End of the Circle

by Jack McKinney

  Like most of the younger Amazons, Gnea had developed a preference for modern, high-firepower weapons over the traditional arms of her Sisterhood. Now, though, for reasons she could not quite pin down, she reslung her submachine gun and took her halberd in hand, giving it a preparatory spin, the long curved blade leaving a silver trail in the air.

  “You mean you’ve encountered this phenomenon before, Sergeant?” Like his, her voice brought no echoes. She wondered if they were outdoors.

  “Naw. It’s just—weird stuff like this, ma’am. It simply ain’t military.”

  And it always sounded so goddamn lame in an after-action report. Like when Angie and the other ATACs went through all that crap in the Masters’ spade-shaped mother ship. Living energy nexuses and mindmusic and alien horticulture. Try writing those up without having some G-staff chairborne commando laughing at you!

  It was all too involved to explain to some dame from another planet.

  Gnea pivoted, spinning her polearm to hold it at high port, and kept watch in the opposite direction. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Uh … We were moving through that open area, and I felt something kinda strange, like the way electricity makes your hair stand up, only it was inside my head. So, that is—”

  He hated to hurt a woman’s feelings, but— “So I gave you the signal to pull back, only you didn’t do it.” He was making a circular motion with one hand.

  She took a quick glance at it over her shoulder. “Oh, yes; your UEG field signal. It took me a moment to remember what it meant; in our army that’s the gesture for close intervals.”

  That’s what you get mixing different services together, he thought sourly, but kept it to himself. “So whatever that tinsel blizzard was, it got you, too.” He began trying to raise somebody on the tactical freq.

  Gnea sensed nothing nearby; visibility looked like it might be several dozen yards, but it was impossible to make an accurate estimate, lacking any point of reference. She set the spike butt of her halberd on the floor by her feet (at least, she assumed it was a floor; it was glossy and smooth, like a single white tile).

  “Sergeant, I think it would’ve gotten us no matter what. And I don’t think something’s gone to all this trouble just to harm us.”

  Well, she was a cool one, he had to give her that. All frequencies were silent, and so Angelo came to his feet, rifle leveled at waist height, covering his field of fire. “Maybe not. Even though some aliens I’ve known like to collect specimens.”

  He slipped a pencil flare out of his belt pouch, struck it alight, and dropped it to the ground. “What we’ll do is work out as far as we can, keepin’ the flare in sight, and run a circular search pattern.”

  She frowned. “You mean split up?”

  “Hell no! What d’ ya think this is, a slasher movie?”

  “Excellent.” She whipped the halberd around again, bringing it en garde. Angie thought, If this is a movie, at least the slasher’s on my side.

  “Only,” Gnea went on, wetting a forefinger and holding it up, “I seem to feel an air current coming from that direction. Shall we start there?”

  “Good as any other.”

  They both moved to take the point at the same moment, then looked at each other. There was no telling who outranked whom. Gnea topped Angelo by half a head and more; from her looks and reputation and what he had seen of the Praxians already, he was prepared to believe she could handle herself. But still, she was carrying that frog dissector while he had a rifle with its selector switch flicked over to continuous fire. “Look, if y’ don’t mind?”

  Gnea nodded with reserved grace. “By all means.” She knew that some human males still harbored strange attitudes about females. But at least this one was quick to react, willing to shoulder a dangerous job. Perhaps he was even as competent as he seemed to think.

  Angelo found himself staring into those inhuman eyes of hers, eyes that belonged in a bird of prey. He forced himself to look away from them. The two moved out with Gnea watching behind, going in a sort of sideways crab step. Their footfalls sounded lonely and small. In thirty paces (fewer for Gnea) the flare was getting dim behind them, but the current of air was stronger. “How long will it burn?” she asked.

  “Fifteen minutes, anyway. Let’s keep goin’.”

  “Yes, but drop another flare.”

  He did, not that there was much to go back to. Another thirty paces and the air had a distinct cold tinge to it.

  “An exit, maybe,” Angelo muttered, striking a third flare. Before he had to reach for a fourth, something loomed up in the mist before them. With scale so tough to judge, he thought at first that it was a city or at least a building.

  They drew close enough to make out details. When they finally had a clear look at it, they stopped in their tracks.

  Angie’s jaw was hanging open. “Well, tug my gearshift and call me Five-Speed.”

  Gnea shouldered her halberd. “I think you might as well put your weapon up, Sergeant. Whatever did this, I doubt a laser means much to it, and we definitely don’t want to offend it.”

  Angelo had never been very enthusiastic about taking orders from women except when they made overwhelming sense. Like now. He slung his piece, and they continued on, walking side by side.

  “Y’ know, this qualifies as theft of gov’ment property,” it occurred to him to observe.

  Gnea smiled unexpectedly. “And have you brought proof of ownership?”

  That one gave him pause. “I don’t think they put serial numbers on spacefold drives.”

  The Protoculture drives—or rather, the casing that held them, what the engineers called the housing—bulked before them, big as a building. Somehow, out in the open like that, they were less overpowering than in the SDF-3’s drive section. Nevertheless, the two could not see the far end from where they stood.

  Of course, the trillion-dollar question was how the hell the drives had gotten there—wherever “there” was—and who or what had done it. Angelo figured the answer to that one would go a long way toward explaining what had happened to the SDF-3 and what the newspace stuff was all about.

  “They’re ours, all right,” Gnea said. “You see that multiphaser? Doctor Lang’s work.”

  But for the first time since they had gone on-line, the fold drives were completely dark, inert. Like so many other Robotech devices, the housing had had all Protoculture drained from it. Only unlike the rest, the physical structure had been stolen, too.

  “Maybe there’s another around here someplace,” Angelo mused as he and Gnea began a slow tour around the huge drives housing. To him it resembled a great sealed city of domes, megablocks, and manifold roadways.

  “Another fold drive array?”

  He clicked his tongue. “Yeah. The one the old SDF-1 lost back in ’oh-nine, near Pluto. Maybe something around here collects ’em.”

  They completed a cautious circuit of the fold drives housing without finding anything else. Gnea pointed to a stairway leading to the service catwalks. “We might be able to see something from up there.”

  “Worth a try.”

  They made their way to the little mesa that was the top of the primary containment casing. But there was nothing to see; they could not even spot the flares. Angelo yelled into the wintry mist through cupped hands, and Gnea fired three spaced shots, but there was no response of any kind.

  “I suppose we could reconnoiter further,” Gnea ventured.

  “Huh uh,” Angie said firmly, seating himself tailor fashion with his rifle across his thighs. He dug for his canteen. “Now that we found ’em, I’m sittin’ my butt right here on top of ’em till they take us home.”

  “Yes, I thought you might feel that way.”

  Oh, yes, la-de-da. Like she’s got everything doped out. He stopped himself before taking the swig of water, though, automatically offering her the first drink. “Thirsty?”

  Gnea canted her head at him. “I have water of my own, thank you.” She swive
led her hip around to show him the canteen on her belt. It was an exquisite hip, in keeping with the rest of her. “Did you think a Praxian would be unequipped?”

  “No. Who cares? Suit yourself.” He slugged at the canteen in an evil temper.

  She hunkered down, holding her halberd upright. Males were so difficult to understand, especially human males.

  She recalled the infatuation between Jack Baker and herself. Of course, that had had a lot to do with the Compulsion Tesla had worked on them both. But it had taught her something of the confusing, unsettling, and not always controllable nature of relationships between the sexes.

  “If I’ve offended you somehow, Sergeant, I ask your forgiveness.”

  Sweet Baby Jesus cookies on Christmas! Now he really felt like dirt! “Naw, y’ didn’t do anything wrong ma’am—uh, Gnea.”

  She nodded sagely. “I’d heard you were heartsick over the officer Dana Sterling. Such things can be troublesome.”

  Angelo’s face turned purple. “What’d they do, announce it over the PA?”

  Actually, he had made some inroads with his former CO on the trip out from Earth. They had always had a sort of feuding friendship, and when Zor Prime died in the final explosion that released the Flower of Life across the planet, Dana and her senior NCO seemed to come together as naturally as magnets.

  Then, of course, they had arrived at Tirol, and Dana had met Rem. Seeing what was between the clone and Minmei, Dana had forced herself to stay away from them. Things between her and Angie were never the same again, though. He figured that part of the reason she had stayed behind with her folks was because he—and Rem and Minmei, for that matter—were going on the SDF-3.

  So, now that was general gossip, huh? Angelo considered Gnea, squatting there in that getup of hers—part armor, part uniform, mostly skin—and realized morosely what truly had him bristling at her.

  “Hai!” she said, making it sound like a swear word. “Now I’ve done it again! I didn’t mean to get you upset.”

  But he shook his head. “Drop it, okay? It’s not important.” He stood up just for something to do.

  Gnea stood, too, and they were face to face. Almost touching. He could see the pulse beat in her throat and feel his own. She smelled exotic and exciting.

  Looking into the avian eyes, he heard himself say, “I don’t want to think about … about …”

  She made a raptor’s hissing sound and clutched the harness at his shoulder. Angelo reached his hand behind her neck and pulled her lips to his. He figured they probably looked funny, running their free hands all over each other, kissing and panting while holding on to their weapons and trying to keep lookout with one eye—in case the godless XT hordes came charging over the hill.

  “Hey, before somebody gets killed,” he got out of the side of his mouth, and carefully tossed his rifle aside. Her halberd landed on top of it.

  They threw their arms around each other with a passion neither of them had ever felt before. It was all moans and fumblings, neither one familiar with the other’s outfit.

  They sank to the surface of the containment casing, still kissing and caressing. It was cold and, once they were out of their clothes, slippery. That made it more fun.

  Angie had heard of transcendent experiences, but nothing like this. It seemed as though the whole world were getting brighter, going nova.

  Waitaminute, waitaminute; it is!

  “Angelo!” Gnea’s nails dug into his shoulder; he rolled over and found himself staring up into the face of a deity.

  Out of uniform in the presence of God. He wondered if it was a court-martial offense.

  It was a visage formed from the white brume, a hairless, humanoid head, vaguely and yet unmistakably feminine. It seemed to take up the whole sky.

  They heard its thought: LIFE IS WASTED ON THE LIVING!

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Not odd to note, perhaps, in view of the upheavals in that particular period of Aeon Lanack. But the truth is that in spite of the laborious, even stern, inquiries made by the Elders and their servants, no one ever seemed quite certain as to exactly where Zor came from. We know that, like so many others born during that era (for that matter, like many born before and after it and many born into other races on other planets), he was raised in a succession of government care facilities and the like from the time he was very young.

  But no record of his birth or precise origin could be found. This frustrated the Elders, who wished to analyze and duplicate the secrets of his genius and extraordinary affinities, beyond words.

  Cabell, Zor and the Great Transition

  She had often crashed through enemy fortifications or target cities, brushing aside buildings or shouldering her way between defensive works.

  But now Kazianna Hesh moved easily and carefully through the venerable old trees on the planet that had appeared from nowhere. Her enemy had not chosen to reveal itself yet, and so caution was warranted.

  Rick Hunter had assigned the Zentraedi to sweep paths accessible to their mechaed bulk; the humans and Sentinels were working their way through the denser growth, and a few Cyclone outriders advanced along the wider footpaths and streambeds. Periodically, she heard Jack Baker and Rick Hunter trying to contact Sergeant Dante or Gnea on their tactical freq, but there was no answer.

  Like Angelo, she tried to keep her mind on her job but found herself distracted. It seemed that her team was, too; she snapped at them to stay sharp.

  What was it about the place? She had expected to have Drannin and the problems with the children on her mind, had recognized that she would have to make sure she kept full concentration. But she had not expected what she was feeling, what kept running through her mind.

  Breetai, oh, my Breetai …

  His face was there before her, his phantom arms around her; his kiss pressed on her lips.

  Stop! You’re a war leader of the Quadranos! But it did no good castigating herself. A moment later the memories were there before her again, as though she had not grieved and struggled to reclaim her life.

  Breetai, my lord and my love …

  What was it about the place?

  Kazianna saw the sky reflected in her helmet facebowl and realized as if from afar that she had stopped advancing, was standing, swaying, in a grove of trees whose tips came even with the top of her powered suit. A leaf the shape of a kite came loose from a branch, fluttering down …

  But it was only her body there. Kazianna Hesh was years and light-years away.

  It was her first major action, an assault landing on a strategic Invid stronghold on icy Tawkhan, and everything had gone wrong: more Invid than anybody had projected, fleet deployment from fold jump hopelessly snarled, Lord Dolza’s flagship missing and perhaps lost.

  Kazianna was pinned down with what was left of her battalion—her battalion, because all senior officers had fallen before waves of Invid. Scout Shock, Trooper, and Pincer Ship, they seemed to spring from the ground, a horde for every individual the massed Zentraedi firepower burned down.

  The resources of an entire sector had been marshaled. Out beyond the atmosphere a total of nearly a quarter million ships of all classes hammered away at one another. They were at virtual point-blank range for a space engagement; Kazianna and the other ground troops could look for little help from that quarter. Even on the daylight side of the planet, the incandescent bursts flashed bright, far overhead.

  The giants had never had music of their own; the Robotech Masters had reserved the arts of the Muses and the Cosmic Harp to themselves and their clone triumvirates, yet how the blood sang in the veins of the Zentraedi that day! Fired by the eons-old traditions and honor that Exedore had taught them, they hurled themselves at the Invid with a will.

  This was what the Zentraedi had been born for. They followed their Imperative.

  Oyster-shaped Invid troopships blotted out the sky. The entire planet was a theater of war. Whole armies were thrown against each other as if they were mere com
panies. Nearly eight million Zentraedi eagerly locked in mortal combat with over twenty million Invid.

  Battlepod went muzzle to muzzle with Shock Trooper, weapons vomiting forth death. Powered armor suits darted in aerial combat, fought as infantry, and even rolled and tore with the enemy hand to hand. There were massed charges of entire corps, met by equal or greater numbers of teeming Invid.

  Combat heated the atmosphere of Tawkhan itself. Explosions and energy volleys opened crevasses and shattered glaciers; undersea onslaughts made the oceans boil; beams of raw power melted ice fields and shook loose immense avalanches. All across the planet the warfare raged in thickening smoke and rain.

  The stupendous barrages awoke the resentment of Tawkhan itself, jarring its tectonics. Volcanoes blasted to life, and fissures poured lava up through ice cap and seabed. Quakes crushed or swallowed Invid and Zentraedi alike. Mud and superheated water rained down. Floods swept mecha away like bits of straw.

  Through it all, Kazianna’s unit made its way toward the very heart of the foe’s central hive, a daring thrust to end the campaign with one telling blow. But it met with failure, and what was left of her unit was about to be totally annihilated.

  Kazianna braced herself to grapple unarmed with a Shock Trooper; her weapons were exhausted. Then the Trooper was gone, burned in half, the halves falling away in opposite directions. Dazed, Kazianna Hesh looked beyond where it had been. There stood the great Breetai, a metal war god in his personal battle panoply, a rifle as big as an Earthly artillery piece smoking in his gauntleted fists.

  Behind him came a crack task force, ten divisions of elite troops, to strike at the very brain of the foe. Kazianna learned later that her own assault force had been a feint, drawing Invid attention away from Breetai’s sword-stroke raid. In moments the special coalition of living computers that directed the Invid on Tawkhan—the piles of brain tissue lurking in their vats—would be destroyed in an apocalyptic contest with the invading foot soldiers and mecha.