Jack McKinney - Robotech 13 - The Devil's Hand

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Robotech Sentinels: The Devil's Hand

Book 13 of the Robotech series

ROBOTECH CHRONOLOGY

1999 Alien spacecraft known as SDF-1 crashlands on Earth through an opening in hyperspace,

effectively ending almost a decade of Global Civil War.

In another part of the Galaxy, Zor is killed during a Flower of Life seeding attempt.

2002 Destruction of Mars Base Sara.

2009 On the SDF-1's launch day, the Zentraedi (after a ten-year search for the fortress) appear

and lay waste to Macross Island. The SDF-1 makes an accidental jump to Pluto.

2009-11 The SDF-1 battles its way back to Earth.

2011-12 The SDF-1 spends almost half a year on Earth, is ordered to leave, and defeats Dolza's

armada, which has laid waste to much of the planet.

2012-14 A two-year period of reconstruction begins.

2012 The Robotech Masters lose confidence in the ability of their giant warriors to recapture the

SDF-1, and begin a mass pilgrimage through interstellar space to Earth.

2013 Dana Sterling is born.

2014 Destruction of the SDFs 1 and 2 and Khyron's battlecruiser.

2014-20 The SDF-3 is built and launched. Rick Hunter turns 29 in 2020; Dana turns 7.

Subsequent events covering the Tiresian campaign are recounted in the Sentinels series. A complete

Robochronology will appear in the fifth and final volume.

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

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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 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, 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

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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.

"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

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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.

"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,

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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."

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."

"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.

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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 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

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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.

"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

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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 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.

"There is only one species capable of producing such a device," Cabell commented flatly.

"The Invid," said Rem. "It was only a matter of time."

"The strategy is typical of them: they won't descend until their fighting drones have

cleared away the resistance. And after they've devastated Tirol, they'll leave these things behind

to police us." Hellcat schematics were taking shape on the monitors. "These machines are puzzling,

though. It's almost as if..."

Rem looked back and forth between the screens and the old man's face, trying to discern

Cabell's meaning. "It's hopeless, isn't it?"

"I'm not saying that, my boy," the scientist replied, leaning in to study the data flows.

"This feline drone is like its two-legged counterparts: computer-driven and incapable of

independent action. Its functions, therefore, must be controlled by an external centralized power

source of some kind." He swiveled around in his chair to gaze at his assistant. "That is its

weakness, the one flaw in the system, and we must take advantage of it."

"Cabell-"

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"Is it not easier to attack one target than a thousand? If we can locate that power source

and disable it, then all these dreaded machines will be deactivated."

Alert lamps flashed in another part of the room and Cabell swung around to them. "The

Inorganics are closing on the city. Now we'll see how they fare against real firepower."

"The Bioroids!" Rem said excitedly.

"They're our only hope."

Rick and Max had shuttled down to the surface simply to ride back up with Lisa, Miriya,

Lang, and other members of the mission command team. Both men were aware that the short trip

constituted their last visit to Earth for an indeterminate period of time, but neither of them

made much of this. Max was still nursing some concerns about leaving Dana behind, but was

otherwise fully committed to the mission. Rick, on the other hand, was so preoccupied with the

wedding that he had begun to think of the mission as a simpler and more certain voyage. So it was

during the return trip that he was paying almost no attention to the discussion taking place in

the command shuttle conference chambers.

"I only hope this plan works," Jonathan Wolff was saying. "Coming in disguised as a

Zentraedi ship...It could backfire on us."

"Oh, you're forgetting your own Earth history, Colonel," the Zentraedi ambassador told

him. "The Greeks and their Trojan horse."

"I think you're confusing history and mythology, Lord Exedore. Wouldn't you agree,

Admiral? Admiral?" Wolff repeated.

Rick surfaced from his own thoughts to find everyone at the table staring at him. "Huh?

Sorry, I was, um, thinking about something else."

Wolff recapped the exchange: justification for the disguise had been something of an issue

from the start. Exedore and Lang were of the opinion that Tirol's defenses would annihilate any

ship that registered an alien signature. According to the Zentraedis, the Robotech Masters had

been at war for generations with a race called the Invid, and any unannounced entry into the

Valivarre system would be tantamount to an act of aggression. Wolff, however, along with several

other members of the general staff, advanced the view that the Zentraedi themselves might no

longer be considered welcome guests. After all, they had not only failed in their mission to

reclaim the SDF-1, but had allied themselves with the very "Micronians" their armada had been

ordered to destroy.

Wolff was a persuasive speaker, and while Rick listened he couldn't help but be impressed

by the scope of the man's learning. Handsome, articulate, an inspired commander and deadly hand-to-

hand combatant, the full bird colonel was considered something of a glamour boy; he favored

wraparound sunglasses, wore his dark hair slicked back, and his mustache well-trimmed. But the

leader of the notorious "Wolff Pack" was anything but glamorous in the field. Wolff had made a

name for himself and his Hovertank ground unit during the Southland's Malcontent Uprisings, where

he had first come to the attention of Max Sterling. When the Zentraedis who survived those days

spoke of Wolff, one couldn't help but hear the mixture of reverence and dread in their voices; and

anyone who had read the declassified documents covering the Control Zone mop-up ops had no trouble

understanding why Wolff and Breetai were often mentioned in the same breath.

"I'm just saying that disguising the ship and loading it down with mecha only serves to

undermine the so-called diplomatic thrust of the mission." Wolff snorted. "No wonder Leonard and

the Southern Cross brass tried to make mincemeat out of you down there."

"What do they expect us to do?" Max wanted to know. "Go in there flying a white flag? At

least we've got some bargaining power this way."

"Let's just hope we won't need to. use any of it," Rick said at last, straining against

his seat harness. "Without the Zentraedi, the Masters could be defenseless for all we know."

Exedore shook his head. "Oh, I wouldn't count on that, Admiral." Breetai had already

briefed everyone on the mecha the Masters had been developing before Zor's death-Hoverships and

Bioroids.

"Gentlemen, the time is long past for arguments about strategy," Lang cut in before Rick

could speak. "We've all supported this plan, and it seems rather late in the day to be changing

our mind."

"I agree," Max said.

"Look, I agree," Wolff wanted the table to know. "I'd just like us to agree on an

approach. Are we going in with fists raised or hands up? The Masters aren't going to be fooled by

our outward appearance-not for long, at any rate."

"Possibly not," Exedore answered him. "But if we allow possibilities to influence us,

we'll never leave orbit."

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"I've got as many doubts as anybody," Rick said from the head of the table. "But the

time's come to put them behind us. We've made our bed, as the saying goes..."

Brave Talk, Hunter, he thought, listening to his own words. And I'll keep telling myself

that when I'm walking down the aisle.

Two RDF officers were watching the approach of the command shuttle from a rectangular bay

in one of the factory satellite's peripheral pods. One was a slim and eager-eyed young major who

had recently been appointed adjutant to General T. R. Edwards; and the other was the general

himself, his disfiguration concealed beneath an irregularly-shaped black-alloy plate that covered

most of the right side of his face and more than half his skull. On the uncovered left side of his

head, long blond hair fell in waves to the collar of his tight-fitting uniform. He was high-

cheekboned and square jawed, and might have been considered handsome even with the plate, were it

not for the cruelty in his eye and downward-turning mouth.

"So tell me, Benson," Edwards said, while his one eye continued to track the shuttle's

course, "what do you know about the illustrious vice admiral?"

"I know that Hunter's one of our most decorated heroes, sir," Benson reported to the

general's broad back. "Leader of the Skull during the Robotech War, commander of the RDF after the

destruction of the superdimensional for tresses, about to marry the admiral...That's about it,

sir."

Edwards clasped his hands behind his back. "That's right. The high command likes to award

medals to people who end up in the right place at the right time."

"Sir?" Benson asked.

"Anything in your academy history books about Roy Fokker?" Edwards said nastily over his

shoulder. "Now there was a real VT ace for you. I remember turning those blue skies red trying to

nail his ass...But you're too young to remember the Global War, aren't you, Benson? The real

heroes." Edwards leaned forward and pressed his fingertips against the bay's permaplas viewport.

"Fokker taught Hunter everything he knew, did you know that? You might even say that Hunter is

what Fokker would've been, Major-that Hunter is Fokker."

Benson swallowed hard, unsure how to respond, uncertain if he even should.

Edwards touched his skullplate, remembering, forcing himself back over tormented terrain-

to what was left of Alaska Base after Zentraedi annihilation bolts had destroyed the Grand Cannon

and made a hell of that icebound site. And how one man and one woman had survived. The woman was

unharmed, protected where she cowered while her father had fried alive; but the man, how he had

suffered! What agony he had endured, down on his knees shamelessly trying to push the ruins of an

eye back where it belonged, fingers pinched in an effort to knit together flesh that had been

opened on his face and forehead. Then the rapture he had known when a solitary Veritech had

appeared out of those unnatural clouds. But it was the woman that VT pilot had come for, and no

other. It was the woman who had been flown to safety, the woman who had risen through the ranks,

while the man had been left behind to die, to rot in that alien-made inferno...

"Ah, what a wedding this will be, Benson," Edwards continued after a moment of angry

silence. "Admirals Rick Hunter and Lisa Hayes. Star-crossed lovers, if ever there were. Born and

reborn for each other."

"Till death do them part," Benson returned with a uncomfortable laugh.

Edwards spun on his heels, face contorted, then erupting in laughter. "Yes, Major, how

right you are!"

Most of the Zentraedi had been off scouring the galaxy for Zor's ship and its hidden

Protoculture matrix when the Robotech Masters first perfected the Bioroids. Sixty-foot-tall

nontransformable goliath knights piloted by low-level clones, they were meant to act as the

Masters' police force on the remote worlds that comprised Tirol's empire, freeing the Zentraedi

for further acts of conquest and continued warfare against the Invid. The Masters had never

considered that Protoculture would one day be in limited supply, nor that their army of giant

warriors would be defeated in a distant corner of the Fourth Quadrant by so simple a weapon as

love. So it fell on the Bioroids by chance and Protoculture's own dark designs, to defend the

Masters' empire against Optera's ravenous horde. But try as they might, they were no match for the

Invid Shock Troopers and Pincer Ships, with their plasma weapons and energy discs. And as

Protoculture grew more and more scarce, they could barely defend against the mindless Inorganics.

"It is sheer numbers," Cabell explained to Rem as they watched Tiresia's first line of

defense fall. The clonemasters left behind to rule the Bioroid pilots were an inferior lot, so the

fight was not all it should have been. The Masters have thrown them our world, Cabell left unsaid.

Those massive spade fortresses with their clone populations were the Masters' new homes; they had

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Jack McKinney - Robotech 13 - The Devil's Hand

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