McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 02 - Battle cry

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Robotech: Battle Cry

Book Two of the Robotech series

CHAPTER ONE

If there was any one thing that typified the initial stages of the First Robotech War, it was the

unspoken interplay that developed between Captain Henry Gloval and the Zentraedi commander,

Breetai. In effect, both men had been created for warfare-Gloval by the Soviet GRU, and Breetai,

of course, by the Robotech Masters. When one examines the early ship's log entries of the two

commanders, it is evident that each man spent a good deal of time trying to analyze the

personality of his opponent by way of the strategies each employed. Breetai was perhaps at an

advantage here, having at his disposal volumes of Zentraedi documents devoted to legends regarding

the origin of Micronian societies. But it must be pointed out that Breetai was severely limited by

his prior conditioning in his attempts to interpret these: even Exedore, who had been bred to

serve as transcultural adviser, would fail him on this front. Gloval, on the other hand, with

little knowledge of his ship and even less of his opponent, had the combined strengths of a loyal

and intelligent crew to draw upon and the instincts of one who had learned to function best in

situations where disinformation and speculation were the norm. One could point to many examples of

this, but perhaps none is so representative of the group mind at work inboard the SDF-1 than the

Battle at Saturn's Rings.

"Genesis," History of the First Robotech War, Vol. XVIl

Zor's ship, the SDF-1, moved through deep space like some creature loosed from an ancient

sea fable. The structural transformation the fortress had undergone at the hands of its new

commanders had rendered it monsterlike-an appearance reinforced by those oceangoing vessels

grafted on to it like arms and the main gun towers that rose now from the body like twin heads,

horned and threatening.

What would the Robotech Masters make of this new design? Breetai asked himself. Even prior

to the transformation, Zor's ship was vastly different from his own-indeed, different from any

vessel of the Zentraedi fleet. Protoculture factory that it was, it had always lacked the

amorphous organic feel Breetai preferred. But then, it had not been designed as a warship. Until

now.

The Zentraedi commander was on the bridge of his vessel, where an image of the SDF-1

played across the silent field of a projecbeam. Breetai's massive arms were folded across the

brown tunic of his uniform, and the monocular enhancer set in the plate that covered half his face

was trained on the free-floating screen.

Long-range scopes had captured this image of the ship for his inspection and analysis. But

what those same scopes and scanners failed to reveal was the makeup of the creatures who possessed

it.

The bridge was an observation bubble overlooking the astrogational center of the flagship,

a vast gallery of screens, projecbeam fields, and holo-schematics that gave Breetai access to

information gathered by any cruiser or destroyer in his command. He could communicate with any of

his many officers or any of the numerous Cyclops recon ships. But none of these could furnish him

with the data he now desired-some explanation of Micronian behavior. For that, Breetai counted on

Exedore, his dwarfish adviser, who at the moment seemed equally at a loss.

"Commander," the misshapen man was saying, "I have analysed this most recent strategy from

every possible angle, and I still cannot understand why they found it necessary to change to this

format. A structural modification of this nature will most assuredly diminish, possibly even

negate, the effectiveness of the ship's gravity control centers."

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"And their weapons?"

"Fully operational. Unless they are diverting energy to one of the shield systems."

Breetai wondered whether he was being overly cautious. It was true that he had been caught

off guard by the Micronians' unpredictable tactics but unlikely that he had underestimated their

capabilities. That they had chosen to execute an intraatmospheric spacefold, heedless of the

effects of their island population center, was somewhat disturbing, as was their most recent use

of the powerful main gun of the SDF-1. But these were surely acts of desperation, those of an

enemy running scared, not one in full possession of the situation.

In any straightforward military exercise, this unpredictability would have posed no

threat. It had been Breetai's experience that superior firepower invariably won out over desperate

acts or clever tactics. And there were few in the known universe who could rival the Zentraedi in

firepower. But this operation called for a certain finesse. The Micronians would ultimately be

defeated; of this he was certain. Defeat, however, was of secondary importance. His prime

directive was to recapture Zor's ship undamaged, and given the Micronian penchant for self-

destruction, a successful outcome could not be guaranteed.

With this in mind Breetai had adopted a policy of watchful waiting. For more than two

months by Micronian reckoning, the Zentraedi fleet had followed the SDF-1 without launching an

attack. During that time, he and Exedore had monitored the ship's movements and audiovisual

transmissions; they had analyzed the changes and modifications Zor's ship had undergone; they had

screened trans-vids of their initial confrontations with the enemy. And most important, they had

studied the Zentraedi legends regarding Micronian societies. There were warnings in those legends-

warnings Breetai had chosen to ignore.

The SDF-1 was approaching an outer planet of this yellow-star system, a ringed world,

large and gaseous, with numerous small moons. A secondary screen on the flagship bridge showed it

to be the system's sixth planet. Exedore, who had already made great progress in deciphering the

Micronian language, had its name: Saturn.

"My lord, I suspect that the spacefold generators aboard Zor's ship may have been damaged

during the hyperspace jump from Earth to the outer planets. My belief is that the Micronians will

attempt to use the gravity of this planet to sling themselves toward their homeworld."

"Interesting," Breetai replied.

"Furthermore, they will probably activate ECM as they near the planetary rings. It may

become difficult for us to lock in on their course."

"It is certainly the logical choice, Exedore. And that is precisely what concerns me. They

have yet to demonstrate any knowledge of logic."

"Your decision, my lord?"

"They have more than an escape plan in mind. The firepower of the main gun has given them

confidence in their ability to engage us." Breetai stroked his chin as he watched the screen.

"I'll let them attempt their clever little plan, if only to gain a clearer understanding of their

tactics. I'm curious to see if they are in full possession of the power that ship holds."

Henry Gloval, formerly of the supercarriers Kenosha and Prometheus and now captain of the

super dimensional fortress, the SDF-1, was a practical man of few words and even fewer

expectations. When it came to asking himself how he had ended up in command of an alien spaceship,

1,500,000,000 kilometers from home base and carrying almost 60,000 civilians in its belly, he

refused to let the question surface more than twice a day.

And yet here was the planet Saturn filling the forward bays of the SDF-1's bridge, and

here was Henry Gloval in the command chair treating it like just one more Pacific current he'd

have to navigate. Well, not quite: No one he'd encountered during his long career as a naval

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officer had ever used an ocean current the way he planned to use Saturn's gravitational fields.

The SDF-1; spacefold generators, which two months ago had allowed the ship to travel

through hyperspace from Earth to Pluto in a matter of minutes, had vanished. Perhaps "allowed" was

the wrong word, since Gloval had had his sights on the moon at the time. But no matter-the

disappearance remained a mystery for Dr. Lang and his Robotechs to unravel; it had fallen on

Gloval's shoulders to figure a way back home without the generators.

Even by the year 2010 the book on interplanetary travel was far from complete; in fact,

Lang, Gloval, and a few others were still writing it. Each situation faced was a new one, each new

maneuver potentially the last. There had been any number of unmanned outer-planet probes, and of

course the Armor Series orbital stations and the lunar and Martian bases, but travel beyond the

asteroid belt had never been undertaken by a human crew. Who was to say how it might have been if

the Global Civil War hadn't put an end to the human experiment in space? But that was the way the

cards had been dealt, and in truth, humankind had the SDF-1 to thank for getting things started

again, even if the ship was now more weapon than spacecraft. All this, however, would be for the

historians to figure out. Gloval had more pressing concerns.

Relatively speaking, the Earth was on the far side of the sun. The fortress's reflex

engines would get them home, but not quickly, and even then they were going to need a healthy send-

off from Saturn. Engineering's plan was for the ship to orbit the planet and make use of

centrifugal force to sling her on her way. It was not an entirely untested plan but a dangerous

one nonetheless. And there was one more factor Gloval had to figure into the calculations: the

enemy.

Unseen in full force, unnamed, unknown. Save that they were thought to be sixty-foot-tall

humanoids of seemingly limitless supply. They had appeared in Earthspace a little more than two

months ago and declared war on the planet. There was no way of knowing what fate had befallen

Earth after the SDF-1's hyperspace jump, but some of the enemy fleet-or, for all Gloval knew, a

splinter group-had pursued the ship clear across the solar system to press the attack. The SDF-1's

main gun had saved them once, but firing it had required a modular transformation which had not

only wreaked havoc with many of the ship's secondary systems but had nearly destroyed the city

that had grown up within it.

For two months now the enemy had left the ship alone. They allowed themselves to be picked

up by radar and scanners but were careful not to reveal the size of their fleet. Sometimes it

appeared that Battlepods made up the bulk of their offensive strength-those oddly shaped, one-

pilot mecha the VT teams called "headless ostriches." At other times there was evidence of scout

ships and recon vessels, cruisers and destroyers. But if the enemy's numbers were a source for

speculation, their motives seemed to be clear: They had come for their ship, the SDF-1.

Gloval was not about to let them have it without a fight. Perhaps if they'd come calling

and asked for the ship, something could have been arranged. But that, too, was history.

There was only one way to guarantee a safe return to Earth: They had to either shake the

enemy from their tail or destroy them. Gloval had been leaning toward the former approach until

Dr. Lang had surprised him with the latest of his daily discoveries.

Lang was Gloval's interface with the SDF-1; more than anyone else onboard, the German

scientist had retuned his thinking to that of the technicians who had originally built the ship.

He had accomplished on a grand scale what the Veritech fighter pilots were expected to do on each

mission: meld their minds to the mecha controls. There was suspicion among the crew that Lang had

plugged himself into one of the SDF-1's stock computers and taken some sort of mind boost which

had put him in touch with the ship's builders, leaving him a stranger to those who hadn't. Gloval

often felt like he was dealing with an alien entity when speaking to Lang-he couldn't bring

himself to make contact with those marblelike eyes. It was as if the passionate side of the man's

nature had been drained away and replaced with some of the strange fluids that coursed through

many of the ship's living systems. You didn't exchange pleasantries with a man like Lang; you went

directly to the point and linked memory banks with him. So when Lang told him that it might be

possible to create a protective envelope for the SDF-1, Gloval merely asked how long it would take

to develop.

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The two men met in the chamber that until recently had housed the spacefold generators.

Lang wanted Gloval to see for himself the free-floating mesmerizing energy that had spontaneously

appeared there with the disappearance of the generators. Later they moved to Lang's quarters, the

only section of the unreconstructed fortress sized to human proportions. There the scientist

explained that the energy had something to do with a local distortion in the spacetime continuum.

Gloval couldn't follow all the details of the theories involved, but he stayed with it long enough

to understand that this same energy could be utilized in the fabrication of a shield system for

the SDF-1.

Since his conversation with Dr. Lang, Gloval had become preoccupied with the idea of

taking the enemy by surprise with an offensive maneuver. With the main guns now operational and

the potential of a protective barrier, Gloval and the SDF-1 would be able to secure an

unobstructed route back to Earth. And Saturn, with its many moons and rings, was ideally suited to

such a purpose.

Rick Hunter, Veritech cadet, admired his reflection in the shop windows along Macross

City's main street. He stopped once or twice to straighten the pleats in his trousers, adjust the

belt that cinched his colorful jacket, or give his long black hair just the right look of stylish

disarray. It was his first day of leave after eight weeks of rigorous training, and he had never

felt better. Or looked better, to judge from the attention he was getting from passersby,

especially the young women of the transplanted city.

Rick was always reasonably fit-years of stunt flying had necessitated that-but the drill

sergeants had turned his thin frame wiry and tough. "Nothing extraneous, in mind or body." Rick

had adopted their motto as his own. He had even learned a few new flying tricks (and taught the

instructors a few himself). Planes had been his life for nineteen years, and even the

weightlessness of deep space felt like his element. He wasn't as comfortable with weapons, though,

and the idea of killing a living creature was still as alien to him as it had been two months ago.

But Roy Fokker, Rick's "older brother," was helping him through this rough period. Roy had talked

about his own early misgivings, about how you had to think of the Battlepods as mecha, about how

real the enemy threat was to all of them inboard the SDF-1. " `The price of liberty is eternal

vigilance'," Roy said, quoting an American president. "There's no more flying for fun. This time

you'll be flying for your home and the safety of your loved ones." Of course Roy had been through

the Global Civil War; he had experience in death and destruction. He'd even come through it a

decorated soldier. Although why anyone would have sought that out remained a mystery to Rick. Roy

had left Pop Hunter's flying circus for that circus of global madness, and it wasn't something

Rick liked to think about. Besides, as true as it might be that the war was right outside any

hatch of the ship, it was surely a long way off for a cadet whose battle experience thus far had

been purely accidental.

Rick was strolling down Macross Boulevard at a leisurely pace; he still had a few minutes

to kill before meeting Minmei at the market. The city had managed to completely rebuild what the

modular transformation had left in ruins. Taking into account the SDF-1's ability to

mechamorphose, the revised city plan relied on a vertical axis of orientation. The attempt to

recreate the horizontal openness of Macross Island was abandoned. The new city rose in three tiers

toward the ceiling of the massive hold. Ornate bridges spanned structural troughs; environmental

control units and the vast recycling system had been integrated into the high-tech design of the

buildings; EVE engineers-specialists in enhanced video emulation-were experimenting with sky and

horizon effects; hydroponics had supplied trees and shrubs; and a monorail was under construction.

The city planners had also worked out many of the problems that had plagued the city early on.

Shelters and yellow and black safety areas were well marked in the event of modular

transformation. Each resident now had a bed to sleep in, a job to perform. Food and water

rationing was accepted as part of the routine. The system of waivers, ration coupons, and military

scrip had proved manageable. Most people had navigated the psychological crossings successfully.

There would soon be a television station, and a lottery was in the works. In general the city was

not unlike a turn-of-the-century shopping mall, except in size and population. Remarkably, the

residents of Macross had made the adjustment-they were a special lot from the start-and the

general feeling there was a cross between that found in an experimental prototype community and

that found in any of the wartime cities of the last era.

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Nearing the market now, Rick began to focus his thoughts on Minmei and how the day as he

imagined it would unfold. She would be knocked out by the sight of him in uniform; she wouldn't be

able to keep her hands off him; he would suggest the park, and she would eagerly agree-

"Rick!"

Minmei was running toward him, a full shopping bag cradled in one arm, her free hand

waving like mad. She was wearing a tight sleeveless sweater over a white blouse, and a skirt that

revealed too much. Her hair was down, lustrous even in the city's artificial light; her blue eyes

were bright, fixed on his as she kissed him once and stepped back to give him the once-over.

Inside the cool and crisp cadet Rick was projecting, his heart was running wild. She was

already talking a blue streak, filling him in on her eight weeks, asking questions about "spacic

training," complimenting him, the uniform, the Defense Force, the mayor, and everyone else

connected with the war effort. Rick, however, was so drawn to her beauty that he scarcely heard

the news or compliments; he was suddenly quiet and worried. Minmei drew stares from everyone they

passed, and she appeared to know half of Macross personally. What had she been doing these past

eight weeks-introducing herself on street corners? And what was all this about singing lessons,

dance lessons, and an upcoming beauty pageant? Rick wanted to tell her about the hardships of

training, the new friends he'd made, his unvoiced fears; he wanted to hold her and tell her how

much he had missed her, tell her how their two-week ordeal together had been one of the most

precious times in his life. But she wasn't letting him get a word in.

A short distance down the block, Minmei stopped in midsentence and dragged Rick over to

one of the storefronts. In the window was a salmon-colored belted dress that had suddenly become

the most important thing in the world to her.

"Come on, Rick, just for a minute, okay?"

"Minmei," he resisted, "I'm not going to spend my leave shopping."

"I promise I'll only be a second."

"It always starts out that way and, and..."

Minmei already had her hand on the doorknob. "Just what else did you have in mind for

today, Rick?"

She disappeared into the woman's shop, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, feeling

somehow guilty for even thinking about going to the park.

By the time he entered, Minmei had the hangered dress draped over one arm and was going

through the racks, pulling out belts, blouses, patterned stockings, skirts, sweaters, and

lingerie. Rick checked his watch and calculated that he'd be AWOL long before she finished trying

everything on. She had entered the dressing room and was throwing the curtain closed.

"And no peeking, Rick," she called out.

Fortunately there were no other customers in the store at the time, but the saleswoman

standing silently behind Rick had found Minmei's warning just about the funniest thing she had

heard all week. Her squeal of delight took Rick completely by surprise. He thought an early-

warning signal had just gone off-and in the middle of squatting down for cover, he managed to lose

some of the items from the top of the shopping bag. In stooping over to recover these, he tipped

the bag, spilling half the contents across the floor.

The woman was laughing like a maniac now, the door buzzer was signaling the entry of three

additional shoppers, and Minmei was peeking over the top of the dressing room curtain asking what

had happened. Rick, meanwhile, was down on his hands and knees crawling under tables in search of

the goods-bottles of shampoo, creme rinse, body lotion, baby oil, lipsticks, and sundry makeup

containers-all of which had become covered in some sort of slippery wash from a container of

liquid face soap that had partially opened. Each time Rick grabbed hold of one of the items, it

would jump from his hand like a wet fish. But he soon got the hang of it and had almost everything

rebagged in a short time. Only one thing left to retrieve: a tube of tricolored toothpaste just

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out of reach, bathing in a puddle of the face soap. Rick gave it a shot, stretching out and making

a grab for it. Sure enough, the tube propelled itself and ended up under another table.

It was time to get serious. Rick set the bag aside and crawled off stealthily after his

prey, as though the tube had taken on a will of its own and was on the verge of scurrying off,

like some of Macross City's robo-dispenser units. He squinted, held the tube in his gaze, and when

he was near enough, pounced.

The tube seemed to scream in his hands and immediately worked itself into a vertical

launch. But Rick had prepared himself for this; he lifted his head, eyes fixed on the tube's

ascent.

The one thing he hadn't taken into account was the height of the table. His head connected

hard with the underside, the tube made its escape, and Rick collapsed back to the floor, rolling

over onto his back and holding his head.

When he opened his eyes, he was staring up at a rain of brassieres and three pairs of

silken female legs. The women owners of these were backing away from the table, high heels

clicking against the floor, hands tugging at the hems of their skirts as though they'd just seen a

rodent on the loose.

Rick pushed himself out and got to his feet, facing the three women from across the table.

They were still backing away from the tabletop lingerie display with looks of indignation on their

faces. Rick was stammering apologies to them as they exited the shop, the saleswoman was once

again laughing hysterically, and Minmei was suddenly behind him, tapping him on the shoulder,

soliciting his opinion of the dress she was trying on. He stood shell-shocked for a minute,

laughter in one ear, Minmei's questions in the other, and left the store without a word.

Minmei remained inside for well over an hour. She had two additional shopping bags with

her when she came out. Undaunted, Rick once again tried to suggest a walk in the park, but she had

already made other plans for the two of them. Her surrogate family, who ran Macross City's most

popular Chinese restaurant, the White Dragon, had been asking for Rick, and this would be a

perfect time to visit-he looked so "gallant and dashing" in his uniform.

Rich could hardly refuse. Minmei's aunt and uncle were almost like family to him; in fact,

he had lived with them above the restaurant before joining the Defense Forces.

They were an odd couple-Max, short and portly, and Lena, Minmei's tall and gracious

inspiration. They had a son back on Earth, Lynn-Kyle, whom Lena missed and Max preferred not to

think about, for reasons Rick hadn't learned. Although there was little else that either kept from

him. As Rick entered the restaurant they pretended surprise, but within minutes they had his

favorite meal spread out before him. While wolfing down the stir-fried shrimp, he regaled them

with the barracks stories he had been saving for Minmei. They wanted to know all about the

Veritech fighters-how they handled in deep space, how they were able to switch from Fighter to

Guardian or Battloid mode. And they asked about the war: Had Gloval managed to contact Earth

headquarters? Did his commanders believe that the enemy would continue their attacks? Was Rick

worried about his first mission? How long it would be before the SDF-1 returned to Earth?

Rick did his best to answer them, sidestepping issues he was not permitted to discuss and

at other times exaggerating his importance to the Defense Forces. It concerned him that the

residents of Macross City were not being given the same reports issued to the Veritech squadrons.

After all, Macross was as much a part of the ship and the war as the rest of those onboard.

He was about to allay their fears for his safety by telling them that a combat assignment

was far off, when he saw Roy Fokker enter the restaurant. The lieutenant's six-six frame looked

gargantuan in the low-ceilinged room, but there was something about Roy's unruly blond hair and

innocent grin that put people at ease immediately. He greeted everyone individually, made a show

of kissing Minmei's hand, and took a seat next to Rick, snatching up the last of the shrimp as he

did so.

"Figured I'd find you here," Roy said with his mouth full. "Gotta get you back to the base

on the double, Little Brother."

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"Why, what's up?" Rick asked.

"We're on alert."

Rick was suddenly concerned. "Yeah, but what's that have to do with me?"

Roy licked his fingers. "Guess who's been assigned to my squadron?"

Rick was speechless.

Aunt Lena and Uncle Max stood together, worried looks behind the faint smiles. Minmei,

however, was ecstatic.

"Oh, Rick, thats wonderful!"

Like he'd just been awarded a prize.

Roy stood up and smiled. "Up and at 'em, partner."

Rick tried valiantly to return a smile that wasn't there.

The war had caught up with him again.

CHAPTER TWO

From the start it was inevitable that a cult should develop around the Veritech fighters. Like the

World War I aces, jet fighter jocks, astronauts, and computer linguists before them, the men who

were chosen to interact with the first by-product of Robotechnology considered themselves to be at

the cutting edge of human progress. And in a sense they were. For who before them had interfaced

with machines on such an intimate level? It was only fitting that they should form their own club

and speak their own language-call themselves "mechamorphs." They were continually borrowing and

applying mystic phrases from their Zen masters-those actually responsible for teaching the pilots

the essentials of meditative technique...You'd be walking around Macross in those days and hear

phrases like "dropping trou" and "standing upright" being tossed about-referring to

reconfiguration to Guardian mode and battloid mode, respectively. Pilots would talk to you about

your "thinking caps," the sensor-studded helmets worn, or about the thrill of "haloing" (fixing an

enemy on target in the mind's eye) or "alpha-bets" (gambling with yourself that you were deep

enough in trance for the mecha to understand you) or "facing mecha" (going into battle) or

"azending...

Zachary Fox, Jr., VT: the Men and the Mecha

Gloval met frequently with Dr. Lang during the development phase of what was being called the

pinpoint barrier system. The lambent energy that once filled the spacefold generators' chamber had

been harnessed and redirected. Such was the nature of this antielectron energy, however, that a

photon shield for the entire fortress would have further destabilized an already weakened gravity

control system. The best that Lang and his Robotechnicians had been able to come up with was a

cluster of movable barriers capable of deflecting incoming bolts. An area aft of the ship's bridge

had been retrofitted with three manually operated universal gyros, each tied to one of the

cluster's photon discs.

With the barrier system now operational, Captain Gloval was confident that his

"Blitzkrieg" attack plan would prove viable. The strategy was simple enough: When the SDF-1 was in

close proximity to Saturn's rings, electronic countermeasures would be activated to jam the

enemy's radar scanners. The fortress would hide within the rings to take full advantage of their

intrinsic radio "noise," while at the same time, squadrons of Veritech fighters would be deployed

in a simulated attack mission to act as decoys. When the enemy moved in to engage the VTs, the SDF-

1's main gun would take them out. Orbital dynamics would make the timing critical: If the fortress

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reentered orbit too early, it would be catapulted back toward the outer planets; too late, and the

launch window to Mars and the inner planets would be closed.

The VT fighter pilots would receive most of this information at the scheduled briefing,

and it was to this briefing that Rick and Roy were headed after they left the restaurant.

Roy had been doing his best to cheer up the newly graduated cadet. Rick was one of five

cadets chosen; it was really an honor, an endorsement of his flying skills. He would be able to

move out of the dormitory barracks into his own room. There would be more free time, special

privileges.

They were walking along the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the barracks compound

now. Fifty-foot-tall Battloid sentries patrolled the perimeter, their gatlings shouldered like

proper soldiers. Defense Force personnel were moving quickly in response to new orders which had

been delivered to each unit.

But Rick's morale was low; his hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders drooped. Roy,

however, succeeded in bringing him around with a sharp, "Ten-shun!"

Rick responded expertly to his conditioning: His head came up, he squared his shoulders,

brought his back straight, hand at his forehead. His eyes searched for a superior's uniform, but

the only people in his field of vision were four young women in civilian dress. The oldest among

them, not more than twenty-three or twenty-four herself, was the one who returned his salute. She

had thick brown hair coiled at her shoulders, small, attractive features, and an athletic body

even her conservative outfit couldn't conceal. There was an air of cool command about her.

The other three were suddenly laughing and pointing at him; the tall, dark-haired one-Kim,

Rick understood-was whispering something to the one with glasses-Vanessa. Rick was resisting an

urge to check his fly buttons, when the short blonde among them yelled, "Mr. Lingerie!"

He decided to risk a full look and recognized three of the women from this morning's

incident in the dress shop. One of them was saying, "Hold your skirts down, ladies," and Roy was

elbowing him in the ribs.

"What gives, Little Brother?"

"Don't ask," Rick said out of the corner of his mouth.

The oldest had stepped forward; she gave Rick a look and turned to Roy.

"Commander Fokker, don't tell me this is the brilliant new pilot you were raving about?"

"One and the same. Corporal Rick Hunter, this is the Flight Officer Lisa Hayes. You'll be

hearing a lot from her from now on."

Rick saluted again. The women were still needling him with comments.

"Rick Hunter..." Lisa Hayes was repeating. "Why does that name sound familiar? Have we met-

uh, before this morning, I mean?"

"No, sir, I don't think so, sir."

Lisa tapped her lower lip with her forefinger. She knew that name from somewhere...and all

at once she had it: Hunter was the civilian pilot who had shown up at Macross on Launching Day.

The same one who had made unauthorized use of a Veritech, the same one who had rescued that

Chinese girl, the same one who had called her-

"You're that loudmouthed pilot, aren't you?"

Rick stared at her. Yes, unbelievable as it was, she was the one he had seen on the

Veritech commo screen months ago.

"Then you must be-"

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"Go ahead, Corporal Hunter, say it: I must be..."

"Y-you must be...my superior officer, sir!"

Lisa smirked and nodded her head knowingly. She motioned to her group, and they started

off down the sidewalk. But Lisa turned to Rick as she passed him and added, "By the way, I don't

know what your particular problem is, but it's hardly appropriate behavior for a VT pilot to be

hanging around lingerie shops looking for a cheap thrill."

Rick groaned. Roy scratched his head. The blonde said: "Creep."

Later, at the briefing, Rick was still replaying the incident; but in light of what was

being said, embarrassment placed last on his list of concerns. A decoy mission-the VTs were

actually going to pretend to launch a counteroffensive against the aliens! Judging by the murmurs

in the crowd, Rick was not the only pilot to be floored by this directive. But like it or not,

they had their orders.

"I want you to be thinking of one thing and one thing only," the general was saying.

"Robotech! And I want you to know that we're all counting on you."

If the general had let it go at that, Rick would have been all right-afraid but not

desperate. The general, however, had then added: "If there's anyone you want to see, you'd better

do it tonight."

Rick was in a panic. What did he mean by that-that they were being sent out on some kind

of suicide mission? And do what tonight-say good-bye, say wish me well, say please remember me

always?

He stood on line to use the phone and managed to reach Minmei's aunt Lena. Minmei was at

ballet school, but yes, Lena would relay Rick's message: Macross Central Park, their bench at nine

P.m.

Rick rode back into the city with a few of the other pilots. He kicked around the market

area for a while and was in the park by eight o'clock keeping their bench warm. Starlight poured

in from the huge bay in the hull; lovers held one another; life went on as though filled with

limitless tomorrows. But Rick couldn't see past the mission, and he was frightened.

By ten o'clock she still hadn't showed; the park was quiet, and he was about to move on.

But just then she came running in, face flushed and out of breath.

"Rick, I'm sorry I'm so late."

He smiled at her. "At least you made it."

She pushed her bangs back. Her forehead was beaded with sweat.

"What's the big emergency, anyway?"

"They're sending us out on a mission tomorrow."

He didn't need to add any dramatic accents to it; the words just fell out that way. But

her reaction was unexpected. She was practically clapping for him.

"Oh, Rick, that's great! Really, I'm so happy for you!"

And for a moment her enthusiasm almost won him over. Hey, Rick told himself, maybe this is

how I'm supposed to feel, like I'm lucky or something. The park fountain was even gushing in his

honor! It didn't last, though, despite her continued exclamations.

"Your first mission! I can't believe it! I'm so proud of you!"

Obviously this was what supporting the war effort was all about, he decided. And she was

very good at it.

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Then Minmei was suddenly on her toes, twirling around in front of him. "Do you like it?

Don't you just love it?" she kept asking. He was puzzled but caught on fast. The dress! The salmon-

colored dress she'd picked up that afternoon.

"You look beautiful, Minmei."

She moved in close and made him repeat it.

"Do you mean it, Rick? Am I really beautiful?"

An idea came to him and he signaled to a robo-camera that was making rounds through the

park. The stupid thing kept moving in circles, trying to home in on Rick's call, and he finally

had to throw a stone at it to get its attention. The cam approached them, asking for money.

"We'll have a picture taken. You'll see how beautiful you are."

Minmei protested some, and the cam uttered some stock phrases to get them in the proper

mood, but eventually they had the print and Minmei was pleased. A smile and a look of concern;

Minmei clinging to his arm; the fountain behind them.

Afterward, she talked dance for half an hour; she read him the lyrics of a song she'd

composed. Then she had to be going.

"Uncle Max gets mad when I stay out too late. But I'll see you when you get back, Rick.

Have a good mission, and remember, I'm very proud of you."

And with that she was gone, leaving him wondering about tomorrow all over again.

He power-walked and jogged for an hour hoping he would exhaust himself and fall into a

deep sleep back in the barracks. But sleep didn't seem to be on tonight's agenda; in fact, he

couldn't even keep his eyes closed. It was too hot in his bunk, then too cold, there were too many

noises in the room, the pillow just wasn't right...Finally he sat up and switched on the reading

light. He took the park photo and brought it close to his face. Perhaps he could reach her by

concentrating on her image; spoken words weren't doing much good.

Minmei was proud of him; earlier that day she'd been upset with him for carrying her

shopping bag because the package hid too much of the uniform. Besides, it was wrong for a Veritech

fighter pilot to involve himself in such mundane activities. Well, that much was encouraging to

Rick because she had really been his motivation for joining up. During the weeks that followed

their shared ordeal in that remote part of the ship, he realized that Minmei could never accept an

ordinary man as her lover; he would have to be someone who participated in life to the fullest.

Someone romantic, adventurous, full of grand dreams and positive hopes for the future-an all-day-

long hero who would never fear, never say die. A special man, a dearest man, someone to share his

life with you alone, as Minmei had herself written it...She was like someone who had gone from

childhood to maturity without any of the intervening periods of longing or confusion. And even

though Rick had saved her life on two occasions and spent two long lost weeks with her, he had yet

to prove himself in her eyes. Without joining up there would have been no way for him to display

the heroics she craved, no way to individualize himself, no way to accept himself as her equal.

And yet, even having taken those steps, he felt no closer to her than before. Her love had

no fixed center; it was spread across the board and parceled out in equal packets for one and all

to enjoy. A hero wouldn't even be enough for her because she belonged to everyone. She was more

spirit than woman, more dream than reality.

Rick slipped into fitful sleep for a short while, only to have Roy wake him out of it.

Fokker was just checking in, reminding him that they had to be up early tomorrow.

"Your first combat mission is always the worst, kid. I sympathize with you. Now, get some

sleep-count fanjets or something."

Everyone had such encouraging words: At the briefing they'd been told to wrap up their

personal business, and now Roy tells him that tomorrow is going to be the worst. Minmei had

behaved like a cheerleader, his commanding officer thought him a lecher...It had been quite a day.

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McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 02 - Battle cry

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