Jack McKinney - Sentinels 01 - Devils Hand

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Jack McKinney - Sentinels 1 - Devils Hand

CHAPTER ONE

I leave it up to the historians and the moralists to judge whether our decision (the Expeditionary mission)

is right or wrong. I know only that it is prudent and necessary-necessary for our very survival both as a

planet and as a life form. If the Protoculture has taught me anything, it is that one must simply act! When

all is said and done the inevitabilities and reshapings will have their way, but to remain either complacent

or inert in the face of those fatalities is to invite catastrophe of a higher order than any of us dare imagine.

From the personal journal of Dr. Emil Lang

In the middle of the night on an alien world, an army of insentient warriors dropped from the sky. Tirol,

as this small moon was known, represented a prize of sorts-the end of a long campaign that had taken

the invaders through a dozen local star systems and across the varied faces of twice that number of

worlds-the remote realms of the once great empire of the Robotech Masters, forged and secured by their

giant soldier clones, the Zentraedi. But Tirol itself was all but deserted, abandoned almost a generation

earlier by those same Masters. So in effect this conquest was something of a disappointment for the

horde who had raised savagery to new heights, something of a nonevent.

But just as a rock tossed into a pond will make its presence known to distant shores, the Invid's arrival

on Tirol would send powerful waves through the continuum; and nowhere would the effects of their

invasion be more greatly felt than on the world already inundated by previous tides from this same

quarter-a blue-white gem of a planet that had seen better days, but was struggling still to regain control of

its own fragile destiny...

Earth had captured its second satellite in the year 2013, when a joint Terran and XT force had wrested it

from the control of the Zentraedi commander, Reno, faithful to the Imperative even after Dolza's fiery

demise. The factory satellite was an enormous monstrosity, well in keeping with the grotesque design of

the Zentraedi fleet, that had been folded instantaneously through space-time by Protoculture-fueled

Reflex drives. It was radish-shaped and rose-colored in starlight, with fissures and convolutions

suggestive of cerebral matter. Attached along its median section by rigid stalklike transport tubes were

half a dozen secondary sacs and appendages, smaller by far, but equally vegetal in aspect, veined and

incomprehensible.

There were some 15,000 Humans and Zentraedi living onboard, a sizable portion of Earth's

post-apocalyptic population. The majority of these men and women had labored for six years inside the

factory's weightless belly to construct a starship, a dimensional fortress soon to be Tirolbound-there to

confront the Robotech Masters, and with luck curtail any threat of continued warfare.

Among those onboard were Vice Admiral Rick Hunter and his close friend and trusted commander, Max

Sterling. From a viewport in the admiral's quarters, the two men were watching null-gee construction

crews put the finishing touches on the massive ship's deliberately misleading superstructure.

"I just don't know whether we're ready for this," Rick was saying. He had turned from the viewport and

was three strides toward the center of the room. "There are so many variables, so many things that could

go wrong now."

Max followed him, a grin beneath the sympathetic look he had adopted. "Come on, what could go

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wrong?"

Rick whirled on him. "Maybe I'm just not ready, Max!"

Rick's voice cracked on the word and Max couldn't suppress a short laugh. "Ready? It's been six years,

Rick. How much more ready can you expect to be?"

"Guess I'm not as good up against the unknowns anymore." Rick shrugged, lowering his gaze. "I mean,

we've got something good going already. So why jeopardize it, why tamper with it?"

Max took his friend by the shoulders and gave him an affectionate shake. "Look, you and Lisa love each

other, so quit worrying. Everything's going to turn out fine. Besides, everybody's excited about the

wedding. And what are you going to do, walk out on ten thousand guests?"

Rick felt the wisdom of it sink in, and smiled, self-mockingly.

They had both aged well, the rigors of life on- and off-world notwithstanding; both had turned

twenty-nine in March and had at least a few good years left in them. Rick stood taller and straighter now

than he had during the war, and that combined with some added weight gave him a stronger, more

capable look. This was enhanced by the cut of the Expeditionary Force's high-collared uniform and torso

harness, a crisscross, tailed, and flare-shouldered affair of black leather worn over tight-fitting trousers.

He still wore his black hair stylishly long, though-a fashion the Veritech flyboys of the Robotech Defense

Force had been largely responsible for. Max, too, had left behind the innocent look that had been

something of a trademark. While Rick, Dr. Lang, and Lisa Hayes had devoted themselves to the SDF-3

project, Max had been busy distinguishing himself in the Southlands, especially during the Malcontent

Uprisings of 2015-18. He still favored the blue hair tint he had affected during the war, likewise oversize

aviator glasses to contacts or corrective microsurgery. Less than perfect vision had never handicapped

his flying skills, in any case.

Rick was glancing back at the SDF-3 now. "And everybody gets to ride in the limo." He smirked.

Fabricated from the hull and power drives of Breetai's dreadnought and the salvaged remains from the

SDFs 1 and 2, the ship was itself a wedding of sorts. Pursuant to Lang and Exedore's requests, it was

more Zentraedi than Terran in design: a nontransformable deepspace leviathan, bristling with antennae

and blistered across its crimson surface with scanner ports and laser-array gun turrets.

"We'll make sure you two get the backseat," Max said. "For at least a couple of hours, anyway."

Rick laughed from across the room; Max joined him at the external viewport, Earth's incomparable

beauty filling the view. Sunlight glinted off the alloyed hulls and fins of dozens of in-transit shuttles. Rick

was staring down at the planet wistfully.

"When's Lisa due back?" Max asked him.

"Tomorrow. But I'm thinking of shuttling down to meet her."

Max made an approving sound. "I'll ride with you."

"When haven't you," Rick said, after a moment.

With the destruction of the SDFs 1 and 2 on that fateful winter night in 2014, Macross's sister city,

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Monument, had risen to the fore as Earth's unofficial capital. The irradiated remains of Macross had been

bulldozed flat and pushed into what hadn't been boiled away from Lake Gloval. Three enormous

manmade buttes marked the resting place of the superdimensional fortresses, along with that of the

Zentraedi cruiser that had destroyed them. But those mounds had not been completed before volunteer

teams of valiant Robotechnicians had braved slow death to salvage what they could from the devastation.

Thrice-born Macross, however, was not resurrected, as much by choice as anything else; but the name

lived on in a kind of mythic way, and Monument City, to the southwest over a rugged ridge, was doing its

best to carry the tradition forward. This would change after the SDF-3 departed, but in 2020 things were

much as they were in the Macross of 2014. That is not to say that there weren't sinister currents in the air

for one and all to perceive; but the Expeditionary mission to Tirol was foremost on the minds of those

who could have prevented the subsequent slide.

Monument was the seat of the United Earth Government, but the most important building in that

burgeoning city was the headquarters of the newly-formed Army of the Southern Cross, a

politico-military party that had its origins in the Southlands during the Malcontent Uprisings, and had all

but superseded the authority formerly enjoyed by RDF, most of which was slated for the Expeditionary

mission. The headquarters was a soaring megacomplex whose central tower cluster had been built to

suggest the white gonfalons, or ensigns, of a holy crusade hanging from high crosspieces. The high-tech

needles were crowned with crenels and merlons, like some medieval battlement, announcing to all the

world the ideals and esprit of the Army of the Southern Cross.

Just now the building was host to a final press conference held jointly by members of the Expeditionary

Mission Plenipotentiary Council, the RDF, and the Southern Cross. Dr. Emil Lang and the Zentraedi

Ambassador, Exedore, spoke on behalf of the twelve-person council, while the military factions were

represented respectively by Brigadier General Gunther Reinhardt and Field Marshal Anatole Leonard.

The press was there in force, crowding the hall, jostling one another for position, snapping off shot after

stroboscopic shot, and grilling the four-member panel with an overwhelming array of questions from

special-interest groups and insulated power bases as distant as Cavern City and Brasilia in the

Southlands.

Lang was doing his best to respond to one of these; for the third time, someone in the press corps had

returned to the issue of Earth's potential vulnerability in the wake of the SDF-3's departure. As the high

priest of Robotechnology, Lang had little interest in such mundane concerns, but he was doing his best to

restate the importance of the mission and repeat launch details that had already been covered in the press

releases.

"Final selections for the crew are proceeding and we should have no trouble meeting our launch schedule.

If we are to avoid a second Robotech War, we must make peaceful contact with the Robotech Masters

and establish a relationship of mutual cooperation. That is the mission of the SDF-3."

Murmurs of discontent spread through the crowd, and several reporters hurled insults of one sort or

another. But then, could anyone expect anything in the way of a concrete response from someone like

Lang? When the man chose to be profound, there were perhaps only a handful of scientists on Earth who

could follow him. The rest of the time he came across as alien as any Zentraedi. Rumors and speculations

about Lang went as far back as the early days on Macross Island, when he and Gloval, Fokker,

Edwards, and a few others had first reconned the SDF-1, known then as "the Visitor." He had taken a

Zentraedi mind-boost, some claimed, a megadose of Protoculture that had somehow integrated his

internal circuitry with that of the ship itself. Certainly his marblelike eyes lent credence to the tale.

Although he had been more visible, more accessible these past few years, he was still the same ethereal

man who had been the driving force behind Robotechnology since the turn of the century.

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"I want to take this opportunity to reemphasize that the Robotech Expeditionary Force is intended as a

diplomatic mission," Exedore added without being asked. "The SDF-3 will be traveling to the homeworld

of the Robotech Masters, the third moon of the planet Fantoma, known as Tirol." The Zentraedi

motioned to the huge projection screen behind the speakers' platform, which showed a color schematic

of the ringed giant's extensive system.

"The Masters themselves have not engaged in actual combat for nearly six generations. However, it is

impossible to predict with certainty how they will react to our mission. For that reason the SDF-3 has

been outfitted with a considerable arsenal of Robotech weaponry. In the event that we are met with

force, we shall be ready and able to defend ourselves. But I must press the point that the departure of the

fortress will not leave the Earth undefended. Commander Leonard and his staff have all the capabilities

for defense necessary to repel any invasion force. And as the planet is not presently threatened by any

enemy, we feel confident that the Earth is in no jeopard-"

"If I may interrupt for a moment," Leonard said angrily, getting to his feet. He had been biting back his

words for half the press conference, but had reached his breaking point when Exedore-the alien!-began

to imply that the SDF-3 would be facing greater potential danger than abandoned Earth. Reporters

throughout the hall-certainly those who had been planted there by the Southern Cross command to steer

the conference toward this very confrontation-took advantage of the moment to get shots of the bearish,

shaved-skulled field marshal confronting and towering over the XT ambassador. Leonard's hatred of the

Zentraedi was no secret among the general staff. He had never met Exedore full-size, as it were, but

perhaps detested him even more in his Micronized state, especially since Terran cosmologists had gone

to work on him, styling his hair with a widow's peak, and concealing the clone's dwarfish anatomy

beneath specially-tailored uniforms. Leonard often wished that Exedore had been among the Zentraedi

Malcontents he had hunted down in the Southlands...

"I'm not as optimistic as the ambassador about the lack of an enemy threat," Leonard continued, his face

red with rage. "Mark my words, the departure of the SDF-3 and its weapons systems will leave the

Earth hopelessly vulnerable to attack! Even that factory satellite's going to be nothing but a useless shell

when the Expeditionary Force leaves. They've stripped it clean-and you've stripped us clean!"

"Gentlemen, please," Lang tried to interject, stretching his arms out between the two of them. Reinhardt,

with his bald pate, beard, and fringe of premature gray hair, leaned back in his chair, overshadowed by

Leonard's bulk.

"It's all very easy for him to say we'll be safe," the field marshal ranted. "When the attack comes, he'll be

on the other side of the galaxy!"

"Frankly, I think you're a bit paranoid, Commander," Exedore announced evenly, almost clinically. "What

attack do you mean-by whom, from where?"

Leonard's great jowls quivered; his eyes flashed a hatred even Exedore couldn't help but feel. "For all we

know, there could be a fleet of your fellow Zentraedi out there just waiting for us to drop our guard!"

"That will be enough, Commander Leonard," Reinhardt said at last. "Alarmist talk is of no use to anyone

at this point."

Leonard swallowed the rebuke as flashes strobed without pause. He was aware that his position with the

general staff was still somewhat tenuous; and besides, he had made his point.

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"Gentlemen, you're cutting our defenses to almost nothing," he concluded, as shouts filled the hall. "Once

the SDF leaves orbit I won't be able to defend the Earth against a flock of pigeons."

The press conference was being carried live around the world, and to Luna Base, Space Station Liberty,

and the factory satellite. But where many were finding cause for concern in Leonard's contentions, there

was one viewer aboard the satellite who merely laughed it off. He had a drink in hand, his feet crossed on

the top of the monitor in his spacious quarters.

Leonard was overplaying the role, Major General T. R. Edwards told himself as he set the drink aside.

But his performance would have the desired effect nonetheless.

Edwards knew even then that the Southern Cross would eventually gain the upper hand. If necessary,

Professor Lazlo Zand would see to that. And Senator Moran, whom they had spent years grooming for

high office, would ascend to the seat reserved for him.

Edwards fingered the ugly raised scars that coursed across the right side of his forehead and

face-diagonally, from his hairline to the bridge of his nose, and from there in a reverse angle to the heel of

his jawbone. The eye at the apex of this triangular disfiguration was dead, sewn shut to a dark slash. He

would not be around to reap the immediate rewards of these complex conspiracies and manipulations,

but all that could wait until his return from Tirol. First, there were scores to settle with older adversaries,

scores that went back more than twenty years.

Not far from the Southern Cross headquarters in one of Monument City's more upscale shopping

districts, Admiral Lisa Hayes was being fitted for her wedding gown. She had chosen one her late father

would have approved of; it had a traditional, almost antebellum look, lots of satin, lace, and tulle, with a

full, two-petticoat tiered skirt, long sleeves, and a simple round neck. The veil was rather short in

contrast, with baby's breath and two silk roses affixed to the headband. Lisa gave an appreciative nod as

the two fitters fell back smiling, allowing her center place in the shop's mirrored wall. She ran her fingers

under the flip of her shoulder-length auburn hair-still unaccustomed to the cut-and said, "Perfect."

In the front room, Dr. Jean Grant and Captain Miriya Sterling wondered aloud what was taking Lisa so

long, not out of concern but anticipation. The day was something of a shopping spree for Jean and Miriya

as well; in less than a week they would be on their way to Tirol, and on this trip out the SDF wouldn't be

traveling with a full city in its belly. And who knows what to expect in the way of shops on Tirol, Max

had quipped when the two women left the factory satellite. They had brought the kids along, Dana and

Bowie, both nearing eight years old, presently bored and antagonistic.

Bowie had Jean's petiteness and dark honey complexion; his health had never been robust, but that didn't

prevent blond and lanky Dana from teasing him whenever she could. He was standing sullen-faced in the

shop's doorway when she snuck up behind him to yank his SDF cap down over his face.

"Hey, cut it out!" Bowie yelled. "Why'd you do that, Dana?"

She returned a wide-eyed look of innocence, elaborate concern in her voice. "I didn't do anything. I think

your brain must be getting smaller."

"Ahhh, whose brain's getting smaller?" Bowie said, working the visored cap up to where it belonged.

"Okay, I admit it, I'm guilty," Dana answered him, sincere all of a sudden. "I guess I can't pull the wool

over your eyes."

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Jean and Miriya had both turned at the sound of Bowie's initial howl, but they had long ago decided on a

policy of nonintervention when it came to the kids. Though children were included in the Expeditionary

mission, Bowie and Dana would not be among them. In Bowie's case it was a matter of health-a fact that

had since steered Jean into research medicine. But Dana was exempt for reasons less clear-cut; as the

only child of a Human-Zentraedi union, she had been studied, tested, and evaluated since birth, and was

judged too precious a commodity to risk on such an enterprise. This, in any case, was the thinking of

Professor Zand, who had headed up the medical teams, and Max and Miriya had reluctantly accepted

the logic of it. The decision was unalterable now, no matter what, and it was guaranteed that Bowie and

Dana would grow up as near siblings under the care of the Sterlings' close friends, Rolf and Laura

Emerson.

Miriya was thinking these things through while she watched the children's bickering escalate, then dissolve

into playful banter. "Look at them, Jean," she said the way only a mother can. "Do you think we're doing

the right thing?"

Jean gave one of the clothes racks a casual spin. "Of course we are, sweetie. You know that."

The two women showed strained smiles to one another. How often they had talked about the irony of

their friendship; how often they had remembered Jean's sister-in-law, Claudia Grant, who died in

Khyron's suicide run against the SDF-1. And perhaps the conversation would have taken a turn in this

direction even then, had not Lisa chosen just that moment to present herself as bride-to-be.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked them, turning around for their inspection.

Miriya, who had worn her hair emerald green for years, was too surprised by the gown's conservative

cut to say much; but Jean said, "I think you picked a beauty, Admiral. That gown is shipshape from stem

to stern."

"Yeah, but how will it travel in hyperspace?" Miriya thought to ask.

"You two..." Lisa laughed, while her friends began to finger the gown here and there. None of them were

aware that a newcomer had entered the ship until a female voice said, "Excuse me."

Lisa looked up and uttered a surprised gasp. Lynn-Minmei was standing in the doorway. Lisa had been

thinking of her not five minutes before, standing in front of the mirror seeing new age lines in her

thirty-five-year-old face and comparing herself to the seemingly ageless star of song and screen.

"I-I hope I'm not interrupting, Lisa, but I heard you were in town, and well, I just wanted to congratulate

you before the wedding. I mean, it's going to be such a madhouse up there." They had hardly been

strangers these past six years, but hadn't seen each other since the wedding date had been officially

announced some five months ago. "I'd love to help out any way I can-that is, if you'd allow me to, Lisa."

"Minmei," Lisa said with a note of disbelief. "This is so unexpected. But don't be silly, of course you can

help," she added, laughing. "Come here."

They embraced, and held hands as they stepped back to regard one another. Lisa couldn't help but

marvel at Minmei's youth and radiance. She really was the one constant in everyone's lives.

"Oh, Lisa, I want so much to let bygones be bygones. That dress is lovely-I always knew you'd make a

beautiful bride."

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"Ms. Minmei's right, Admiral," enthused the shop owner, who had appeared out of nowhere. It was

obvious that the man was thrilled to have a celebrity of Minmei's stature in his boutique; he risked a

glance at the street, hoping some passersby had noticed her enter.

"I still think she should get married in her EVA suit," Bowie said from across the room, only to have Dana

pull the cap down on his forehead again.

"Children!" Jean scolded as the bickering recommenced.

Minmei asked to see the engagement ring, and Lisa held out her hand.

"I can't tell you what it means to see you again, Minmei," Lisa said softly.

"That devious little Zentraedi's got the whole Supreme Council eating out of his hand!" Commander

Leonard complained to Rolf Emerson after the press conference.

Emerson, soon to inherit two eight-year-olds, was every bit the commander's opposite, in appearance as

well as ideology; but the two of them had nevertheless managed to maintain a working relationship.

Major Emerson, handsome, clean-cut, and fine-featured, was, strictly speaking, RDF; but he had

become something of a liaison officer between the general staffs of the military factions. Well aware of

Leonard's xenophobia-and of the infamous "thigh wound" the field marshal had sustained during the

Malcontent Uprisings-Emerson was willing to let the racial slur slide, even though he numbered several

Zentraedi among his closest and dearest friends.

"It's unbelievable," Leonard was railing, the huge brass buckle of his uniform dazzling even in the dim light

of Emerson's headquarters office. "A diplomatic mission...If it's a diplomatic mission, then why are they

arming that ship with every Robotech weapons system we've ever developed?"

"It's called `gunboat diplomacy,' Commander," Emerson replied, willing to concede the point. Lord

Exedore and Breetai claimed that they had no real knowledge of what the Robotech Masters might

possess in the way of a war machine now that their race of warrior giants had all but been erased from

the galaxy.

"Well, stupidity's what I call it. It jeopardizes the very survival of this planet." Leonard paced in front of

Emerson's desk. "Something stinks here, Major, and it's not in the ventilation system."

CHAPTER TWO

In the midst of all the ironies and reversals, the struggles, treachery, conquests, and betrayals, the mad

scramble for mutated Flowers and irradiated worlds, it was easy to lose sight of the war's central

concern-which was not, as many have claimed, the Flowers of Life, but their deified stepchild,

Protoculture. Even the Regis seemed to forget for a time; but it could hardly be said that the Regent's

Invid, the Masters, or the Expeditionary mission, had anything other than Protoculture as their goal and

grail. Protoculture was needed to fuel their mecha, to drive their war machines to greater and greater

heights. And it was all but disappeared from the galaxy. What a trick it played on all of us!

Sehg Kahler, The Tirolian Campaign

As it would happen, Commander Leonard's fears were justified, but eleven years would pass before the

spade fortresses of the Robotech Masters appeared in Earthspace. And perhaps history would have

vindicated Leonard if the man's misdeeds had not stayed one step ahead of his contributions. Fate

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offered him one consolation, though: he would be dead two years before the Invid arrival. Earth would

fall, just as he had predicted; just as Tirol fell after the Masters had begun their long journey through

space and left their homeworld defenseless.

The Invid, however, were less confident in those days. Optera-their native planet-and Tirol had been at

war for generations, and the Invid especially were at a disadvantage in terms of firepower. They had,

after all, been deprived of the one thing that had cemented the social structure of their race-the Flower of

Life; and more importantly, they were novices in this game called warfare. On the other hand, the

Masters were adepts, addicted to Protoculture, obsessed with control, and driven to transform

themselves-not through any measure of spiritual evolution, but through sheer conquest of the material

realm. Profligate, they lived for excess; cloned a race of warrior giants to police their empire, then, still

not content, cloned an entire society they could rule at whim. They took the best specimens with them

when they abandoned Tirol; all that remained were the three Elders of their race, several hundred

imperfect clones-lost without their clonemasters-and Tirol's preclone population of humanoids, who were

of no use to the ascended Masters.

Tirol, the third of Fantoma's twelve moons, was not the Masters' original homeworld; but they had

successfully transplanted themselves on that utterly barren planetoid from one of the outer satellites.

Tiresia, the capital, a blend of Tirol's analogue of Greco-Roman architecture and ultratech design, was

the only occupied city; and as such was aware of the Invid's coming ahead of time.

Aware...but hardly prepared.

Early-warning sirens and howlers had the humanoid population scurrying, for shelters beneath the city

well in advance of the midnight attack. The clones wandered the streets in a kind of daze, while the

Elders who were responsible for their reaction made certain to hide themselves away in

specially-designed chambers the Masters had seen fit to construct before their mass exodus. But there

were two who remained at their work while the alert sounded through the city: the scientist Cabell, and

his young assistant, Rem.

"Whoever they are," Cabell was saying, while his fingers rushed a series of commands into one of the

lab's data networks, "they've put down near the outpost at Rylac."

"Is their identity any doubt, Cabell?" Rem asked from behind the old man's chair. Video monitors

showed a dozen burnt-orange oysterlike troop carriers hovering over a jagged ridgeline of mountains

west of the city. The network spit out a data card, which Cabell immediately transferred to an adjacent

on-line device.

"I don't suppose there is, my boy," the scientist said without turning around. Several of the ships had put

down now, and were disgorging mecha from their forward ramps.

"Will the city's defenses save us?"

Cabell left the question unanswered; instead, he turned his attention to activation switches for the remote

cameras positioned at the outpost's perimeter, his long snow-white beard grazing the control studs while

he reached across the console. He was every bit a wizard of a man, portly under his tasseled robes and

laurel-collared capes, with a hairless knobbed skull and thick white eyebrows, mustache, and beard. He

was indeed old enough to be the young man's father, although that wasn't precisely the case. Rem was

tall and slender, with an ageless, almost elfin face and a thick shock of slate-blue hair. He wore a

tight-fitting uniform with a long cape of royal blue.

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"We're defenseless," Rem said a moment later, reacting to Cabell's silence. "Only the old and the sick

remain on Tirol."

"Quiet!" the scientist told him. The central viewscreen showed the transports lifting off. Energy-flux

schematics scrolled across half-a-dozen lesser screens. "Now what could they have in mind?"

Rem gestured to a secondary video monitor. "Frankly, Cabell, I'm more concerned about these monsters

they've left behind." Waves of armored, felinelike creatures could be seen advancing up and out of the

drop zone.

Cabell leaned back from the console to contemplate the images, right hand stroking his beard. "They

resemble drones, not monsters." One of the creatures had stopped in its tracks and seemed to be staring

at the camera. Cabell brought the lens to bear on the thing, focusing in on the four-legged creature's

razor-sharp claws, fangs, and shoulder horns.

"It spotted the remote!" Rem said, as the cat's eyes began to glow. An instant later a metal-shod claw

swiped at the camera; the image de-rezzed, and the screen crackled with static.

The Invid were a long way from home-if Optera could still be thought of in those terms. That their strikes

against the Masters' empire were fueled by revenge was true enough; but the conquest of worlds like

Karbarra, Praxis, and Spheris had had a more consequential purpose, for all these planets had been

seeded by Zor with the Flowers of Life-the renegade scientist's final attempt at recompense for the

horrors his discoveries had inadvertently unleashed. But the resultant Flowers had proved a sterile crop,

mutated at best; and so the search was under way for the one key that could unlock the mysteries of

Zor's science: the Protoculture matrix he himself had hidden aboard the Superdimensional Fortress.

The legendary device had never been uncovered by Lang's teams of Robotechnicians, and now that ship

lay buried under tons of earth, rock, and Macross debris far from where the Invid were directing their

quest. But at the time they had no way of knowing these things.

The Flowers had been their primary concern-their nutrient grail-but that purpose had undergone a slight

perversion since Zor's death at the hands of Invid troopers. For not only had he transgressed by seducing

the Flowers' secret from the Invid Regis; he had also spread a kind of contagion among that race-a

pathology of emulation. And within a generation the Invid had refashioned themselves, and, with a form

of self-generated Protoculture, created their own galactic war machine-a fleet of discshaped starships, a

strike force of bipedal crablike mecha, and an army of mindless battle drones-the so-called Inorganics.

But this was chiefly the work of the Invid Regent, not their Queen, and a schism had resulted-one that

would ultimately affect Earth's fragile hold on its future.

The Invid fleet was anchored in space above Tirol when word spread through the ranks that the Regent

himself had decided to take charge of the invasion. Companies of Inorganics had already been deployed

on the moon's surface to counter ground-force resistance. Now, aboard the fleet flagship, one thousand

Invid troops stood at attention in the docking bay, backed by more than two hundred Pincer assault

mecha.

The unarmored individual Invid was primate in shape. Bilaterally symmetrical, they stood anywhere from

six to eight feet tall, and walked upright on two powerfully-muscled legs. Equally massive were the

forearms, shoulders, and three-fingered hands, with their opposable thumbs. The bulbous head and huge

neck-often held parallel to the ground-approximated that of a snail, with an eye on either side, and two

sensory antennae at the snout. The skin was green, almost reptilian, and there was at this stage no sexual

differentiation. The Regent himself was by and large a grander, nearly twenty-foot-high version of the

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same design, save for his purple hue and the organic cowl that rested upon his back like some sort of

manta ray. This hood, which could puff like a cobra's at times, was ridged front to back with

tubercle-like sensors that resembled eyeballs.

The commander of flagship troops genuflected as the hatchway to the Regent's ship hissed up, spilling

brilliant light against the soldier's crimson body armor. Helmet snout lowered to the floor, the trooper

brought its right hand to its breast in salute.

"My lord, the Inorganics have met only token resistance on Tirol," the commander reported, its voice

distorted by the helmet filters. "So far there is no sign of the Robotech Masters."

The Regent remained on the shuttle's rampway, his bulk and flowing blue robe filling the hatch.

"Cowering beneath their beds, no doubt," the Regent said in a voice so deep it seemed to emanate from

the ship itself.

The commander raised its head some, with a whirring of mechanical adjusters. "Our beloved Regis has

expressed some displeasure with your strategy, my lord." It offered up a cassettelike device in its left

hand. "She wanted this to be given to you."

"A voice imprint?" the Regent said dubiously. "How thoughtful of my wife." He snatched the cassette in

his hand. "I can hardly wait to hear it."

He activated the device as he moved from the docking bay into one of the flagship's corridors. The

commander and a ten-trooper squad marched in formation behind him, their armored footfalls echoing in

the massive space.

"Do you truly believe that you'll find what you seek on this wretched planet?" the synthesized female

voice began. "If so you are even a greater fool than I ever suspected. This idiotic invasion of yours is the

most-"

"I've heard about enough of that," the Regent said, deactivating the voice. "Tell me, where is our beloved

Regis?" he asked the commander after a moment.

"She has returned to her fleet flagship, my lord." When the Regent had reached his quarters, the

commander thought to ask, "Shall I tell her you wish to see her, my lord?"

"Negative," the Regent said sternly. "The farther she is, the better I like it. See to it that my pets are

brought aboard, and let the invasion proceed without her."

The Invid squad snapped to as the door hissed closed.

The humanoid soldiers at the Rylar, outpost were easily overrun. Given the few weapons at their

disposal, they made a valiant stand, but the Inorganics proved too much for them. The forward assault

wave was comprised solely of Invid feline mecha; but behind these Hellcats marched companies of Scrim

and Crann and Odeon-Invid robot analogues, which in some ways resembled skeletal versions of their

own Shock Troopers and Pincer Ships, a demonic, bipedal infantry.

A schematic representation of a Scrim came to life on one of Cabell's monitor screens, rotating and

shifting through a series of perspectives, as intact remotes from the Rylac sector continued to bring the

action home to the lab.

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JackMcKinney-Sentinels1-DevilsHandCopyright1988byJackMcKinneyCHAPTERONEIleaveituptothehistoriansandthemoraliststojudgewhetherourdecision(theExpeditionarymission)isrightorwrong.Iknowonlythatitisprudentandnecessary-necessaryforourverysurvivalbothasaplanetandasalifeform.IftheProtoculturehastaughtmeanyt...

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Jack McKinney - Sentinels 01 - Devils Hand

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