tasks to perform, but the central defense capabilities that set the planes apart from their predecessors were directly tied in to the pilots' mecha-will.
The Veritech was fired up now, reflex engines humming, and cat officers were motioning Rick forward. He adjusted the helmet and seat
straps and goosed the throttle to position the fighter onto one of the carrier elevators. A second Skull Team VT joined him there.
As the two crafts were lifted to the flight deck, Rick could see the disc of the sun far off to his left. At the end of the hurricane bow was Saturn, impossibly huge. Commander Hayes was once again on the PA and tac net.
"This operation will be directed toward the Cassini Quadrant. All squadrons will wait in the ice fields of the rings for further instructions."
The ice fields of Saturn's rings, Rick repeated to himself. And he had thought yesterday was bad.
CHAPTER THREE
The so-called Daedalus Maneuver was the first demonstration of what I have termed "mecha-consciousness"-levels beyond the somewhat primitive, almost instinctual modular transformation. The officers of the bridge, along with the engineering section, did little more than offer a prompt to the SDF-1: The dynamics of the maneuver were carried out by the fortress herself, despite claims to the contrary. I, alone, recognized this for what it was-an attempt on the part of the ship to interface with the living units she carried within her...Later I would overhear someone in the corridor say that "the Daedalus Maneuver (would) go down in the annals of space warfare as a lucky break for an incompetent crew." In point of fact, however, the SDF-1 was able to repeat this "accident" on four separate occasions.
Dr. Emil Lang, Technical Recordings and Notes
"It is as you predicted, commander," Exedore said as he entered the flagship's command center.
Without a word, Breetai rose from his seat; a wave of his hand and the projecbeam field began to assemble itself. Here was Zor's ship, still in that bizarre configuration, a speck of gleaming metals caught in starlight and silhouetted against the milky white bands and icy rings of the system's sixth planet. Breetai called for full magnification.
"The Micronians have activated electronic countermeasures and are about to enter the rings," Exedore continued. "They are endangering the ship."
"We cannot permit that."
"I have taken the liberty of contacting Commander Zeril." "Excellent."
A second wave brought Zeril to the screen. He offered a salute. "My Lord Breetai, we await your instructions."
"The Micronians are laying a trap for us, Commander Zeril. It would
suit me to humor them a bit, but I'm concerned about the security of the dimensional fortress. As your scanners will indicate, the enemy has deployed several squadrons of mecha in the hope of luring you to your doom. Send out enough Battlepods to deal with them.
"The Micronian commander will bring his ship from the rings when you are within range of the main gun. I expect you to cripple the fortress before the gun is armed."
"Sir!" said Zeril.
"You understand that the ship is to be disabled, not destroyed. As we speak, relevant data concerning the ship's vulnerable points is being transmitted to your inboard targeting computers. Success, Commander."
"May you win all your battles, sir!"
Zeril's face faded from the field, replaced now by a wide-angle view of the SDF-1 at the perimeter of the ring system. Breetai and his adviser turned their attention to a second monitor where radar scanners depicted the exiting mecha as flashing color-enhanced motes.
"Attacking with such a weak force is completely illogical," Exedore commented. "They seem to have little knowledge of space warfare."
"They have been a planetbound race for too long, Exedore. Caught up in their own petty squabbles with one another."
"Absolutely and totally illogical."
Breetai moved in close to the scanner screen, as if there were some secret message that could be discerned in those flashing lights.
"I don't believe they realize that we are holding back nearly all our forces...But this is an excellent opportunity for us to demonstrate just what they're up against."
No sooner had Rick Hunter executed a full roll to avoid colliding with a chunk of ring ice than Commander Lisa Hayes opened the
net, her angry face on the commo screen lighting up the Veritech cockpit.
"Skull twenty-three! What in blazes are you doing? Just where were you at the briefing-asleep? I'm getting sick and tired of repeating myself:
That kind of stunt flying will give away your position to the enemy! This isn't the time or place for aerobatics, do you copy?!"
"It was just a roll," Rick said in defense of his actions. "I'm not the only one-"
"That'll be enough, Corporal. Follow Skull Leader's instructions, do you copy?"
"All right," he answered sullenly. "I gotcha." But Hayes wasn't finished, not by a long shot.
"Is that the way you address superiors, Hunter? Look around you, bright boy. Everyone else here flies by the rules."
"Roger, roger, Commander, I copy."
"And get your RAS back where it belongs-why are you dropping behind?"
"Hey, you're not flying around up here-" He caught himself and made a new start. "Uh, Skull twenty-three increasing relative airspeed, Commander."
Hayes signed off, and Rick breathed a sigh of relief. This was going to be even more difficult than he had imagined. His first mission, and already he was being razzed by some know-it-all bridge bunny. Just his luck! What did she think, it was easy out here? Oh, to be back in the Mockingbird, Rick thought.
They were flying blind in Saturn's shadow, far from the surface of the rapidly spinning planet and deep in the ice fields of its outermost rings. Rick's eyes were glued to the cockpit screens and displays, and yet even with all this sophisticated instrumentation he had already had several close calls with debris too insignificant to register on the short-range scanners but large enough to inflict damage. He knew that the rest of Skull Team was out there somewhere, but visual contact would have been reassuring right about now-a glimpse of thruster fire, a glint of sunlight on a wingtip, anything at all. Soon enough there would be an added element of danger-the arrival of the enemy Battlepods.
Just then, Roy Fokker appeared on the port commo screen.
"Get ready, fellas, here they come." There's no more flying for fun.
Claudia Grant, the black Flight Officer on the SDF-1's bridge, was monitoring Lisa Hayes's conversation with the young VT pilot when radar informed her of the enemy's counterattack.
Claudia and Lisa had adjacent stations along the curved forward hull of the bridge, beneath the main wraparound bays which now afforded views of the rocks and ice chunks that made up Saturn's rings. Each woman had two overhead monitors and a console screen at her disposal. Elevated behind Lisa's post was the command chair, and behind the captain along the rear bulkheads on either side of the hatch sat Sammie and Kim, each duty station equipped with nine individual screens that formed a grand square. Vanessa was off to starboard, positioned in front of the ten-foot-high threat board.
Claudia's station was linked to those of the three junior officers by radio, but such was her proximity to Lisa's that scarcely a word the commander uttered escaped her hearing. Not that there would have been anything left unshared between them in any case. They had forged a close friendship; Claudia, four years Lisa's senior, often playing the role of older sister, especially in matters of the heart. But for of all her desirable traits, her natural attractiveness and keen intelligence, Lisa was emotionally inexperienced. She projected an image of cool and capable efficiency, rationalizing her detached stance in the name of "commitment to duty." But buried in her past was an emotional wound that had not yet healed. Claudia knew this much, and she hoped to help Lisa exorcise that demon some day. This new VT pilot, Hunter, had touched something deep inside Lisa by calling her just as he had seen her- 'that old sourpuss' and Claudia wanted to press her friend for details. But this was hardly the time or the place.
"Enemy Battlepods now engaging our Veritechs in the Cassini Quadrant, Captain," Claudia relayed.
"Enemy destroyer approaching the target zone," Vanessa added.
Gloval rubbed his hands together and rose from his chair.
"Excellent. If we can get a visual on the destroyer, I want it on the forward screen. Let's see what these ships look like."
Sammie punched it up, and soon the entire bridge crew was staring at the enemy vessel. It was surely as large as if not larger than the SDF-1, perhaps two and a half kilometers in length, but in no other way similar to it. Broad and somewhat flat, the warship had a vaguely organic look, enhanced by the dark green color of its dorsal armored shells and the light gray of its seemingly more vulnerable underbelly. Oddly enough, it also appeared to be quilled; but there was good reason to suspect that many of those spines were weapons.
"Not a pretty sight, is she?" said Gloval.
"Sir," said Vanessa, "the destroyer is within range."
"All right. Bring the ship around to the predesignated coordinates. Make certain there are no fluctuations in the barrier system readings and prepare to fire the main gun on my command."
Claudia tapped in the coordinates. She could feel the huge reflex-powered thrusters kick in to propel the ship away from Saturn's gravitational grasp. The pinpoint barrier system checked out, and the main gun was charging.
Free of the rings now, the SDF-1 was repositioning itself. The twin main gun towers were leveling out from the shoulders of the ship, taking aim at a target hundreds of kilometers away.
"Main gun locked on target, sir."
Gloval's fist slammed into his open hand. "Fire!"
Claudia pushed down a series of crossbar switches, threw open a red safety cover, and pressed home the firing device.
Illumination on the bridge failed momentarily. The gun did not fire.
Again Claudia tapped in a series of commands; there was no response. "Quickly!" Gloval shouted. "Get me Lang."
"On the line," Kim said.
Lang's thickly accented voice resounded through the bridge comlink speakers.
"Captain, the pin-point barrier is apparently interfering with the main gun energy transformers. We're doing a vibrational analysis now, but I don't think we'll have use of the gun unless we scrap the shield power."
"Bozhe moy!" said Gloval in his best Russian.
Sammie swiveled from her console to face the captain, "Sir, particle-beam trackers are locked on our ship. The enemy is preparing to fire!"
Eight weeks of special training had failed to prepare him for the silent insanity of space warfare. Disintegration and silent death, the pinpoints of distant light that were laser beams locked on to his ship, the stormy marriage of antiparticles, the grotesque beauty of short-lived spherical explosions-bolts of launched lightning, blue and white, igniting the proper combination of gases...
Rick Hunter fired the VT's thrusters as two Battlepods closed in on him from above-the relative "above" at any rate, for there was no actual up or down out here, no real way to gauge acceleration except by the constant force that kept him pinned to the back of his seat, or pushed him forward when the retros were kicked in, no way to judge velocity except in relation to other Veritech fighters or the SDF-1 herself. Just that unvarying starfield, those cool and remote fires that were the backdrop of war.
It was said that the best VT pilots were those who simply allowed themselves to forget: about yesterday, today, or tomorrow. "Nothing extraneous, in mind or body." Warfare in deep space was a silent Zen videogame where victory was not the immediate goal; success to any degree depended on a clear mind, free of expectations, and a body conditioned for thoughtless reaction. Stop to think about where to place your shot, how to move or mode your mecha, and you were space debris. Fight the fear and you'd soon be sucking vacuum. Rather, you had to embrace the terror, pull it down into your guts and let it free your spirit. It was like forcing yourself
through the climax of a nightmare, confronting there all the worst things that could happen, then piercing through the envelope into undreamed-of worlds. And the dreamstate was the key, because you had to believe you had complete control of each detail, every element. The silence of space was the perfect medium for this
manipulated madness. Out here, content was more important than form; wings were superfluous, banking and breaks unnecessary, thoughts dangerous.
Rick knew when he was trying too hard: He would feel the alpha vibe abandon him and the mecha follow suit. You are the mecha, the mecha is you. Left empty, the fear would rush in to fill him up, like air rushing into a vacuum; and the fear would trigger a further retreat from the vibe. It was a vicious circle. But he was beginning to recognize the early stages of it, the waverings and oscillations, and that in itself represented an all-important first step.
He stayed at Fokker's wing, learning from him. The pods were not as maneuverable as the Veritechs and nowhere near as complex. They also had far more vulnerable points. It was just that there were so damned many of them. One Battlepod, one enemy pilot. How strong was their number? How long could they keep this up?
Rick came to Roy's aid whenever he could, using heat-seekers and gatling, saving the undercarriage lasers for close-in fighting.
The assault group had fought its way out of the rings and shadow zone, but not without devastating losses to the Red and Green teams. And the SDF-1 had still not fired the main gun.
It was difficult to tell just what was going on back at the fortress. Rick could see that it was taking heavy fire from the enemy destroyer, a bizarre-looking ship if ever he'd seen one: a cross between a manta ray and a mutant cucumber. But for some reason the enemy was using rather conventional ordnance, easily thwarted by the fortress's movable shields. It would only be a matter of time before the destroyer upped the ante.
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