McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 08 - Metal Fire

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Robotech: Metal Fire

Book Eight of the Robotech Series

CHAPTER ONE

EXEDORE: So, Admiral, there is little doubt: [Zentraedi and Human] genetic makeup points directly

at a common point of origin.

ADMIRAL GLOVAL: Incredible.

EXEDORE: Isn't it. Furthermore, while examining the data we noticed many common traits, including

a penchant on the part of both races to indulge in warfare...Yes, both races seem to enjoy making

war.

From Exedore's intel reports to the SDF-2 High Command

Once before, an alien fortress had crashed on Earth...

Its arrival had put an end to almost ten years of global civil war; and its resurrection

had ushered in armageddon. That fortress's blackened, irradiated remains lay buried under a

mountain of earth, heaped upon it by the very men and women who had rebuilt the ship on what would

have been its island grave. But unbeknownst to those who mourned its loss, the soul of that great

ship had survived the body and inhabited it still-an entity living in the shadows of the

technology it animated, waiting to be freed by its natural keepers, and until then haunting the

world chosen for its sorry exile...

This new fortress, this most recent gift from heaven's more sinister side, had announced

its arrival, not with tidal and tectonic upheavals, but with open warfare and devastation-death's

bloodstained calling cards. Nor was this fortress derelict and uncontrolled in its fateful fall

but driven, brought down to Earth by the unwilling minor players in its dark drama...

"ATAC Fifteen to air group!" Dana Sterling yelled into her mike over the din of battle.

"Hit 'em again with everything you have! Try to keep their heads down! They're throwing everything

but old shoes at us down here!"

Less than twenty-four hours ago her team, the 15th squad, Alpha Tactical Armored Corps,

had felled this giant, not with sling and shot, but with a coordinated strike launched at the

fortress's Achilles' heel-the core reactor governing the ship's bio-gravitic network. It had

dropped parabolically from geosynchronous orbit, crashlanding in the rugged hills several

kilometers distant from Monument City.

Hardly a coincidental impact point, Dana said to herself as she bracketed the fortress in

the sights of the Hovertank's rifle/cannon.

The 15th, in Battloid mode, was moving across a battle zone that was like some geyser

field of orange explosions and high-flung dirt and rock-a little like a cross between a moonscape

and the inside of Vesuvius on a busy day.

Up above, the TASC fighters, the Black Lions among them, roared in for another pass. The

glassy green teardrop-cannon of the fortress didn't seem as effective in atmosphere, and so far

there had been no sign of the snowflake-shields. But the enemy's hull, rearing above the

assaulting Battloids, still seemed able to soak up all the punishment they could deal it and stand

unaltered.

An elongated hexagon, angular and relatively flat, the alien fortress measured over five

miles in length, half that in width. Its thickly plated hull was the same lackluster gray of the

Zentraedi ships used in the First Robotech War; but in contrast to those organic leviathan

dreadnaughts, the fortress boasted a topography to rival that of a cityscape. Along the long axis

of its dorsal surface was a mile-long raised portion of superstructure that resembled the peaked

roofs of many twentieth-century houses. Forward was a concentrically coiled conelike projection

Louie Nichols had christened "a Robotech teat'"; aft were massive Reflex thruster ports; and

elsewhere, weapons stations, deep crevices, huge louvered panels, ziggurats, onions domes, towers

like two-tined forks, stairways and bridges, armored docking bays, and the articulated muzzles of

the ship's countless segmented "insect leg" cannons.

Below the sawtooth ridge the pilots of the fortress had chosen as their crash site was

Monument City, and several miles distant across two slightly higher ridges, the remains of New

Macross and the three Human-made mounds that marked the final resting place of the super

dimensional fortresses.

Dana wondered if the SDF-1 had something to do with this latest warfare. If these invaders

were indeed the Robotech Masters (and not some other band of XT galactic marauders), had they come

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to avenge the Zentraedi in some way? Or worse still-as many were asking-was Earth fighting a new

war with micronized Zentraedi?

Child of a Human father and a Zentraedi mother-the only known child of such a marriage-

Dana had good reason to disprove this latter hypothesis.

That some of the invaders were humanoid was a fact only recently accepted by the High

Command. Scarcely a month ago Dana had been face-to-face with a pilot of one of the invaders'

bipedal mecha-the so-called Bioroids. Bowie Grant had been even closer, but Dana was the one who

had yet to get over the encounter. All at once the war had personalized itself; it was no longer

machine against machine, Hovertank against Bioroid.

Not that that mattered in the least to the hardened leaders of the UEG. Since the end of

the First Robotech War, Human civilization had been on a downhill slide; and if it hadn't come to

Humans facing aliens, it probably would have been Humans against Humans.

Dana heard a sonic roar through the Hovertank's external pickups and looked up into a sky

full of new generation Alpha fighters, snub-nosed descendants of the Veritechs.

The place was dense with smoke and flying fragments from missile bursts, and the missile's

retwisting tracks. As Dana watched, one pair of VTs finished a pass only to have two alien assault

ships lift into the air and go up after them. Dana yelled a warning over the Forward Air Control

net, then switched from the FAC frequency to her own tactical net because the real showdown had

begun; two blue Bioroids had popped up from behind boulders near the fortress.

The blues opened fire and the ATACs returned it with interest; the range was medium-long,

but energy bolts and annihilation discs skewed and splashed furiously, searching for targets. At

Dana's request, a Tactical Air Force fighter-bomber flight came in to drop a few dozen tons of

conventional ordnance while the TASCs got set up for their next run.

Abruptly, a green-blue light shone from the fortress, and a half second later it lay under

a hemisphere of spindriftlike stuff, a dome of radiant cobweb, and all incoming beams and solids

were splashing harmlessly from it.

But the enemy could fire through their own shield, and did, knocking down two of the

retreating bombers and two approaching VTs with cannonfire. Whatever the damage to the bio-

gravitic system was, it plainly hadn't robbed the fortress of all its stupendous power.

Dana's hand went out for the mode selector lever. She attuned her thoughts to the mecha

and threw the lever to G, reconfiguring from Battloid to Gladiator. The Hovertank was now a squat,

two-legged SPG (self-propelled gun), with a single cannon stretching out in front of it.

Nearby, in the scant cover provided by hillside granite outcroppings and dislodged

boulders, the rest of the 15th-Louie Nichols, Bowie Grant, Sean Phillips, and Sergeant Angelo

Dante among others-similarly reconfigured, was unleashing salvos against the stationary fortress.

"Man, these guys are tough as nails!" Dana heard Sean say over the net. "They aren't

budging an inch!"

And they aren't likely to, Dana knew. We're fighting for our home; they're fighting for

their ship and their only hope of survival.

"At this rate the fighting could go on forever," Angelo said. "Somebody better think of

something quick." And everyone knew he wasn't talking about sergeants, lieutenants, or anybody

else who might be accused of working for a living; the brass better realize it was making a

mistake, or come evening they would need at least one new Hovertank squad.

Then Angelo picked up on a blue that had charged from behind a rock and was headed

straight for Bowie's Diddy-Wa-Diddy. The attitude and posture of Bowie's mecha suggested that it

was distracted, unfocused.

Damn kid, woolgathering! "Look out, Bowie!"

But then Sean appeared in Battloid mode, firing with the rifle/cannon, the blue stumbling

as it broke up in the blazing beams, then going down.

"Wake up and stay on your toes, Bowie," Angelo growled. "That's the third time today ya

fouled up."

"Sorry," Bowie returned. "Thanks, Sarge."

Dana was helping Louie Nichols and another trooper try to drive back blues who were

crawling forward from cover to cover on their bellies, the first time the Bioroids had ever been

seen to do such a thing.

"These guys just won't take no for an answer," Dana grated, raking her fire back and forth

at them.

Remote cameras positioned along the battle perimeter brought the action home to

headquarters. An intermittent beeping sound (like nonsense Morse) and horizontal noise bars

disrupted the video transmission. Still, the picture was clear: the Tactical Armored units were

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taking a beating.

Colonel Rochelle vented his frustration in a slow exhale of smoke, and stubbed out his

cigarette in the already crowded ashtray. There were three other staff officers with him at the

long table, at the head of which sat Major General Rolf Emerson.

"The enemy is showing no sign of surrender," Rochelle said after a moment. "And the

Fifteenth is tiring fast."

"Hit them harder," Colonel Rudolph suggested. "We've got the air wing commander standing

by. A surgical strike-nuclear, if we have to."

Rochelle wondered how the man had ever reached his current rank. "I won't even address

that suggestion. We have no clear-cut understanding of that ship's energy shield. And what if the

cards don't fall our way? Earth would be finished."

Rudolph blinked nervously behind his thick glasses. "I don't see that the threat would be

any greater than the attacks already launched against Monument."

Butler, the staff officer seated opposite Rudolph spoke to that. "This isn't The War of

the Worlds, Colonel-at least not yet. We don't even know what they want from us."

"Do I have to remind you gentlemen about the attack on Macross Island?" Rudolph's voice

took on a harder edge. "Twenty years ago isn't exactly ancient history, is it? If we're going to

wait for an explanation, we might as well surrender right now."

Rochelle was nodding his head and lighting up another cigarette. "I'm against escalation

at this point," he said, smoke and breath drawn in.

Rolf Emerson, gloved hands folded in front of him on the table, sat silently, taking in

his staff's assessments and opinions but saying very little. If it were left up to him to decide,

he would attempt to open up a dialogue with the unseen invaders. True, the aliens had struck the

first blow, but it had been the Earth Forces who had been goading them into continued strikes ever

since. Unfortunately, though, he was not the one chosen to decide things; he had to count on

Commander Leonard for that...And may heaven help us, he thought.

"We just can't let them sit there!" Rudolph was insisting.

Emerson cleared his voice, loud enough to cut through the separate conversations that were

in progress, and the table fell silent. The audio monitors brought the noise of battle to them

once again; in concert, permaplas windowpanes rattled to the sounds of distant explosions.

"This battle requires more than just hardware and manpower, gentlemen...We'll give them

back the ground we've taken because it's of no use to us right now. We'll withdraw our forces

temporarily, until we have a workable plan."

The 15th acknowledged the orders to pull back and ceased fire. Other units were reporting

heavy casualties, but their team had been fortunate: seven dead, three wounded-counts that would

have been judged insignificant twenty years ago, when Earth's population was more than just a

handful of hardened survivors.

Emerson dismissed his staff, returned to his office, and requested to meet with the

supreme commander. But Leonard surprised him by telling him to stay put, and five minutes later

burst through the door like an angry bull.

"There's got to be some way to crack open that ship!" Leonard railed. "I will not accept

defeat! I will not accept the status quo!"

Emerson wondered if Leonard would have accepted the status quo if he had sweated out the

morning in the seat of a Hovertank, or a Veritech.

The supreme commander was every bit Emerson's opposite in appearance as well as

temperament. He was a massive man, tall, thick-necked, and barrel-chested, with a huge, hairless

head, and heavy jowls that concealed what had once been strong, angular features, Prussian

features, perhaps. His standard uniform consisted of white britches, black leather boots, and a

brown longcoat fringed at the shoulders. But central to this ensemble was an enormous brass belt

buckle, which seemed to symbolize the man's foursquare materialistic solidity.

Emerson, on the other hand, had a handsome face with a strong jaw, thick eyebrows, long

and well drawn like gulls' wings, and dark, sensitive eyes, more close-set than they should have

been, somewhat diminishing an otherwise intelligent aspect.

Leonard commenced pacing the room, his arms folded across his chest, while Emerson

remained seated at his desk. Behind him was a wallscreen covered with schematic displays of troop

deployment.

"Perhaps Rudolph's plan," Leonard mused.

"I strongly oppose it, Comman-"

"You're too cautious, Emerson," Leonard interrupted. "Too cautious for your own good."

"We had no choice, Commander. Our losses-"

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"Don't talk to me of losses, man! We can't let these aliens run roughshod over us! I

propose we adopt Rudolph's strategy. A surgical strike is our only recourse."

Emerson thought about objecting, but Leonard had swung around and slammed his hands flat

on the table, silencing him almost before he began.

"I will not tolerate any delays!" the commander warned him, bulldog jowls shaking. "If

Rudolph's plan doesn't meet with your approval, then come up with a better one!"

Emerson stifled a retort and averted his eyes. For an instant, the commander's shaved head

inches from his own, he understood why Leonard was known to some as Little Dolza.

"Certainly, Commander," he said obediently. "I understand." What Emerson understood was

that Chairman Moran and the rest of the UEG council were beginning to question Leonard's fitness

to command, and Leonard was feeling the screws turn.

Leonard's cold gaze remained in place. "Good," he said, certain he had made himself clear.

"Because I want an end to all this madness and I'm holding you responsible...After all," he added,

turning and walking away, "you're supposed to be the miracle man."

The 15th had a clear view of the jagged ridgeline and downed fortress from their twelfth-

story quarters in the barracks compound. Between the compound and twin peaks that dominated the

view, the land was lifeless and incurably rugged, cratered from the countless Zentraedi death

bolts rained upon it almost twenty years before.

The barracks' ready-room was posh by any current standards: spacious, well-lit, equipped

with features more befitting a recreation room, including video games and a bar. Most of the squad

was done in, already in the sack or on their way, save for Dana Sterling, too wired for sleep,

Angelo Dante, who had little use for it on any occasion, and Sean Phillips, who was more than

accustomed to long hours.

The sergeant couldn't tear himself away from the view and seemed itching to get back into

battle.

"We should still be out there fighting-am I right or am I right?" Angelo pronounced,

directing his words to Sean only because he was seated nearby. "We'll be fighting this war when

our pensions come due unless we defeat those monsters with one big shot; the whistle blows and

everybody goes."

At twenty-six, the sergeant was the oldest member of the 15th, also the tallest, loudest,

and deadliest-as sergeants are wont to be. He had met his match for impulsiveness in Dana, and

recklessness in Sean, but the final results had yet to be tallied.

Sean, chin resting on his hand, had his back turned to the windows and to Angie. Long-

haired would-be Casanova of the 15th and of nearly every other outfit in the barracks compound, he

fancied conquests of a softer sort. But at the moment he was too exhausted for campaigns of any

class.

"The brass'll figure out what to do, Angie," he told the sergeant tiredly, still regarding

himself as a lieutenant no matter what the brass thought of him. "Haven't you heard? They know

everything. Personally, I'm tired."

Angelo stopped pacing, looking around to make sure Bowie wasn't there. "By the way, what's

with Bowie?"

This seemed to bring Sean around some, but Angelo declined to follow his comment up with

an explanation.

"Why? He got a problem? You should have said something during the debriefing."

The sergeant put his hands on his hips. "He's been screwing up. That's not a problem in

combat; it's a major malfunction."

Some would have expected the presence of the fortress to have cast a pall over the city,

but that was not the case. In fact, in scarcely a week's time the often silent ship (except when

stirred up by the armies of the Southern Cross) had become an accepted feature of the landscape,

and something of an object of fascination. Had the area of the crash site not been cordoned off,

it's likely that half of Monument would have streamed up into the hills in hopes of catching a

glimpse of the thing. As it was, business went on as usual. But historians and commentators were

quick to offer explanations, pointing to the behavior of the populace of besieged cities of the

past, Beirut of the last century, and countless others during the Global Civil War at the

century's end.

Even Dana Sterling, and Nova Satori, the cool but alluring lieutenant with the Global

Military Police, were not immune to the fortress's ominous enchantment. Even though they had both

seen the deadlier side of its nature revealed.

Just now they shared a table in one of Monument's most popular cafes-a checkerboard-

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patterned tile floor, round tables of oak, and chairs of wrought iron-with a view of the fortress

that surpassed the barracks' overlook.

Theirs had been less than a trouble-free relationship, but Dana had made a deal with

herself to try to patch things up. Nova was agreeable and had an hour or so she could spare.

They were in their uniforms, their techno-hairbands in place, and as such the two women

looked like a pair of military bookends: Dana, short and lithe, with a globe of swirling blond

hair; and taller Nova, with her polished face and thick fall of black hair.

But they were hardly of a mind about things.

"I have lots of dreams," Dana was saying, "the waking kind and the sleeping kind.

Sometimes I dream about meeting a man and flying to the edge of the universe with him-"

She caught herself abruptly. How in the world had she gotten onto this subject? She had

started off by apologizing, explaining the pressures she had been under. Then somehow she had

considered confiding to Nova about the disturbing images and trances concerning the red Bioroid

pilot, the one called Zor, not certain whether the MP lieutenant would feel duty-bound to report

the matter.

Maybe it had something to do with looking at the fortress and knowing the red Bioroid was

out there somewhere? And then all of a sudden she was babbling about her childhood fantasies and

Nova was studying her with a get-the-strait-jacket look.

"Don't you think it's time you grew up?" said Nova. "Took life a little more seriously?"

Dana turned to her, the spell broken. "Listen, I'm as attentive to duty as the next

person! I didn't get my commission just because of who my parents are, so don't patronize me-huh?"

She jumped to her feet. A big MP had just come in with Bowie, looking hangdog, traipsing

behind. The MP saluted Nova and explained.

"We caught him in an off-limits joint, ma'am. He has a valid pass, but what shall we do

with him?"

"Not a word, Dana!" Nova cautioned. Then she asked the MP, "Which off-limits place?"

"A bar over in the Gauntlet, ma'am."

"Wait a minute," said Bowie, hoping to save his neck. "It wasn't a bar, ma'am, it was a

jazz club!" He looked back and forth between Nova and Dana, searching for the line of least

resistance, realizing all the while that it was a fine line between bar and club. But being busted

for drinking was going to cost him more points than straying into a restricted area. Maybe if he

displayed the guilt they obviously expected him to feel...

"Where they have been known to roll soldiers who wake up bleeding in some alley!" Nova

snapped. "If the army didn't need every ATAC right now, I'd let you think that over for a week in

the lockup!"

Nova was forcing the harsh tone in her voice. What she actually felt was closer to

amusement than anger. Any minute now Dana would try to intervene on Grant's behalf; and Grant was

bound to foul up again, which would then reflect on Dana. Nova smiled inside: it felt so good to

have the upper hand.

Bowie was stammering an explanation and apology, far from heartfelt, but somehow

convincing. Nova, however, put a quick end to it and continued to read him the riot act.

"And furthermore, I fully appreciate the pressure you've all been under, but we can't

afford to make allowances for special cases. Do you understand me, Private?!"

The implication was clear enough: Bowie was being warned that his relationship with

General Emerson wouldn't be taken into account.

Dana was gazing coldly at Bowie, nodding along with the lieutenant's lecture, but at the

same time she was managing to slip Bowie a knowing wink, as if to say: Just agree with her.

Bowie caught on at last. "I promise not to do it again, sir!"

Meanwhile Nova had turned to Dana. "If Lieutenant Sterling is willing to take

responsibility for you and keep you out of trouble, I'll let this incident go. But next time I

won't be so lenient."

Dana consented, her tone suggesting rough things ahead for Bowie Grant, and Nova dismissed

her agent.

"Shall we finish our coffee?" Nova asked leadingly.

Dana thought carefully before responding. Nova was up to no good, but Dana suddenly saw a

way to turn the incident to her own advantage. And Bowie's as well.

"I think it would be better if I started proving myself to you by taking care of my new

responsibility," she said stiffly.

"Yes, you do that," Nova drawled, sounding like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Later, walking back to the barracks, Dana had some serious words with her charge.

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"Nova's not playing around. Next time she'll probably feed you to the piranhas. Bowie,

what's wrong? First you louse up in combat, then you, go looking for trouble in town. And where'd

you steal a valid pass, by the way?"

He shrugged, head hung. "I keep spares. Sorry, I didn't mean to cause any friction between

you and Nova. You're a good friend, Dana."

Dana smiled down at him. "Okay...But there's one thing you can do for me..."

Bowie was waiting for her to finish, when Dana's open hand came around without warning and

slapped him forcefully on the back-almost throwing him off his feet-and with it Dana's hearty:

"Cheer up! Everything's going to be fine!"

CHAPTER TWO

I wish someone would call time out,

They're welcome to disarm me,

We are the very model of

A modern techno army.

Bowie Grant, "With Apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan"

Thirteen, Rolf Emerson said to himself when he had completed his count of the staff officers

grouped around the briefing room's tables. The tables would have formed a triangle of sorts, save

for the fact that Commander Leonard's desk (at what would have been the triangle's apex) was

curved. This was also a bad sign. Ordinarily, Emerson was not a superstitious man, but recent

developments in world events had begun to work a kind of atavism on him. And if Human

consciousness was going to commence a backward slide, who was he to march against it?

"This meeting has been called to discuss strategic approaches we might employ against the

enemy," the supreme commander announced when the last member of his staff had seated himself. "We

must act quickly and decisively, gentlemen; so I expect you to keep your remarks brief and to the

point." Leonard got to his feet, both hands flat on the table. His angry eyes found Rolf Emerson.

"General...go ahead."

Emerson rose, hoping his plan would fly; it seemed the only rational option, but that

didn't guarantee anything, with Chairman Moran holding Leonard's feet to the fire, and Leonard

passing the courtesy along down the chain of command. Brief and to the point, he reminded himself.

"I propose we recommence an attack on the fortress...but only as a diversionary tactic.

That ship remains an unknown quantity, and I think it's imperative we get a small scouting unit

inside for a fast recon."

This set off a lot of talk about demolition teams, battlefield nukes, and the like.

Rolf raised his voice. "Gentlemen, the goal is not to destroy the fortress. We have to

ascertain some measure of understanding of the aliens' purpose. Need I remind you that this ship

is but one of many?"

Leonard quieted the table. Twice, Emerson had said alien as opposed to enemy, but he

decided to address that some other time. Right now, the major general's plan sounded good. A bit

risky, but logical, and he stated as much.

To everyone's surprise, Colonel Rudolph concurred. "After all, what do we know about the

enemy?" he pointed out.

Leonard asked Rolf to address this.

"We have tentative evidence that they're Human or nearly Human in biogenetic terms,"

Emerson conceded. "But that might only apply to their warrior class. We do know that the

Robotechnology we've seen them use is much more advanced than ours, and we have no idea what else

they're capable of."

"All the more reason to recon that ship," Rudolph said after a moment.

There was general agreement, but Colonel Rochelle thought to ask whether a team really

could penetrate the fortress, given the aliens' superior firepower and defenses.

"If it's the right team," Rolf answered him.

"And the Fifteenth is the one for the job," Commander Leonard said decisively.

Emerson contradicted warily: it was true that the 15th had had some remarkable successes

lately, but it was still a relatively untested outfit, and there were some among the team who

certainly weren't qualified for the job...

But Leonard cut him off before he had a chance to name names, which was just as well.

"General Emerson, you know the Fifteenth is the best team for this job."

There was general agreement again, while Emerson hid his consternation. Dana and Bowie had

entered the military because that was where they were needed, and a stint in the service was

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expected of all able-bodied young people. Emerson had encouraged Bowie to enter the academy,

because Dana had already decided to and because Emerson was well aware that that was what Bowie's

parents would have wanted.

It was just bad luck that a war had come along. Perhaps it would have been better for

Emerson to renege on his promises to the Grants, to have let the kid go off and study music, play

piano in nightspots...maybe that way Bowie might have been the last piano player cremated by an

alien deathray, or might have survived while the rest of the Human race hurled itself onto the

pyre of battle to stop the invaders.

But Emerson didn't think Bowie would see things that way. Bowie had seen the invaders at

far closer range than Emerson, and Emerson had heard and seen enough to know that Earth was in a

win-or-die war.

Still, the idea of putting the 15th out on the tip of the lance yet again went against

Emerson's sense of justice and of military wisdom; this was a commando job, not a tank mission.

Commander Leonard was well aware of Emerson's relationship to Bowie Grant; but promises or

no promises, Bowie was a soldier, end of story. Leonard wasn't spelling all this out for everyone

in the room, but Rolf had picked up the commander's subliminal message.

Rudolph and Rochelle also understood Rolf's predicament, but they, too, were resolute in

their decision: it had to be the 15th.

"I suggest we prepare an options list," Emerson told the staff, "a variety of plans and

mixes for the forces involved. "

Leonard seemed to consider that. He addressed Colonel Rudolph: "Get together with the

ATACs' CO and hammer out one scenario using the Fifteenth." He ordered Rolf to get the G3 shop to

begin assembling alternatives.

Emerson acknowledged the order, relieved. But as the meeting broke up, Leonard pulled

Rudolph aside, waiting until Emerson was gone.

"Colonel, I'm directing you to present this mission to the Fifteenth ATAC and Lieutenant

Sterling as an order, not a proposal. We can't waste time dawdling." And I can't waste time

arguing with my subordinates, nor can I risk Emerson's resigning just now. My neck's on the block!

Rudolph snapped to smartly. "Sir!"

The commander continued in a confidential tone. "We must put aside Rolf's personal matters

and get on with the war."

"What d'ya think-that I'd volunteer us for this mission?" Dana said to her squad after the

orders had come down from Headquarters. "Somebody has to recon that fortress-"

"And we're that somebody," Sean finished for her. "HQ wants to know who it's fighting."

"They'll be fighting me if this keeps up," Sergeant Dante threatened, clenching his big

hands and adopting a boxer's stance.

The primaries of the 15th were grouped in their barracks ready-room, trying to find

someone to blame for HQ's directive. Dana had already had it out with Colonel Rudolph, citing all

the action the team had seen lately, their need for R & R, the sorry state of their ordnance and

Hovertanks. But it all fell on deaf ears: when the supreme commander said jump, you jumped. With

or without a chute.

"Hey, Sarge, I thought you wanted to keep fighting," Sean reminded him.

Dante glared at him. "I just don't like being used like a pawn in Leonard's game of `name

the alien.' We've gotta go out there and risk our lives to save their reputations."

"How literary of you, Angelo," Dana said sharply. "What the heck does reputation have to

do with any of this?" She gestured out the window in the direction of the downed fortress. "That

ship is at least a potential threat. What are we supposed to do-turn it into an amusement park

ride?"

"How are we even going to get in?" Louie Nichols thought to ask.

The team turned to regard the whiz kid of the Southern Cross, waiting for him to suggest

something. With his gaunt, angular face, top-heavy thatch of deep brown hair, and everpresent

wraparound opaque goggles, Louie came closer to resembling an alien than Dana herself. Some

members of Professor Cochran's group actually believed that Louie had patterned himself after the

infamous Exedore, the Zentraedi Minister of Affairs during the Robotech War.

"It's difficult enough analyzing their technology. But getting inside their ship...How are

we supposed to pull that off?"

Angelo looked at Louie in disbelief. "Get in? How are we gonna get out, Louie, how are we

gonna get out?! I don't think you realize there's a chance we may not return from this mission

alive."

Sean made a wry face. "Pity...she's gonna miss me when I'm gone."

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At the same time, Louie exclaimed, "Gone?!" Bowie asked, "Isn't that a song?" and Dana

said, "Knock it off."

Sean acknowledged the rebuke with a bemused smile. "You're right," he told Dana. "This

mission is more important than my miss. What's it matter, right? We're tough."

"That's the right stuff," Dana enthused. "And there's no other way to pull this mission

off but to, well, to just do it!"

The sergeant was nodding in agreement now, wondering where his earlier comments had come

from. If Dana the halfbreed could get behind it, he could, too.

"All right," he said rallying to the cause. "We'll make them rue the day they touched down

on this planet."

The 15th had a little over twelve hours to kill, and sleep was out of the question. Dana

had her doubts about giving anybody permission to leave the barracks, but realized that keeping

them cooped up would only give them time to ferment and perhaps explode. She issued "cinderella"

passes-good until midnight-along with dire threats about what Nova's MPs would do to anybody who

screwed up in town or came back late.

Sean left to visit a good friend who found prebattle good-byes aphrodisiac. Louie Nichols

sat down to tinker with his helmet video transmitters. Angie nursed drinks and cigars in the dark

privacy of his own quarters. And Bowie Grant insisted on treating Dana to the finest beers to be

had in Monument City.

Twenty minutes later, Dana and Bowie were lifting frosted, conelike pilsner glasses of

pale, foamy beer and clinking them together in a toast to better times.

Bowie contorted his face for a clownish look. "I figured it was the least I could do after

what you did for me yesterday."

As Dana lowered her glass her hand brushed something that he had slid over to her.

"What's this?" It was a gorgeous little blossom of delicate red, hot pink, and coral, and

tones in between. "A flower?"

"An orchid, Dana. For good luck."

She pinned it ceremonially onto her torso harness, near her heart. "You're sweet, Bowie.

And maybe too sensitive for this line of work. What d'ya think?"

Bowie drew a deep breath. "Well, I prefer music to space warfare, if that's what you mean.

You know this wasn't my idea."

Dana looked hard at her handsome friend, thinking back through years of peaceful and

playful memories, back to when their parents were still on-world-when her memory of them was still

alive...

She debated for a moment, then it occurred to her-as it did more strongly with each action

she fought in-that for her, Bowie, the 15th, the Human race, tomorrow might be the last, for any

or all of them.

Bowie had been making mistakes lately in a very uncharacteristic way. Dana was no shrink

and she couldn't take away all Bowie's resentment of the military; but the way she saw it, it

would be good for all concerned if he let off a little steam on some piano keys.

"So go find some piano in an on-limits place and play for the people," Dana said-

suddenly. "And quit gaping at me like that!"

Bowie's eyebrows beetled. "Don't put me on about this, Da-"

"I'm not putting you on. Just remember: I gave Nova my word; I'm responsible for you.

Don't mess up or we both take a fall. And sign back in at the barracks before midnight, read me?"

"Roger that," Bowie said, and was gone.

Feeling a good two kilos heavier after knocking back several more glasses, Dana (Bowie's

gift orchid boutonniered to her uniform) returned to the barracks compound, left her Hovercycle in

the mecha pool, and elevatored to the 15th's quarters. She looked in on Louie, but decided not to

take him from his gadgeteering, and made for the ready-room, where she found Angelo nursing a

drink in the dark, silently regarding the distant fortress, a black shape all but indiscernible

from the ridgeline's numerous stone outcroppings and buttresses.

The sergeant sat with his arms folded, legs crossed, a sullen but contemplative look on

his face. He was unaware of Dana's presence until she announced herself, asking to speak to him

for a moment.

"About tomorrow's reconnaissance mission," they said simultaneously. But only Angelo

chuckled.

Dana had serious issues on her mind now, the success of the mission, the safety of her

team. With a bit of luck Bowie would land himself in the brig and she would be able to scratch him

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from her worry list. Sean and Louie presented no problems, and either of them could handle the

squad's grunts; but that left Angelo Dante.

"I know this doesn't have to be said but once," Dana went on. "But...I know I can depend

on you, Angie. Just wanted you to know."

"Same here, Lieutenant. Don't worry; we're gonna kick some alien butt."

It was typical of Angelo to put it this way: at the same time he was deferring to her and

questioning her command abilities. Alien was directed at her; the sergeant's unmasked attack on

her mixed ancestry. But she had lived with the "halfbreed" stigma for so long that it hardly fazed

her anymore. Who on Earth hadn't lost someone to the Zentraedi wars? And with all of her mother's

people aboard the SDF-3 or the Robotech Factory Satellite now, she was in effect the unofficial

scapegoat for the unspeakable crimes of the past. If only Max and Miriya had foreseen this; she

would have preferred death to the purgatory of the present.

"I'm aware of my responsibilities," she told Angelo. "But I just wanted to say that this

mission will fail even before it gets under way unless you and I can begin to trust each other."

She took the small orchid from her lapel, reached across Angelo, and dropped it in his

Scotch and soda.

"Hey-"

"Tropical ice," she smiled down at him. "A little good luck charm for you, Angie-a peace

offering. Do you like it?"

"I guess..." the sergeant started to reply, sitting up in his chair. But just then someone

threw on the overhead lights. Startled by the intrusion, he and Dana swung around at the same

moment to find Nova Satori and Bowie centered in the wide doorway.

"I put you in charge of Bowie and this is what happens?" Nova said, as the entry doors

slid shut.

Dana met them halfway, sizing up the situation quickly and rehearsing her lines. She had

certainly anticipated the arrival of these two, but not Bowie's disheveled appearance. His uniform

was soiled and one of his cheeks looked bruised.

"Are you all right?" she asked him. "What's going on here?"

Bowie wore a distressed look, more genuine than yesterday's.

"I guess I did it again," he answered contritely.

"I ought to throw you both in jail," Nova scolded Dana. "He was in a barroom brawl." The

lieutenant looked like her namesake, ready to incinerate whatever was in close proximity.

This time Nova herself had caught him red-handed, following him from the café and waiting

until just the right moment to walk in on him. And now she had Dana just where she wanted her: of

course Nova would agree to release Bowie to her custody once again, but this time there would be a

price to pay-a first look at the results of tomorrow's recon operation for starters. With rivalry

increasing daily between Leonard's army intelligence and the Global Military Police, it was the

only way Nova could count on getting the real dope.

Dana looked cross. "What was the fight about?"

"Ah, some loudmouth said no piano player is man enough to serve in the Hovertanks," Bowie

admitted.

"That's a lot of rot!" Dana returned, back on Bowie's side all at once. "I wonder if I'm

man enough?! I hope you taught him a lesson. I'm proud of you."

Nova expected as much, but played her part by growing angry.

"Go ahead, praise him, Lieutenant Sterling. You're digging his grave deeper."

"A soldier stands for something," Dana answered defensively. "What if somebody said no

woman is good enough to be an MP-"

Nova wore a wry look. "Stuff the defense plea, Dana. Battles don't get won in barrooms,

and merit doesn't get proven there either! What Bowie earned himself is a cell."

Unless we can cut a deal...Nova was saying to herself when Dana surprised her.

"All right then, take him away."

Both Bowie and Nova stared at her. The lieutenant's meticulously plucked eyebrows almost

went up someplace into her hairline.

"Run him over to the guardhouse," Dana said evenly.

"B-but, Lieutenant, you can't be serious," Bowie burst out. Dana's verbal slap hurt more

than that punch to the face. Even Angelo was stepping forward, coming to his aid, but Dana was

unmoved.

"I have enough to handle without having to worry about an eight ball," Dana said, trying

not to think about the orchid in the drink glass, so nearby.

Nova was watching these exchanges with her mouth open. She gulped and found her voice,

hoping she could salvage something from this. "Dana, you'd better not be kidding-"

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Dana shook her head. "I've failed somewhere along the line...It's your turn to take care

of him now." She caught the hurt look that surfaced in Bowie's eyes and turned away from him,

determined to finish this scene no matter what.

"I've got to be on that mission tomorrow," Bowie was pleading with her. "You said I was

right to defend our honor, now you're taking away my chance-"

She whirled on him suddenly. "I've heard it all before, Grant! You should have thought of

that before you went off to that bar!"

Bowie's eyes went wide. "But Dana...Lieutenant...you-"

"Enough!" Dana cut him off. "Private Grant, ten-hut! You will accompany Lieutenant Satori

to the stockade."

Nova's puzzlement increased. Where had this one gone wrong? "You don't want to

reconsider...?"

"My mind is made up."

Nova made a gesture of exasperation, then smiled in self-amusement and led Bowie away.

"What made you do that?" the sergeant asked Dana after they left. Having recently caught a

glimpse of Bowie's sloppiness in the field, he wasn't opposed to Dana's decision but wondered,

nevertheless, what had motivated this sudden attack.

"Because I'm CO here," Dana said evenly.

CHAPTER THREE

Thrilled at having received, word of the 15th's mission to recon the alien ship-it never even

occurred to me that she might not return!-I was suddenly faced with a new obstacle: Bowie Grant

was in the custody of the GMP. Dana's reactions to the fortress were of paramount importance, but

I was equally interested in establishing the depth of her involvement with the young Grant. I

asked myself. Would proximity to the Masters reawaken her Zentraedi nature to the point where she

would abandon her loyalties to both teammates and loved ones? It was therefore essential that

Grant accompany the 15th, and up to me to see to it that Rolf Emerson learned of Grant's

imprisonment.

Dr. Lazlo Zand, Event Horizon: Perspectives on Dana Sterling and the Second Robotech War

The penetration operation got under way early the next morning. Coordinated air strikes would

provide the necessary diversion, and, with a bit of luck, the breach the 15th was going to require

in order to infiltrate its dozen Hovertanks. Tech crews had worked all night long, going over the

complex mecha systems and installing remote cameras.

General Emerson was monitoring the proceedings from the situation room. Staff officers and

enlisted-ratings were buzzing in and out supplying him with updates and recon data. There were

never less than six voices talking at the same time; but Emerson himself had little to say. He had

his elbows on the table, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the video transmissions relayed in by

various spotter planes over the target zone. Only moments ago a combined team of Adventurer VTs

and Falcon fighters had managed to awaken the apparently slumbering giant, and an intense

firefight was in progress on the high ground surrounding the alien fortress. Armor-piercing rounds

had thus far proved ineffective against the ship's layered hull, in spite of the fact that the

XT's energy shield had yet to be deployed. But Emerson had just received word that the air corps

was bringing in a QF-3000 E Ghost-an unmanned triple-cannon drone capable of delivering Reflex

firepower of the sort that had proved effective in earlier airborne confrontations.

The wallscreen image of the besieged fortress derezzed momentarily, only to be replaced by

a bird's-eye view of the 15th's diamond-formation advance. Emerson felt his pulse race as he

watched the dozen mecha close on the heavily fortified perimeter. It was ironic that his attempts

to deescalate the fledgling war had resulted in the 15th's assignment to this mission to hell; but

in some ways he realized the perverted rightness of it: Emerson literally had to put what amounted

to his family on the line in order to convince the supreme commander to listen to him. And Dana

and Bowie were just that-family.

So often he would try to run his thoughts back in time, searching for the patterns that

had led all of them to this juncture. Had there been signs along the way, omens he had missed,

premonitions he had ignored? When the Sterlings and Grants had opted to leave aboard the SDF-3 as

members of the Hunters' crew did it occur to them that they might not return from that corner of

space ruled by the Robotech Masters, or that the Masters might come here instead? Emerson

remembered the optimism that characterized those days, some fifteen years ago, when the newly-

built ship had been launched, Rick and Lisa in command. Rolf and his wife had taken both Dana and

infant Bowie: After all, they had so often watched over the kids while the Grants spent time on

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McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 08 - Metal Fire

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