Battle Cry

by Jack McKinney

  Colonel Maistroff followed up: "Do you find it difficult having male friends?"

  Minmei laughed. "Not at all! In fact, I have one really good friend who's just like a brother to me."

  Rick slapped himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. A brother?! A BROTHER?!! And just then, while Minmei was taking in the applause, his pager went off. He raised his eyes to the starlight, wondering who was calling him out this time.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Rome wasn't built in a day-Macross City was!"

  Mayor Tommy Luan

  Had it not been for the Miss Macross pageant, I might never have undertaken the journey which led me to enlightenment-a journey I hope to guide you through in the pages that follow. It was only after I had opened my heart to the First Truth-that beauty and fame were not only transitory but illusory-that my soul was sufficiently prepared to accept the profound wisdom of the heavens: the knowledge that we are but seeds in the cosmic garden, potential given form and the will to evolve, true children of the starsbeings of noble light!

  Jan Morris, Solar Seeds, Galactic Guardians

  When accounts of The First Robotech War were finally written, not one of that war's many chroniclers failed to point out the curious turn of events precipitated by the Miss Macross pageant. The word "irony" appears often in those accounts, but irony is a judgment rendered after the fact and, in the case of Lynn-Minmei and the part she would come to play in the hostilities, much too simple and soft a term.

  Exedore could no longer allow his growing concerns about the Micronians to go unspoken. The Tritani pattern was being woven again, and although it was not the Zentraedi way to look back, the application of lessons from the past was now essential. Otherwise the quadrant would surely fall to the vengeful Invid!

  Just when events had calmed somewhat-Khyron was temporarily reined in and Dolza had issued an order allowing the SDF-1 a brief stay of execution-the Earthlings had once again demonstrated their penchant for the unpredictable.

  Strange, incomprehensible telecommunications were being broadcast from the dimensional fortress. Exedore had requested that Commander Breetai meet with him on the bridge.

  The audio and visual signals were being broadcast on a relatively low-frequency wavelength; reception was intermittent at best. But even strong and continuous, they would have remained equally baffling to the Zentraedi commander and his adviser. What they saw were images of female Micronians undergoing what appeared to be an unusual metamorphosis, complete with bizarre changes in chroma and an alarming lack of any cause-and-effect sequencing. Breetai and Exedore stared at the screen and turned to each other with confused looks.

  " 'Miss...Macross...pageant'...What does it mean, Exedore?"

  "I understand the individual words, Commander, but the meaning of it escapes me."

  "A call for reinforcements, perhaps."

  "No, Commander. The signal is far too weak for that."

  Breetai experienced a moment of disquiet. Had he overlooked something important in the legends-something about a secret weapon the Micronians possessed, an innate ability to conquer all who threatened them?

  "We must decipher this code, whatever it is. Have you been successful in your efforts to teach our agents the Micronian tongue?"

  "As successful as can be expected, Commander. They aren't-"

  "Ready one of the Cyclops recon ships. Tell your operatives to stand

  by."

  "M'lord," said Exedore, and backed away.

  While his adviser was left to carry out the orders, Breetai studied the

  screen; there was something disturbing about those partially clothed and strangely colored females, a power about them that pierced him like an ancient arrow.

  As regimented as the Zentraedi were, there were still individual

  personality types, and the three agents chosen to man the Cyclops recon were to prove as pivotal in the unfolding of events as the Miss Macross pageant itself. At the helm of the arachnidlike vessel was Rico, a wiry, effectively one-eyed warrior with a thin, sunken face, prominent cheekbones, and chiseled features. Bron, a beefy, powerful man with greasy red hair, was the navigator, and in charge of communications was Konda, a nondescript second lieutenant with shaggy, lavender hair well suited to current Earth fashions.

  They'd been given a dangerous assignment: The Cyclops had to be brought in close enough to Zor's ship to monitor and record the curious Micronian broadcasts while at the same time evading detection. But Rico was an experienced surveillance pilot, and he soon had the Cyclops well situated for reception. He was not, however, prepared for what greeted his eyes (nor would he be for quite some time to come): Here was a Micronian male wearing some sort of strange devices in front of his eyes, holding in his hand an equally unusual device which he seemed to be directing toward...a female! An unclothed female at that! A-and the two of them were actually together-in the same space!

  "This is unthinkable!" he cried.

  Bron and Konda were similarly appalled.

  Rico adjusted the recording controls to enhance the monitor image. "She must be wearing some new type of armor."

  Bron disagreed: The armor covered the female's hips and breasts only; it didn't make sense.

  "Perhaps those are the only vulnerable parts of a Micronian female," Rico offered.

  "It's not armor at all," said Konda. "It's a formal uniform."

  Bron shook his head. "You're both wrong. It's not even a female. It must be a secret weapon designed to look like one!"

  Rick Hunter was missing the swimsuit competition.

  He cursed his luck and muttered to himself while he strapped into the

  cockpit module of the armored Battloid. Why did Henricks have to pick tonight to get sick, and why did Rick's name have to appear at the top of the patrol list?

  He had already gotten into an argument with Commander Hayes- "As primary patrol backup, you should have remained on the base, Lieutenant Hunter, not run off to some foolish beauty pageant!"-and now Minmei was going to be disappointed that he'd missed her big moment. "This sucks!" he yelled to the techs who were operating the module cranes and servos. They had one eye fixed on getting Rick's module into position and the other glued to monitors tuned in to the Miss Macross broadcast: No doubt Lisa Hayes and the SDF-1 bridge crew were doing the same. Meanwhile, Rick Hunter gets to go out into space and search for some enemy ship picked up on the long-range scanners.

  Alone!

  But if that was the way it had to be, he was going to recon in style, and the armored Battloid was just the ticket.

  Still classified as experimental, it was the latest innovation from the Robotech Weapons Division. In addition to the standard armaments and defensive systems of the phase one design, the Battloid was equipped with new generation boosters and retros-the so-called deep-space augmentation pack-multiple-warhead "pectoral" launchers, and ejectable Bohrium-plated armor on those areas previously considered to be "vulnerable to penetration" by the boys in the RWD.

  Rick spent a few moments familiarizing himself with the new controls. Fewer foot pedals, that was a plus. A new Hotas design-the hands on throttle and stick-improved ADF and ADI, totally useless before in deep space; a horizontal situation indicator-ha!; and a triple-screened TED, stocked with an up-to-date library of alien craft signatures. Rick donned the "thinking cap" and thought the mecha through some simple maneuvers. He then walked it cautiously to the Prometheus bay and launched himself from the fortress.

  This was deep-space patrol once again, Mars just a memory. But there

  was some security to be gained from the sight of Sol, blazing bright in the heavens. It was almost beginning to feel like home turf out here.

  Rick engaged the power pack boosters and relaxed back into the padded seat, locking onto the coordinates furnished him by the bridge. The enemy ship was thought to be a recon ship patrolling the outer limits of the SDF-1's sensor range.

  The comtone sounded through his headset, and the face of Lisa Hayes appe
ared on the left commo screen. By the look of her, she was disturbed about something. In fact, she was livid.

  "Lieutenant Hunter, who issued you permission to take out the armored Battloid? You are supposed to be flying ghost support, not confrontational."

  Rick winced as the commander's words rushed out. "Excuse me, sir, but I'm out here on my lonesome, up against some-"

  "We'll discuss this later, Lieutenant! Prepare to receive new coordinates."

  Rick switched the ADF from lock to standby, but the data transfer was incomplete. The displays shut down, and the monitor was suddenly nothing but static lines and snow. Even audio was getting shaky. Rick heard something about "Zenny's fast food." He flipped the toggle to automatic fine-tuning.

  "Some sort...-ust interference," Lisa was saying. "I'm...-witch...laser induction. Stand by."

  Lisa's face faded and disappeared, replaced by the curvaceous form of Sally Forester walking the Star Bowl runway in a yellow two-piece.

  Well, well, thought Rick, relaxing again, the latest in diversion technique for the battle-weary fighter pilot. Then Lisa was back on-line for an instant, instructing him to switch over to channel D-3. He tried that, but video reception seemed to be locked on the MBS transmissions. Tough luck, Rick said to himself, rubbing his hands together and grinning. It was Hilary Rockwell now, looking choice in her blue suit. Rough decision ahead; almost easier to be up here, Rick thought.

  And then Minmei was on stage.

  It was certainly one of the oddest feelings Rick had experienced in a while: Here he was in deep space, and there was Minmei in her teal bathing suit. As his spirits began to improve, the mecha responded; the Battloid was practically doing pirouettes in space! But the mood was to be short-lived: The console displays were flashing wildly, not out of contagious joy but because heat-seeking missiles had locked onto his tail!

  Quickly, Rick commenced evasive action and instructed the stealth systems to launch ghosts. The rear cameras gave him a glimpse of his deadly pursuers-a flock of A/As-and sure enough, the scanners had picked up, registered, and catalogued the enemy vessel. A schematic formed on the port commo screen, profiles, front and rear views, weapons systems, vulnerable spots, suggested response. RECON VESSEL: CYCLOPS TYPE.

  Rick fired the boosters and put the Battloid through its paces, pushing it for all it was worth while the heatseekers continued to narrow the gap. So much for the ghosts. Concerned about their own survival, the warning systems were shouting out instructions, breaking his concentration. He shut down the interior audio supply and looked inside himself for the tone. A cold sweat broke out all over him. He thought the mecha left, right, up, down, and every which way but loose. The missiles were still with him.

  And all the while, Minmei was parading across his three screens. They were flashing her measurements, for. Pete's sake!

  Rick was leading the missiles on a merry chase, but one that was going to have a most unfortunate ending unless he pulled something out of the hat-fast! Fratricide was his only hope. Desperately, he willed the Battloid to turn itself face to face with the heat-seekers and raised the gatling cannon; locking the targeting coordinator onto the leader of the pack, he fired!

  Minmei stood in the wings, trembling. But when her name and contestant number were announced, all the anxiety seemed to leave her; she threw her shoulders back, stood straight and tall, and strutted on stage. She knew she looked good-the teal-colored stretch suit fit her perfectly-and

  given the audience reaction to her previous appearances, she figured she at least had a shot at one of the runner-up positions. If she could only keep it together for the next few minutes...

  Her legs were shaking. She felt very unsteady on the high heels; she understood the need for them-added height and their pleasing effect on body posture-but she was unaccustomed to them. Nevertheless, she made it down to the end of the runway without incident. She had made her turn and was starting back, when it happened.

  In thinking about it later, she would recall that the heel of her left shoe didn't so much let go as completely disappear as if it had been blown out from under her. But at the moment all she could think about was the embarrassment and the agony of defeat. Two pageant officials came to her aid and helped her up. There was some laughter from the audience, but mostly concern. And she did her best to alleviate that by demonstrating she was a trooper: She put on her best smile and hobbled her way back to center stage. The applause didn't end until long after she reached the wings.

  Shawn Blackstone, who had become her close friend during the pageant, was at her side in a flash. She made light of the incident and said that it would have no effect on the judging.

  "It shows them you're human, Minmei. Not like you-know-who."

  You-know-who was Jan Morris, now making her walk down the runway to cheers and applause as Minmei watched from the wings. Jan was completely self-possessed; she'd been there a hundred times already. She wore a bold, striped suit with a halter top, more daring and revealing than the suits worn by the rest of the contestants-revealing enough to show some stretch marks, Minmei noticed.

  Jan stood at the end of the runway taking it in; she had them eating out of her hand. Minmei couldn't watch. She turned aside, the contest over.

  Time to wake up.

  "You haven't beaten me yet, chumps!" Rick shouted to the stars.

  The detonation of the heat-seekers had shaken him up and fried some

  of the Battloid's circuitry, but he was intact. Fortunately (and puzzlingly), the enemy had not followed up their initial attack. And now it was Rick's turn. He had a fix on the ship and launched enough missiles to wipe out a fleet.

  Inside the Cyclops recon ship, the three Zentraedi operatives were so transfixed by the swimsuit competition that they almost failed to react to the counterattack. On the monitors were all those Micronian females, scantily clad (in armor or uniform, depending on whom you listened to), parading themselves in front of an enormous audience. It just had to be a weapons demonstration; why else would so many people gather in one place?

  And one of the females had fallen. Uncertain if this was part of the ceremony or not, the three began to focus on the fallen one to the exclusion of all else. Something was stirring in each of them-a novel feeling, confused as though half remembered from a previous life, disturbing but strangely appealing.

  In fact, it took Rick's missiles to bring them to their senses. The Cyclops took the full force of the explosions and sustained heavy damage, but the weapons system had not been affected. Rico ordered visuals on the source of the missiles and returned fire. He watched the Micronian pilot throw the Battloid into a series of successful evasive maneuvers. Then, without warning, the pilot blew the armor from the ship and swung the Battloid toward them, gatling cannon blasting away.

  Rico recognized a no-win situation when he saw one; sacrificing the ship for the crew was not something normally allowed by the Zentraedi command, but this was an important mission, and Rico thought it prudent to do so. With the Battloid still on the approach, he initiated the self-destruct sequence, then ordered his men to the escape pod.

  Inside the Battloid cockpit, Rick engaged the foot thrusters and willed the mecha's legs forward; he was hurtling toward the enemy ship now, bent at the waist, feet stretched out in front of him.

  Upon contact with the recon ship, he grappled on and used the feet to

  batter his way through the forward bays and into the ship's control station. He was actually seated on the instrument console when he brought up the cannon once again, but by then the crew had already abandoned ship. He raised the Battloid and walked it forward cautiously. A hatchway slammed shut somewhere, and all at once, off to his right, a bank of porthole monitors lit up, Minmei's face on each of the dozen screens.

  She was the last image in Rick's mind when the ship exploded.

  From the twenty-eight contestants the judges chose five finalists; Minmei was among them. They were seated in the center of the stage now, Shawn and Hilar
y on Minmei's right, Sally and Jan Morris on her left. Vertical light bars computer-linked to the voting processor rose behind each of them. Ron Trance was speaking. The big moment had arrived.

  "And now, ladies and gentleman..." Ron milked it a bit, playing on the suspense, walking to and fro, cordless mike in hand. "It is time for you to decide who will be crowned Miss Macross! So get ready to cast your vote."

  There was a moment of undiluted silence before Trance gave the word. Then the orchestra began a soft and slow build that quieted the murmurings from the audience and kept time with the ascending columns of light. Minmei wanted desperately to turn around, but she felt glued to her chair. The orchestra continued to pour out an atonal modulation which strained for a crescendo, the audience began to cheer and scream, the light rose higher and higher...

  Some of those who were fortunate enough to have been there recall that Jan Morris was rising from her chair when Ron Trance made the final announcement. But it was Lynn-Minmei's chair that he approached, her hand that he took, her song he sang.

  Minmei's recollection of the events was poorer than most; try as she might when viewing the tapes afterward, she could not recall her thoughts. All she remembered was the cape that had been draped over her shoulders, the crown placed upon her head, and the fact that when she looked up toward the starlight, it had seemed to her that unseen eyes were upon her,

  as though the stars themselves had ceased their motion to pay tribute to her moment.

  Rick was semiconscious in the cockpit of the drifting disabled Battloid. The damaged instrument panels were flashing out, filling the small space with stroboscopic light. Shafts of pain radiated through him as he fought to reach the surface. Once there, a beatific creature appeared to him, and he felt a glimmer of hope. It wore a beautiful smile, a crown, and resplendent robe of many colors; it carried a scepter and stood proud and tall...