Jack McKinney - Robotech 04 - Battlehymn

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Robotech: Battlehymn

Book Four of the Robotech Series

CHAPTER ONE

As far as I'm concerned [Gloval] has already disobeyed his orders; I'd urge

the council to proceed with a courtmartial if I could only come up with

someone to replace him. What do you think, [name withheld], perhaps I could

talk [Admiral] Hayes into accepting the position and kill two birds with one

stone?...This issue of the civilians aboard the SDF-1 has turned into a real

mess. Personally, I consider them expendable-along with Gloval, along with the

whole ship, if you want to know the truth. Let's face facts: The thing has

already outlived its purpose. You and I are where we wanted to be. Why not

give the aliens their damn ship and send them back where they belong?

Senator Russo, personal correspondence (source withheld)

There was something new in the cool summer night skies of 2012...You remember

sitting on the backyard swing, hands tightly gripping the galvanized chains,

slender arms extended and head tossed all the way back, gazing up into the

immeasurable depths of that black magic, teasing your young mind with half-

understood riddles of space and time. All of a sudden, your gaze found

movement there where none should have existed, as if an entire constellation

had uprooted and launched itself on an impromptu journey across the cosmos.

Your heart was beating fast, but your eyes continued to track that mystery's

swift passage toward the distant horizon, even though you were watching it

upside down now and in danger of toppling backward off the swing. A screen

door slammed, its report a signal that your cries had been heard, your father

and his friends beside you trying to follow the rapid flow of your words, your

shaking forefinger, pointing to unmoving starfields. "Past your bedtime," your

father said, and off you went. But you crept down the wide carpeted staircase

later on, silently, invisibly, and heard them in the library talking in low

tones, using words you couldn't fully comprehend but in a way that proved you

weren't imagining things. You'd glimpsed the fortress, a heavenly city

returned from the past, massive enough to occultate the stars...savior or

harbinger of dark prophecies, your father's friends couldn't decide which, but

"a sign of the times" in either case. Like blue moons, unexplained

disappearances, rumors of giants that were on their way to get you...And on

the front page of the following day's newspaper you saw what the night had

kept from you: a mile-high roboid figure, propelled by unknown devices twice

its own height above a stunned city, erect, legs straight, arms bent at the

elbow, held out like those of a holy man or magician in a calming gesture of

peace or surrender. It reminded you of something at the edge of memory, an

image you wouldn't summon forth until much later, when fire rained from the

sky, your night world annihilated by light...

In direct violation of United Earth Defense Council dictates, Captain

Gloval had ordered the SDF-1 airborne. It was not the first time he had

challenged the wisdom of the Council, nor would it be the last.

The dimensional fortress had remained at its landing site in the Pacific

for two long months like an infant in a wading pool, the supercarriers

Daedalus and Prometheus that were her arms positioned out front like toys in

the ocean waves. And indeed, Gloval often felt as though his superiors on the

Council had been treating him like a child since the fortress's return to

Earth. Two years of being chased through the solar system by a race of alien

giants, only to be made to feel like unwanted relatives who had simply dropped

in for a visit. Gloval had a full understanding of the Council's decisions

from a military point of view, but those men who sat in judgment were

overlooking one important element-or, as Gloval had put it to them, 56,000

important elements: the one-time residents of Macross Island who were onboard

his ship. Circumstance had forced them to actively participate in this running

space battle with the Zentraedi, but there was no reason now for their

continued presence; they had become unwilling players in a game of global

politics that was likely to have a tragic end.

There had already been more than 20,000 deaths; how many more were

required to convince the Council to accede to his demands that the civilians

be allowed to disembark?

The Council's reasoning was far from specious, it was crazed, rooted in

events that had transpired years before, but worse still, rooted in a

mentality Gloval had hoped he had seen the last of. Even now the commander

found that he could still embrace some of the arguments put forth in those

earlier times-the belief that it was prudent to keep secret from the masses

any knowledge of an impending alien attack. Secrecy had surrounded

reconstruction of the dimensional fortress and the development of Robotech

weaponry, the transfigurable Veritech fighters and the Spartans and

Gladiators. This was the "logic of disinformation": There was a guiding

purpose behind it. But the Council's current stance betrayed an inhumanity

Gloval hadn't believed possible. To explain away the disappearance of the

75,000 people of Macross, the military had announced that shortly after the

initial lift-off of the SDF-1, a volcanic eruption on the order of Krakatoa

had completely destroyed the island. To further complicate matters, GIN, the

Global Intelligence Network, spread rumors to the effect that in reality a

guerrilla force had invaded the island and detonated a thermonuclear device.

Global Times Magazine was then coerced into publishing equally unreal

investigative coverage of a supposed cover-up by GIN, according to which the

actual cause of the deaths on Macross was disease.

Just how any of these stories could have functioned to alleviate

worldwide panic was beyond Gloval; the Council might just as easily have

released the truth: that an experiment in hyperspace relocation had

inadvertently ended with the dematerialization of the island. As it stood,

however, the Council was locked into its own lies: 75,000 killed by a volcanic

explosion/guerrilla invasion/virus. Therefore, these thousands could not be

allowed to "reappear"-return from the dead was an issue the Council was not

ready to deal with.

The 56,000 survivors had to remain virtual prisoners aboard the SDF-1.

And if the Robotech Defense Force should win this war against the

Zentraedi? Gloval had asked the Council. What then? How was the Council going

to deal with the victorious return of the SDF-1 and the return of the dead?

Couldn't they see how misguided they were?

Of course, it was a rhetorical question.

Gloval's real concern was that the Council didn't consider victory an

acceptable scenario.

Which is why he had taken it upon himself to launch the SDF-1. He was

going to focus attention on the civilians one way or another...

There was panic on the ground and panic in the voice of the Aeronautics

Command controller.

"NAC. ground control to SDF-1 bridge: Come in immediately...NAC. ground

control to SDF-1 bridge: Come in immediately, over!"

On the bridge of the dimensional fortress there were suppressed grins of

satisfaction. Captain Gloval put a match to his pipe, disregarding Sammie's

reminders. He let a minute pass, then signaled Claudia from the command chair

to respond to the incoming transmission.

"SDF-1 bridge to NAC. ground control, I have Captain Gloval. Go ahead,

over."

Gloval drew at his pipe and blew a cloud toward the overhead monitors.

He could just imagine the scene below: the eyes of Los Angeles riveted on his

sky spectacle. He had ordered Lang and astrogation to utilize the newly

revamped antigrav generators to secure and maintain a low-level fly-by, and so

the enormous triple ports of the foot thrusters were scarcely a mile above the

streets. There would be no mistaking this for some Hollywood stunt. And not

only were people getting their first look at the airborne SDF-1, but also of

the formerly top-secret mecha that flew along with her-fighters, Guardians,

and Battloids hovering and circling a milehigh bipedal Robotechnological

marvel. Forget the majestic colors of those sunset clouds, Gloval wanted to

tell them. Here was something really worth photographing!

"Captain Gloval, low flights over population centers have been strictly

prohibited except in extreme emergencies."

Gloval reached forward and picked up the handset. "This is an emergency.

We must maintain a low-altitude holding pattern. Our gravity control system is

not perfected, and the lives of our 56,000 civilian detainees are in

jeopardy."

Lisa Hayes turned from her station to throw him a conspiratorial wink.

"But sir, you're causing a panic down here. Increase your altitude and

fly out over the ocean immediately. It's imperative."

I have them where I want them! Gloval said to himself.

"I will comply with your order if you can give me permission to

disembark these civilians."

The speakers went silent; when the controller returned, there was

incredulity and urgency in his voice.

"Sir, that's impossible. Orders from UEDC headquarters state that no one

is to leave your ship. We have no authority to countermand those orders. You

must leave this area at once."

It was time to let some of the anger show. Gloval shouted, "I will not

rest until those orders are changed!"

He slammed the handset back into its cradle and leaned back into the

chair. Vanessa had swiveled from her screen to study him; he knew what was on

her mind and granted her the liberty to speak freely.

"Sir, isn't it dangerous to be making threats while we're on the aircom

net?"

Claudia exchanged looks with Gloval and spoke for him.

"This fortress is a symbol of the Council's strength," she told Vanessa.

"If it gets out that the captain is resisting orders, the Council would lose

face-"

"And there's a chance," Lisa added, "that our communication was being

monitored." She turned to Gloval. "Isn't that true, Captain?"

Gloval left the chair and walked forward to the curved bay. The

cityscape was spread out beneath the ship; Veritechs flew in formation, and

great swirls and billows of lavender and orange sunset clouds filled the sky.

"I'm prepared to keep the SDF-1 here until we are monitored, Lisa." He

turned to face Claudia and the others. "I don't think there's much chance that

the Council will reverse its decision. But politicians can sometimes be

helpful, and it's possible that someone in the government will get wind of

this, see an opportunity, and step in."

"But the Council isn't going to like your tactics, sir," said Vanessa.

Gloval turned back to the bay.

"Even if I face prosecution, this is something I must do. Civilians have

no place onboard this ship. No place in this war."

But for the time being the SDF-1 was stuck with its civilians. However,

it had been outfitted with a reworked shield system. Dr. Lang had dismantled

the pin-point barrier and liberated the lambent energy which animated it-the

same energy which had materialized with the disappearance of the spacefold

generators some time ago. His team of Robotechnicians had then reanalyzed that

alien fire, careful to avoid past mistakes, tamed and cajoled it, and

fashioned a newly designed harness for it. Where the former system relied on

manually operated maneuverable photon discs that were capable of covering only

specific portions of the fortress (hence the name "pin-point" system), the

reworked design was omnidirectional, allowing for full coverage. It did share

some of the weaknesses of its prototype, though, in that activation of the

system drained energy from the weapons systems, and full coverage was severely

time-limited.

If only the personnel of the fortress could have been similarly

outfitted...but who has yet designed a shield system for the heart, a

protective barrier, pin-point or otherwise, for the human soul?

Roy Fokker was dead.

The VT pilots of Skull Team had their own way of dealing with combat

deaths: The slain pilot simply never was. Men from Vermilion or Indigo might

approach them in Barracks C or belowdecks in the Prometheus and say: "Sorry to

hear about Roy," or "Heard that Roy tuned out." And they would look them

square in the eye or turn to one of their Skull teammates and ask flatly, "Roy

who?" some might think the skull were kidding with them and press the

question, but the response remained the same: "Roy who?" Nobody broke the

pact, nobody spoke of Roy, then or now. Roy simply never was.

Except in the privacy of their quarters or the no-man's-land of their

tortured memories and dreams. Then a man could let loose and wail or rage or

throw out the wane questions humankind has been asking since that first

murder, the first death at the hands of another, the one that set the pattern

for all that followed.

Perhaps that shell game the Skull Team played with death had found its

way to the bridge, or maybe it was just that Fokker's death was too painful to

discuss-the first one that hit home-but in any case no one brought it up.

Claudia and Rick were each separately cocooned in sorrow no one saw fit to

disturb. Kim and Sammie talked about how sorry they felt for Claudia, knowing

how much she missed Fokker, knowing that underneath that brave front she was

torn up. But neither woman ever approached her with those feelings. Even Lisa

seemed at a loss. That afternoon she had followed Claudia to the mess hall,

hesitant at the door, as if afraid to intrude on her friend's grief...Did it

occur to her that Claudia and Rick-the lieutenant at the observation deck rail

and Claudia seated not fifteen feet away-might have been able to help each

other through it, or was Lisa also one of the speechless walking wounded,

wounds in her own heart reopened, wounds that had been on the mend until

Fokker's death?

It was Rick she approached that afternoon, the City of Angels spread out

below the observation deck like some Robotech circuit board. Rick looked drawn

and pale, recuperating but still weak from his own brush with death from

wounds he had suffered indirectly at her own hand. But there was no mention of

Roy, although it was plain enough to read in his dark eyes the devastation he

felt. And the more she listened to him, the deeper she looked into those eyes,

the more fearful she became; it was as though all light had left him, as

though his words rose from a hollow center, somber and distanced. She wanted

to reach out and rescue him from the edge. There was music coming through the

PA, a song that had once welcomed both of them back from a shared trip to that

edge.

"That's Minmei, isn't it, Rick? Have you two been seeing each other?"

"Sure," he answered flatly. "I watch her on the wall screen, and she

sees me in her dreams."

No help in this direction; Lisa apologized.

Rick turned from her and leaned out over the rail.

"She's been spending a lot of time with her cousin Kyle. You know,

family comes first."

"Well I'm glad you're all right, Rick. I was worried about you."

That at least brought him around, but there was no change in tone.

"Yeah, I'm feeling great, Lisa. Just great."

She wanted to start from scratch: Listen, Rick, I'm sorry about Roy, if

I can be any help to you-

"So I hear we've got a new barrier system," he was saying. "And I guess

we need it more than ever, right, I mean, since the Council is refusing to

allow the civilians to leave-"

"Rick-"

"-and it isn't likely that the Zentraedi are going to call off their

attacks."

She let him get it all out and let silence act as a buffer.

"The Council will rescind their order, Rick. The captain says he'll keep

the ship right there until they do."

Rick sneered. "Good. And the sooner it happens, the better. I know we're

all anxious to get back into battle."

Rick's eyes burned into hers until she could no longer stand it and

looked away. Was he blaming her somehow for Roy's death? Had she suddenly been

reduced to some malevolent symbol in his eyes? First Lynn-Kyle and his remarks

about the military, and now this...Below she watched the traffic move along

the grid of city streets; she looked long and hard at the Sierra foothills, as

if to remind herself that she was indeed back on

Earth, back among the living. But even if the Council had a change of heart,

even if her father came to his senses and allowed the civilian detainees to

disembark, what would become of the SDF-1 and her crew?

Where and when would they find safe haven?

CHAPTER TWO

LAPSTEIN: In light of the, well, "psychological" problems which beset the

Zentraedi after the SDF-1's successful return to Earth, isn't there some

justification for suggesting that Khyron should have taken over command of the

Imperial Fleet?

EXEDORE (Laughs shortly): We would not be having this interview, of this I can

assure you.

LAPSTEIN: Of course...But in terms of strategic impact?

EXEDORE: (After a moment) It could be said that Khyron was more aware of the

dangers of cultural contagion than many of us, but he was no longer thinking

as a strategist. The SDF-1 was not his main concern; that the ship contained a

Protoculture matrix was of little importance. He had by now come to believe

that by destroying it he would put an end to what he regarded as a psychic

threat to his race. I will leave it to your "psychologists" to examine his

underlying motives. But I will add this: He was responding in pure Zentraedi

fashion-he recognized potential danger and moved to eliminate it. My hope is

that this will rescue his image from what many of your writers have termed

"humanness. "

Lapstein, Interviews

Khyron was possessed by the Invid Flower of Life; without being aware of it,

he was by now working against the Zentraedi imperative.

Rawlins, Zentraedi Triumvirate: Dolza, Breetai, Khyron

Well within striking distance of Earth, two Zentraedi cruisers moved through

space, silently, side by side, Gargantuas from an unholy realm. A day would

come when the commanders of these ships would stand together at the gates of

an even blacker void, released from an artificial past and feverish with

exhilaration for a present in the making, hands and hearts linked, an evil

pact made good, laughing into the face of death...But today there were harsh

words and recriminations, a taste of what was to come for the rest.

Khyron slammed his fist down on the command post console, his right hand

pointed accusingly at the projecbeam image of Azonia, her arms folded across

her chest, as much in defiance as in defense.

"It can't be!" the so-called Backstabber shouted. "Why are they ordering

us to fall back?"

His lowered head and narrowed eyes peering from beneath bangs of sky

blue gave him a demonic look.

Azonia now addressed the projecbeam image on the bridge of her cruiser.

"I'm not at liberty to explain, but our orders are clear, Khyron: Until

this new operation is terminated, you will do nothing but stand by and wait.

Is that clear?"

She tried to sound calm but knew that he would see through it. Khyron

glared at her.

"Don't play games with me, Azonia. That ship grows stronger day by day,

while we sit and do nothing."

"Khyron-"

"Your meddling in my plans allowed the Micronians to reach their

homeworld. But it is not too late to undo the damage you've done. Destroy them

now!"

"Enough!" she screamed at the screen. But he paid her little heed. An

angry sweep of dismissal with his arm, bared teeth, and he was gone. The

projecbeam compressed to a single horizontal line and vanished, but Azonia

tried to raise him nevertheless.

"Khyron, come in, Khyron! Come in at once!"

Too late. She leaned forward to steady herself on stiffened arms, palms

still flattened against the com buttons. She knew him well enough to fear him,

but it wasn't fear that was threatening to overcome her. These were darker

feelings, utterly devoid of light, far worse than fear. And suddenly she

recognized what it must be: Commander in Chief Dolza had relieved Breetai of

his command, had entrusted her with the mission to retrieve Zor's ship, and

she had failed him.

Failed him!

Just then Miriya was admitted to the bridge, and Azonia felt a glimmer

of hope. If anyone could help her deal with Khyron, it would be Miriya, the

Zentraedi's most skilled pilot. But Azonia was soon to learn that Khyron had

already undermined these plans also.

"I'm glad that you're here," Azonia said to welcome the female ace.

"Commander Khyron is jeopardizing our mission. I'm going to need your help to

keep him in line."

Miriya lowered her gaze. "Commander, I..."

Azonia approached her with concern. "Miriya, what's wrong? Out with it."

"I have come to request your permission to enter the dimensional

fortress...as a spy."

Azonia was shocked. "Micronized?!"

"Yes. I have been studying the enemy's language, and I am confident that

my presence will profit our cause."

"But why? Why would our finest pilot want to become a Micronian? You're

not making sense!"

"Please, Commander, I have no choice."

"Nonsense! Tell me. I order you."

Miriya's deep green eyes flashed; she tossed back her mane of thick hair

and glared at Azonia.

"I have been defeated in battle...bested by a Micronian, an

insignificant bug! I must find and destroy that pilot. Until then I'm of use

to no one. You must permit me, Commander, for the glory of the Zentraedi."

Defeat! thought Azonia. Failure! What was to become of their once

glorious race?

Khyron wasted no time putting his attack plan into effect. Moments after

breaking contact with Azonia he was on his way to the cruiser's Battlepod

hangar, where his lieutenants and squadron leaders would receive their

briefing. Every minute lost brought the Zentraedi that much closer to defeat;

of this he was certain. The Micronians were making repairs, taking on stores,

readying themselves for another round...

Defeat...There was a time not long ago when the very word found no place

in his thinking, let alone the idea. But recent events had reshaped his world

view; dangerous possibilities were now entertained where none had existed

before. This operation directed against the Micronians of "Earth" was

beginning to assume portentous dimensions. Left in the dark to puzzle out the

intricacies of this war that was not a war, Khyron had been forced to rely on

instinct and rumor; he had implicit faith in the former but little use for the

latter unless, as in the present case, he found corroborating evidence of his

own. And at the center of the complexities was Zor's ship, the Super

Dimensional Fortress. That the fortress, with its Protoculture matrix, was a

trophy worthy enough to justify the expenditures of this operation was beyond

dispute. And that it had to be kept from the Invid, equally so. But surely the

Robotech Masters would concede that at this point the fortress was expendable;

the Micronians, having already unlocked some of its secrets, posed a threat

greater than loss of the ship itself. And threats were best dealt with

directly. But what should have been a straightforward eradication and mop-up

exercise, no different from scores of similar operations effected throughout

the quadrant, had become a hazardous hunt-an attempt to recapture the fortress

intact at any cost. Had the Commander in Chief forgotten the imperative?

The Zentraedi were a race of warriors, not gamesters.

Just what were Dolza and Breetai up to? Over and over again he put the

question to himself. Were they serving the Robotech Masters or some rebellious

design of their own? Khyron's suspicions had been temporarily put to rest when

Breetai had been relieved of his command, but now he was beginning to consider

that this, too, was part of their plan. That Azonia had been chosen to head up

the operation was disturbing-maybe a sign that the Old One was in fact losing

his grip-but beside the point in any case. Azonia's time had run out; once

under way, the present attack plan would accomplish a secondary purpose in

seeing to that. But Dolza's next move remained to be seen; should Breetai be

returned to command, Khyron would have no choice but to accept his rebellion

theory as truth. But he also understood that a schism now would only add to an

already perilous course. That was why the present situation had to be defused.

In the cavernous lower chambers of the Zentraedi cruiser, the assault

group was assembled. In addition to the usual complement of Botoru tri-

thruster assault ships, carapace fighters, and scout recons, there were scores

of specialized mecha outfitted with ECM and radar jamming devices. Khyron laid

out his simple plan: The dimensional fortress was to be destroyed.

As Khyron prepared to strap into his Officer's Pod assault ship, he

exchanged some final words with Grel, who would man the helm in Khyron's

absence. The square jawed face of the First Officer was on the overhead screen

in the central hold.

"Wait until I approach the fortress and activate ECM before you follow

and land your fleet, Grel."

"Although Earth's atmosphere makes it difficult to maneuver, we will

obey."

"See that you do. Intelligence reports indicate that the Micronians care

a great deal about their miserable world, so if we bring the fight there, the

fortress and the planet will be ours for the taking." Khyron noticed Grel's

eyes shift back and forth. "Questions, Grel?"

"No, sir...But we are going against Azonia's orders again, aren't we?"

Khyron laughed maliciously. "Just carry out your orders. I'll take care

of her after we return."

Khyron lowered the canopy of the Battlepod. He ingested two dried leaves

from the Flower of Life and brought his mecha to the edge of the cruiser port.

The first controlled firing of the main gun, the Daedalus Maneuver, the

return to Earth: three "whoopees" in two long years of warfare...

But now there was cause for genuine celebration on the bridge of the

dimensional fortress: Gloval's ploy had worked. The North American Ontario

Quadrant, one of a growing number of separatist states seeking autonomy from

the Council's stranglehold, had agreed to accept the civilians. Ontario had

its own reasons for doing so, but the captain wasn't about to ask questions.

It felt as though an enormous weight was about to be lifted from his

shoulders-he could practically feel the worry lines on his face beginning to

fade. Now, if Dr. Lang could only figure some way to transfer Macross City as

well, lock, stock, and barrel.

News of the recently received crypto-communication spread like wildfire

through the ship. Spontaneous parties were already under way in the streets of

the city, and Gloval would have been given a ticker-tape parade if there had

been any ticker tape available. Residents were hastily packing and making

preparations to leave, embracing one another, sobbing good-byes, taking last

looks around. As expected, there were more than a few who wished to remain

onboard, but there were to be no exceptions to the captain's orders: All

civilians had to go. Perhaps when the war was over, like some "city in flight"

the SDF-1 would be taking Earth's children to their destiny...

But most of that was for starry-eyed dreamers and science-fantasy buffs;

most of Macross wanted out. The tour was finished; it was time to get back

into the real world, reconnect with family left behind, tear up the premature

obituaries, and start living again. No more alert sirens waking you up in the

middle of a false night, no more military scrip or play money, no asteroid

showers, no more-thank heavens!-modular transformations. Many of the residents

forgot that these same hopes had been dashed only short weeks before.

The Defense Force was never polled as to its feelings, though the

results undoubtedly would have proved interesting. To some Macross was the

ship's heart, and they had fought hard on Earth and in deep space to protect

that transplanted center. To be appointed guardian of their homeworld would

have been a fair enough tradeoff, but, that was not to be the case. The

Council had already made this clear: Their orders were to lead the aliens away

from Earth, to bring the war back into deep space where it belonged, to act as

a decoy until such time as the Earth was suitably prepared to deal with

invasion. In other words, they had been singled out for sacrifice. If there

was supposed to be some sort of grandiose nobility attached to this, it was

not readily apparent. But fortunately for the Council, the Earth, and the

dimensional fortress commanders themselves, there were few members of the

Defense Force in possession of all the facts.

Rick was belowdecks in the Prometheus when Max and Ben brought him the

news from the bridge. He was in uniform, number-two torx driver in hand,

standing alongside Skull One-Roy Fokker's Veritech. An opened access panel in

the nacelle below the cockpit broke the unity of the circular fuselage

insignia, but Rick missed the symbolism. Nevertheless, he stared into the

exposed circuitry, even tinkered a bit, as if searching for memories of his

lost friend. The fighter had been fully repaired and serviced; there were no

signs of damage, no evidence of the fatal rounds sustained, but that didn't

mean the exorcism had been complete. Roy's presence fingered palpably.

Rick closed the panel as the two corporals approached.

"Just doing some maintenance," Rick said by way of explanation. Yeah,

self-maintenance.

"I'm not surprised," said Max. "Lisa Hayes told us you were down here."

Ben eyed the fuselage numerals. "Hey, this is Commander Fokker's Skull

One, isn't it? I didn't know you were going to be flying it."

"Uh, yeah," Rick answered distantly. "Guess I was lucky to get it as my

aircraft assignment."

He turned away from them and put his right hand against the mecha almost

reverently. "Nice touch of irony, don't you think? Commander Fokker was always

so proud of the fact that he'd never gone down. Now he's...gone, and I get his

plane. Me...the guy who's always being shot down-even by our own ordnance.

Just kind of ironic, that's all."

Rick's friends exchanged concerned looks, but Max broke out of it and

into a smile. He told Rick about the civilians, and the lieutenant said,

"Terrific." Undaunted, Max continued.

"Apparently the North American Ontario Quadrant will be accepting them,

and the official announcement will be given tomorrow by Captain Gloval."

"So how's about we get a jump on the celebration?" Ben said, full of

good humor. "We could hit Macross for some food, drink, whatever else comes

along."

"You could use the recreation, Lieutenant," Max hastened to add.

Rick's slow smile was a signal that he'd already made up his mind. He

had to get himself out of this funk some how, and he didn't see how low

spirits could stand a chance in Macross just now.

"It sounds good, guys. In fact, it'll be my treat."

Ben beamed. "Well how about that, Max?" He moved between his friends, a

head taller than both, draping his arms over their shoulders and leading them

away from the Veritech. "Doesn't that sound like something the new pilot of

the Skull One would do? C'mon, let's get going before he changes his mind."

Rick glanced over his shoulder at the silent mecha; then he turned his

back on it and followed Ben's lead.

Khyron's assault unit launched from the cruiser and plunged into Earth's

atmosphere, triple-thrusters brilliant orange against a peaceful field of

cloud-studded blue.

The dimensional fortress, still configured like an upright winged

techno-knight, was over the city of Toronto when radar alerted the bridge of

the impending attack.

Vanessa leaned over her console and tapped in a series of commands. She

leaned back in her chair as "paint" and directional symbols began to fill the

large screen.

"Multiple radar contacts in five, six, and seven. A fleet of alien

spacecraft," she informed the captain. Her words came in a rush. "Pods,

recons. Small ships, mostly. Coming in from an altitude of twenty miles,

north-northwest."

Gloval didn't want to believe it. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir," she answered emphatically.

Sammie moaned, "Oh, no!" as both Lisa and Claudia turned from their

forward stations to regard the threat board.

"Just as we were entering the Ontario Quadrant."

"Exactly," said Claudia in a way that meant: typical!

Gloval had not moved from the command chair; his hands were tightened on

the arms, as much to prevent himself from rising as to get a grip on the

situation.

"We cannot afford to come under attack here," he said to the bridge.

"Commander Hayes, order all pilots to red alert immediately!"

"Here you are, mister, one giant top sirloin, medium rare," the chef

said as he placed cutting board and cut in front of Ben.

He, Max, and Rick were in the Kindest Cut, one of Macross City's finest

steak houses. They had elected to sit along the circular counter which ringed

the central grills-"close to the action," as Ben put it. Exhaust fans and an

enormous copper hood overhead took care of most of the smoke, but you had to

be a real red-meat lover to deal with the odors, the sizzle and pop that were

inescapable up front.

"Thanks a lot, pal," Ben said, pulling the platter shaped cutting board

toward him.

His friends were staring at the steak in disbelief.

"Does this smell great or what?!" He had knife and fork poised, ready to

dig in.

"It sure looks like a lot to eat," Max said tentatively.

A massive hunk of meat was impaled on Ben's fork. "I'm so hungry, I

might order another one!" He laughed loudly, then opened his mouth widely, the

forkful a scant inch from his mouth, when an announcement blared out over the

citywide PA.

"Attention, all fighter pilots: red alert, red alert. This is not a

drill..."

Max and Rick were already on their feet and heading for the door by the

time the message was repeated. Ben, however, was still anchored to his seat,

wondering if he had time for just one more bite.

"Hey, Ben, move out!" he heard the lieutenant say.

Ben stood up and contemplated the top sirloin, the small, round

potatoes, the heavenly garnish of mushrooms and onions...

"Don't move," he told the meal. "I'll be back."

CHAPTER THREE

And, lo, I saw a winged giant walking among the clouds in the western sky,

haloed within a globe of radiant glory, and his body set to gleaming silver in

the sun. And tho his hands might be raised in supplication, his heart burned

with all the fury of holy fires. And I say unto you that this is the Temple of

Mankind, risen and returned to do battle with the forces of evil!

Apocrypha, The Book of James

Veritechs were already being moved to the flight elevators by the time Rick,

Ben, and Max reached the hangar of the Prometheus. They had their "thinking

caps" and harness packs on, likewise their respective red, gold, and blue

flight suits. Cat crews and controllers were keeping things orderly; after two

years of almost constant fighting, they had the routine down to a T. Lisa's

voice was loud and clear through the speakers:

"All fighter squadrons: red alert, red alert. This is not a drill, this

is not a drill..."

They wished each other luck, separated, and ran for their individual

fighters. Skull One was waiting patiently for Rick, wings back and emblem-

emblazoned tailerons folded down. He clambered up into the cockpit and

strapped in as he ran a quick status check. He thought of Roy as the canopy

descended.

Well, Big Brother, looks like I've been elected to fill your shoes. I'm

not looking forward to it. Now, don't get me wrong...But piloting your fighter

in combat is going to take some getting used to.

Rick was waved forward to the elevator. Once on the flight deck, he

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Robotech:BattlehymnBookFouroftheRobotechSeriesCopyright1987byJackMcKinneyCHAPTERONEAsfarasI'mconcerned[Gloval]hasalreadydisobeyedhisorders;I'durgethecounciltoproceedwithacourtmartialifIcouldonlycomeupwithsomeonetoreplacehim.Whatdoyouthink,[namewithheld],perhapsIcouldtalk[Admiral]Hayesintoacceptingth...

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Jack McKinney - Robotech 04 - Battlehymn

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