McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 09 - The Final Nightmare

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Robotech: The Final Nightmare
Book Nine of the Robotech Series
Copyright 1987 by Jack McKinney
CHAPTER ONE
Many women were often in the thick of the fighting during the First Robotech
War. They served splendidly and gallantly. But they were usually restricted to
what the military insisted on calling "non-combat roles," despite the great
numbers of them killed as a direct result of enemy action.
By the time of the Second Robotech War, with the Earth's resources depleted
and its population drastically reduced by the First, sheer necessity and
common sense had overcome the lingering sexism that had kept willing,
qualified women off the front lines.
Nevertheless, the Robotech Masters' onslaught quickly had Earth on the ropes.
It is instructive to consider what the outcome would have been if the Army of
the Southern Cross had faced the planet's second invasion without half its
fighting strength.
Fortunately for us all, that is not what happened.
Betty Greer, Post-Feminism and the Robotech Wars
Lieutenant Marie Crystal made a willful effort to face the camera now as she
had faced enemy guns yesterday.
She drove back her bone-deep exhaustion, the pain of battle injuries,
and the despair of a desperate situation that even the light lunar gravity
couldn't alleviate. She intended to finish her report with the clarity and
precision expected of a Tactical Armored Space Corps fighter ace and the
leader of the TASC's vaunted Black Lions...
And maybe, after that, she could collapse and get a few minutes' sleep.
It seemed now that she never wanted anything but sleep.
In the wake of the disastrous all-out attempt to destroy the Robotech
Masters' invasion fleet, Marie had to shoulder even more responsibility. The
chain of command had been shot all to hell along with the Earth strikeforce
itself.
Admiral Burke was dead-diced into bloody stew by an exploding power
junction housing when the blue Bioroids cut the strikeforce flagship to
ribbons. General Lacey, next in line, lay with ninety percent of the skin
seared off his body, teetering between life and death.
The senior officer, a staff one-star, was still functional, but he had
virtually no combat command experience. The scuttlebutt was that he was being
pressured to let somebody else run the show. An implausibly successful Bioroid
sortie and the resultant hangar deck explosion on board the now defunct
flagship resulted in Marie being named the new flight group commander.
She went on with her after-action report to Southern Cross military
headquarters on Earth.
"Our remaining spacecraft number: one battlecruiser, two destroyer
escorts, and one logistical support ship, all of which have suffered heavy
damage," she said, looking squarely into the optical pickup. "Along with
twenty-three Veritech fighters, twelve A-JACs combat mecha, and assorted small
scout and surveillance ships. At last report we have one thousand, one hundred
sixteen surviving personnel, eight hundred and fifty-seven of them fit for
duty."
Fewer than nine hundred effectives! Jesus! She pulled at the collar ring
seal of her combat armor, where it had chafed her neck. She couldn't recall
the last time she had been able to strip off the alloy plate and get some real
rest. Back on Earth, probably. But that was a lifetime ago.
"As I stated previously, deployment of the enemy mother ships, and their
assault craft and Bioroid combat mecha, made it impossible for the strikeforce
to return to Earth. Since we were also cut off from LS Space Station Liberty,
and were forced to take refuge here at Moon Base ALUCE, we are making round-
the-clock efforts to fortify our position against an enemy counterattack.
Major repairs and life-support replenishment are being carried out as well,
and civilian personnel have been placed under emergency military authority."
It all sounded so crisp, so can-do, she thought, trying to focus her
eyes on her notecards. As if everything were under control, instead of at the
thin edge of utter catastrophe. As if the survivors were an effective fighting
force instead of a chewed up, burned-out bunch of men and women and machinery.
As if the attack hadn't been the most insane strategy, the worst snafu, the
most horrifying slaughter she had ever seen.
Recording her stiff-upper-lip report, she felt like a liar, but that was
the way Marie Crystal had been taught to do her duty. She wondered if the
brass hats at Southern Cross Army HQ back on Earth would read between the
lines-if that pompous, blustering idiot, Supreme Commander Leonard, had any
idea how much suffering and death he had caused.
She yanked her mind off that track; feeling murderous toward her
superiors would not help now.
"Our medical personnel and volunteers from other strikeforce elements
are tending to the wounded in the ALUCE medcenter. But facilities are
extremely limited here, and I am instructed to request that we be permitted to
attempt a special mission to ferry our worst cases back to Earth."
What could she add? There was the natural Human impulse to tell the
goddamn lardbutts in their swivel chairs how much hell she had seen. There was
the desire to see someone capable, someone like General Emerson, for instance,
march in before the United Earth Government council and charge Leonard and his
staff with incompetence. There was an inner compulsion to tell how futile it
felt, preparing the civilian ALUCE-Advanced Lunar Chemical Engineering-station
for a last stand, and getting the VTs and other mecha ready to sortie out
again if the need arose.
Forget it; shoot 'n' salute, that was a soldier's duty. Maybe a miracle
would happen, and the mysterious aliens who called themselves the Robotech
Masters would cut ALUCE and the strikeforce a little slack. If the Humans
could just have a few days to get themselves back into some kind of fighting
shape, that would change the mix a lot. But Marie had her doubts.
"This completes the situation report. Lieutenant Marie Crystal,
reporting for the Commander, out." She saluted smartly, her mouth tugging in a
faint, ironic smirk.
The camera tech wrapped it up. "We'll transcribe it and send it out in
burst right away, ma'am." She took the cassette of Marie's report.
The Robotech Masters had been having more and more success interfering
with the frequency-jumping communications tactics the Humans had been forced
to use. To avoid any interference, the report would be sped up to a
millisecond squeal of information. Hopefully it would get through.
And when they get it, what then? Marie wondered. We might be able to
sneak one shipload of WIAs back, but for the rest of us there's no way home.
In the headquarters of the Army of the Southern Cross, Supreme Commander
Leonard studied the tape. The smudged and hollow-eyed young female flight
lieutenant reeled off facts and figures of bitter defeat with no expression
except that last upcurling of one corner of her mouth.
"Mmm" was all he said, as Colonel Rochelle turned off the tape. "We
received this transmission from ALUCE eight minutes ago, sir," Rochelle told
him. "Nothing else has gotten through the enemy's jamming so far. Looks like
they're onto our freq-jumping stunt. The people down in signal/crypto are
trying to come up with something new, but so far the occasional odd message is
all we can really hope for from Strikeforce Victory."
Leonard nodded slowly, looking at the huge, gray screen. Then he whirled
around and threw himself into a seat across the conference table from Major
General Rolf Emerson.
"Well, Emerson! How about that!" Leonard pounded his pale, soft,
freckled fists the size of pot roasts on the gleaming oak. "It would appear
that our little assault operation wasn't a complete failure after all, eh?"
Everyone in the room held their breath. It was a well-known fact that
Emerson had opposed the mad strikeforce scheme from the outset, and that there
was no love lost between the Supreme Commander and his chief of staff for
Terrestrial Defense, Emerson. And everyone had watched Emerson grow grimmer
and grimmer as Marie Crystal delivered her casualty report.
Now Emerson looked across the table at Leonard, and more than one staff
officer wished they had had time to get a little money down on the fight.
Leonard was huge, but a lot of it was pointless bulk; there was some question
about how much real muscle was there. Emerson, on the other hand, was a
ramrod-straight middleweight with a boxer's physique, and few of the men and
women on his staff could keep up with him when it came time for calisthenics
or road drill.
Not a complete failure? Emerson was asking himself. God, what would this
man call "failure"?
But he was a man bound by his oath. A generation before, military
officers had violated their oaths. They had served grasping politicians-most
tellingly in the now-defunct USA-and that had led to a global civil war. Every
woman and man who had sworn to serve the Southern Cross Army knew those
stories, and knew that it was their obligation to obey that oath to the
letter.
Emerson stared down at his fingers, which were curled around an ancient
fountain pen that had been a gift from his ward, Private First Class Bowie
Grant. He worried about Bowie only slightly more than he worried about each of
the hundreds and thousands of other Southern Cross Army personnel under his
command. He worried about the survival of the Human race and that of Earth
more than he worried about any individual Human life-even his own.
Emerson gathered up all of his patience, and the perseverance for which
he was so famous. "Commander Leonard, the ALUCE base is a mere research
outpost, with civilians present. Aside from the fact that by the standards of
the Robotech war we're fighting, ALUCE is tinfoil and cardboard! I therefore
presume you're not seriously thinking of fortifying it as a military base."
It was as close to insubordination as Emerson had ever permitted himself
to go. The silence in the Command Briefing Room was so profound that the
roiling of various stomachs could be heard. Through it all, Emerson was locked
with Leonard's gaze.
The Supreme Commander spoke deliberately. "Yes, that is my plan. And I
see nothing wrong with it!" He seemed to be making it up as he went along.
"Mmm. As I see it, a military strikeforce at an outpost on the moon will
enable us to hit those alien bastards from two different directions at once!"
A G3 staff light colonel named Rudolph readjusted his glasses and said
eagerly, "I see! In that way, we're outflanking those six big mother ships
they've got in orbit around Earth!"
Leonard looked pleased. "Yes. Precisely."
Emerson took a deep breath and pushed his chair away from the oak table
a little, as though he was about to face a firing squad. But when he came to
his feet, there was silence. All eyes turned to him. The general feeling was
that no one on Earth was more trusted, more committed to standing by his word,
than Rolf Emerson.
No one could be relied upon more to speak the truth into the teeth of
deceit.
And this was certainly that moment. "ALUCE is a peaceful, unreinforced
cluster of pressurized huts, Commander Leonard. I don't think that anything
the strikeforce survivors can do will make it a viable military base. And it's
my opinion that by provoking the enemy into attacking it you'll be throwing
away lives."
So many staffers inhaled at the same time that Rudolph wondered if the
air pressure would drop. Leonard's faced flushed with rage. "They've already
mauled our first assault wave; it's not a question of provocation anymore.
Damn it, man! This is war, not an exercise in interstellar diplomacy!"
"But we haven't even tried negotiating," Emerson began, a little
hopelessly. An over-eager missile battery commander named Komodo had fired on
the Robotech Masters before any real attempt could be made to contact them and
learn what it was they wanted. From that moment on, it had been war.
"I'll have no insubordination!" Leonard bellowed. To the rest of the
staff he added, "Mobilize the second strikeforce and prepare them to relieve
our troops at Moon Base ALUCE!"
Outside the classified-conference room, a figure clad in the uniform of
the Southern Cross's Alpha Tactical Armored Corps-the ATACs-moved furtively.
Zor still didn't quite understand the half-perceived urges that had
brought him there. It was a familiar feeling, this utter mystification about
who he was, and what forces drove him. It was as though he moved in a fog, but
he knew that somewhere ahead was the room where all Earth's military plans
were being formulated. He must go there, he must listen and watch-but he
didn't understand why.
Suddenly there was a bigger figure blocking his way. "Okay, Zor. Suppose
you tell me just what the hell you think you're doing here?"
It was Sergeant Angelo Dante, senior NCO of the 15th, fists balled and
feet set at about shoulder width, ready for a fight. His size and strength
dwarfed Zor's, and Zor was not small. Dante was a career soldier, a man of
dark, curling hair and dark brows, not quick to trust anyone, incapable of
believing anything good of Zor.
The sergeant grabbed Zor's leather torso harness and gave it a yank,
nearly lifting him off his feet. "What about it?"
Zor shook his head slowly, as if coming out of a trance. "Angle! Wh-how
did I get here?" He blinked, looking around him.
"That's my line. You're sneakin' around a restricted area and you're
away from your duty station without permission. If you don't have a pretty
good explanation, I'm gonna see to it your butt goes into Barbwire City for a
long time!" He shook Zor again.
"Oh, Zor! There you are!" First Lieutenant Dana Sterling, commanding
officer of the 15th, practically squealed it as she rounded a corner and
hurried toward them. Angelo shook his head a little, watching how her smile
beamed and her eyes crinkled as she caught sight of Zor.
Like her two subordinates, she was dressed in the white Southern Cross
uniform, with the black piping and black boots that suggested a riding outfit.
She barely reached the middle of Angelo's chest, but she was, he had to admit,
a gutsy and capable officer. Except where this Zor guy was concerned.
She rushed up to them and grabbed Zor's hand; Angelo found himself
automatically releasing his captive. Dana seemed completely unaware that she
had blundered into the middle of what would otherwise have been a fight. "I've
been looking for you everywhere, Zor!"
Zor, still dazed, seemed to be groping for words. "Just a second,
Lieutenant," Angelo interrupted.
But she was tugging Zor away. "Come along; I want to ask you something!"
"Hold it, ma'am!" Angelo burst out. "Why don'tcha ask pretty boy here
what he's doing hanging around a restricted area?"
Dana's expression turned to anger. Like the sergeant, she had tracked
down Zor with difficulty, but she wouldn't let herself think badly of her
strange, alien trooper. She shot back, "What are you, Angie, a spy for the
Global Military Police?"
Angelo's black brows went up. "Huh? You know better than that! But
somebody has to keep an eye on this guy. Or don't you think what he's doing is
a little suspicious?"
Dana rasped, "Zor's suffering from severe memory loss. If he's a little
disoriented at times, that just means we should show him a bit of compassion
and understanding!"
She slipped an arm through Zor's, clasping his elbow. Angelo wondered if
he were going crazy; wasn't this the same alien who had led the enemy forces
in his red Bioroid? Didn't he try to kill Dana, as she had tried to kill him,
in a half dozen or so of the most vicious single combats of the war, her
Hovertank mecha against his Bioroid?
"I'll speak to you later, Sergeant," Dana said, dragging Zor off.
Angelo watched them go. He had gained a lot of respect for Dana Sterling
since she had taken command of the 15th, but she was only eighteen and, in the
sergeant's opinion, still too impulsive and too inclined to make rash moves.
He tried to suppress his sneaking suspicion as to why she was so protective of
Zor-so possessive, really.
But one indisputable fact remained. No matter how loyally Angelo tried
to discount it, Dana herself was half alien.
CHAPTER TWO
I could never figure out why Leonard, who hated anything alien, would tolerate
that wacky experiment where Zor was thrown in with the 15th ATAC-especially
since a female halfbreed was CO. One day, I remember, Leonard had been
grumbling about putting Zor back into lab isolation and dissecting him.
Ten minutes later the phone rang. Leonard didn't say much in that
conversation-it was real brief. And whatever he heard through the earpiece had
him sweating. Right after that he dropped the topic for good.
I happened to see the phone logs for the afternoon over at the commo desk a
little later. The call had come from Dr. Lazio Zand, who ran Special
Protoculture Observations and Operations Kommandatura. I did my best to forget
I'd ever seen that log.
Captain Jed Streiber, as quoted in "Conjuration," History of the Robotech
Wars, Vol. CXXXIII
"The Revenge of the Martian Mystery Women?" Zor echoed Dana.
"Right!" she said excitedly. "Everybody says it's a dynamite movie.
You'll love it! And it won't cost you anything 'cause I've already got the
tickets!" She showed him the pair of ducats.
They were sitting in a little park outside the big, imperial-looking
building that housed Alpha Tactical Armored Corps HQ. Birds were singing, and
a fountain splashed nearby. "As a matter of fact, they're hard to come by, and
the scalper charged me plenty for these!" She frowned a bit, wondering if she
was making a fool of herself.
Zor gave a thin smile. "Well then, how can I refuse, Lieutenant?"
An officer in the 10th squad who had seen the movie last night had said
that it was romantic as well as exciting. Dana liked the idea of seeing a
movie about alluring, captivating alien women with Zor.
She rushed on, "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't said
yes!" Then she stopped, looking perplexed. "Only-now I'm not sure what I ought
to wear..."
Zor watched her as she deliberated, certain that no matter what she
decided to wear she would look beautiful. He tried to sort out the conflicting
emotions and veiled impulses that kept him in a state of confusion much of the
time. Zor wondered if these feelings for his lieutenant were what the Human
beings called love.
In a geostationary orbit some 23,000 miles above the Earth hung six
stupendous mother ships-the invasion fleet of the Robotech Masters.
In the huge flagship, which still bore the scars of battles with the
Human race both in space and on the surface of the planet, stood the
Triumvirate of Masters. They looked down from the vantage point of their
floating Protoculture cap-the enormous, humplike instrument that gave them
total control of superhuman mind powers and abilities.
Like virtually all members of their race, the Triumvirate of Masters
functioned as a triad, each standing upon a small platform attached to the
hovering cap. They were males, with hawklike faces that wore perpetual scowls.
The severity of their faces was emphasized by scarlike V's of tissue under
each cheek. All of them were bald-or shave-pated; their long, fine hair fell
below their shoulders. They wore monkish robes, their wide, floppy collars
suggesting the tripartite blossom of the Invid Flower of Life.
The Masters usually mindspoke through direct tactile contact with their
Protoculture cap, but they chose now to say their words out loud. Shaizan, who
was often the spokesman for the Triumvirate, said, "So, you're saying our
Bioroid clones are limited in their effectiveness?"
Looking up at him was a triad of Clonemasters, two males and a female,
standing under their own, smaller Protoculture cap. All were tall, pale, and
slender. They wore tight-fitting clothes vaguely suggestive of the early
Renaissance.
Both males wore full blond-brown mustaches and mutton chops, and one of
them had a beard; the androgynouslooking female wore her long blond hair in a
simple style. The minor differences between them only served to emphasize
their sameness of body and features.
The leader of the Clonemaster triumvirate nodded. "Precisely. Their
current cerebral composition makes them undependable. They perform adequately
as shock troops, but in order to deal with an Invid attack, we'll need clones
much more tightly mindlinked to our triumvirate."
And they all knew that the need to deal with the savage, relentless
Invid might come soon. The Flower of Life had bloomed on Earth, and where the
Flower bloomed, the Robotech Masters' mortal enemies, the Invid, were bound to
appear in short order.
It was all so frustrating to the Masters, even though they didn't reveal
any emotion. They had traveled for nearly fifteen years-across the galaxy-in
search of the last Protoculture Matrix in existence. There were determined to
find that source of power that could return them to their rightful place as
lords of all creation. And yet, although they were near their prize, they were
unable to claim it because of the stubbornness of the primitive Humans below.
Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of Earth, the Matrix, sealed under one of three
mounds on the outskirts of Monument City, was going to seed.
The Masters' calculations showed that the Protoculture would soon shift
from a contained mass, kept in the prefertilized state in which it exuded its
incredible and unique forces, and convert into the Flowers of Life that the
Invid ingested to sustain themselves.
But the Humans weren't the Masters' only opposition; they weren't the
most formidable enemies. The mounds were guarded by invisible Protoculture
entities-three strange, mysterious, and sinister wraiths.
The wraiths had manifested themselves once-or rather, they had permitted
the Masters to perceive them. They were cloaked and cowled fire-eyed specters-
ghosts whose power stymied the Masters' efforts to find out exactly where the
Matrix lay. Without that information, it was impossible for the Masters to use
simple brute force to rip the Matrix from the mounds; that would risk damaging
the thing they had come so far to retrieve. The Masters weren't sure yet what
other powers or designs the wraiths might have.
And now, to complicate matters further, local perturbations were
hampering the performance of the Masters' cloned slave populace. "Yes, that
might be our problem with Zor Prime," Shaizan was saying. "We've had some
trouble with him, almost from the first moment when he was set down among the
Humans. His neuro-sensor has been malfunctioning."
Not that Zor Prime, cloned from tissue samples of the slain original
Zor, greatest genius of his race and discoverer of Protoculture, hadn't been
of some use. Divested of his memories, the clone had been dispatched among the
Terrans as an unwitting spy, so that the Masters could see through his eyes
and hear through his ears.
The Masters were also hoping that the trauma of being among the local
primitives, and being on the planet to which the original Zor had dispatched
the Protoculture Matrix so long ago, would spur Zor's memory. Perhaps they
could get Zor Prime to tell them why the Matrix had been sent, precisely where
it was, and how to get it back from both the Humans and the invisible
wraithlike Protoculture entities who guarded the mounds that hid it.
Dag, second among the Masters, had a slightly more prognathous jaw than
the others. He said, "It seems the Human behavioral dysfunction known as
emotions may be responsible for this malfunction."
Bowkaz, third of the Masters, nodded, his brows nearly meeting as his
frown deepened. "Yes. These emotions destabilize the proper functioning of the
healthy brain and the rational mind."
"What is your will then, Masters?" asked Jeddar, leader of the
Clonemaster triumvirate-their chief slaves-bowing humbly before them.
"Hmm," Shaizan said, gazing down on him. "You would like our permission
to carry out this plan of yours, no doubt."
The Clonemaster kowtowed. "Yes, my lord. We believe it will be our key
to a quick, decisive victory. We only need your approval."
The Masters touched hands to their Protoculture cap. Wherever one of the
nailless, spiderlike hands touched a mottled area of the mushroom-shaped cap,
the mottled area came alight with the power of Protoculture. The Masters
swiftly and silently came to a consensus.
The barracks housing the 15th squad, Alpha Tactical Armored Corps-ATAC-
was a truncated cone a dozen stories high, of smoky blue glass and gleaming
blue tile (the most modern of polymers) set on a framework of blued alloy. It
was a large complex even though it only served as housing and operational
facility to a few people; much of the aboveground area was filled with parts
and equipment storage and repair areas, armory, kitchen and dining and
lavatory space, and so on. In many ways it was a self-contained world.
At the ground and basement levels were the mecha servicing and repair
stations, and the motor stables filled with parked Hovercycles and other
conventional vehicles, along with the giant Hovertanks-the 15th's primary
mecha.
Up in her quarters, Dana wasn't thinking about any kind of machinery
just then. Agonizing over what to wear for her date with Zor, she flung every
skirt, dress, and blouse in her closet in different directions, draping them
with lingerie.
There was, no doubt, something in the regs about officers dating
privates, but Zor was a different case. He had been placed with the 15th in
the hope that military service would help him recover his missing memory, and
that exposure to Earth-style social interaction and bonding would sway him
against his former Masters.
When it came to social interaction, Dana was more than ready. It wasn't
just that Zor was dreamy looking and a little disoriented. There was also the
fact that he was alien, as was Dana's mother. She sometimes wondered if it was
blood calling to blood.
Long before she had actually seen him, Dana had felt inexplicable
emotions and experienced strange Visions bearing on the red Bioroid Zor
piloted. Something within drew her to Zor.
Now, as she hurried into the unit ready-room, which doubled as a rec
room during off-duty hours, she tried to set all that aside and concentrate on
having a good time.
Decked out in a frilly skirt and silk blouse, she was all set to yell Hi
Zor! I'm here! Only-it wasn't Zor she found there.
Squad Sergeant Angelo Dante stepped away from the autobar (it was after
duty hours, and the cybernetic mixologist would dispense alcohol to troopers
who were certified offduty) and strolled over toward her. "Well, well! Aren't
we looking awfully chic tonight?"
She tried to act nonchalant; she wanted to enjoy herself with Zor and
not start off the evening with another row with Angelo. "Have you seen Zor
around?"
In the days before the First Robotech War (after which an almost
medieval cluster of city-states had banded in a loose hegemony to fill the
vacuum of world rule and form the United Earth Government-the UEG) soldiers
had had less autonomy and more discipline, so the old salts liked to say. If
so, she would have welcomed a reversion to those old days.
If she kicked Angelo's feet out from under him and mashed a coffee table
over his head, Southern Cross Command might not consider the act a necessary
disciplinary measure and it could cause sociodynamic strains. Besides, Angelo
was awfully tough.
Dana restrained herself, but resolved to command his loyalty-even if it
meant inviting the very big, very strong, and quick NCO to step downstairs to
the motor stables and have it out-before another day passed. There was no way
two people could run a Hovertank squad, or any other unit.
Angelo smiled spitefully. "Yeah. I bet if he had seen you in your prom
queen rig, he would have never asked Nova out tonight."
"Nova? Nova Satori?"
Angelo buffed his nails on his torso harness. Dana considered decking
him; he was large, but she was used to fighting for everything she had ever
gotten, and if she could get in the first shot...
"Uh-huh," he said. "Let's see now: something about dinner, and the
theater afterwards."
He backed away suddenly as she came at him with clenched fists, ready to
spit brimstone and, he could see from the way she held herself, do some
damage.
She was raving. "That no-good two-timer! That sneaking alien! He's
getting more Human every day!"
Angelo was fending her off. "Well now, ma'am, maybe all he needs is a
bit of compassion, remember?" That was what she had said to him, back when
Angelo was about to take Zor's face off.
"You're enjoying this, huh?" she seethed at him. Then she had an image
of suitable revenge. She held up the two movie tickets. "Well, I guess you'll
just have to escort me, big boy!"
Angelo's face fell and he made some odd sounds before he found the
words. "Uh, ah, thanks, Lieutenant, but I'll pass-"
"You ain't reading me, Sergeant! It's an order!"
The Clonemasters' update was even more bleak than had been anticipated.
"My lord, our reservoirs of Protoculture power are running dry. The
effects of this are being felt throughout the fleet. Our new clonelings are
lethargic and unresponsive; the effectiveness of our weapons is limited; and
our defensive shields cannot be maintained full-time. If we do not secure a
large infusion of Protoculture, we are doomed."
As Jeddar spoke, the humpish Protoculture cap of the Masters showed
them, by mind-image, the deteriorating situation in all six of the enormous
mother ships. Where the Protoculture energies had once coursed through them
like highways of incandescence or arterial systems of pure, godlike force,
those flows were now reduced to unsteady rivulets. It was like looking into
one huge, dying organism.
Elsewhere in the colossal flagship, six clones-two triumvirates-faced
off, five against one.
On the one side was Musica, ethereal weaver of song, Mistress of the
Cosmic Harp, whose melodies gave shape and effect to the mental force with
which the Clonemasters controlled their subjects. She was pale and delicate
looking, slender, with long, deep green hair.
To one side were her two clone sisters, Octavia and Allegra, both of
them subdued and frightened by the very idea of discord. And across from
Musica was the triumvirate of Guard leaders: tall, fit, limber military males
who were now unified in their anger as much as in their plasm.
Lieutenant Karno spoke for them. His long hair was a fiery red; he spoke
with uncharacteristic anger, for a slave of the Masters. "Musica, it is not
your place to decide how things shall be!"
Another, Darsis, looking like Karno's duplicate, agreed, "It has been
decided for us and you have no say in the matter!"
Sookol, the third, added, "That is our way, as it has been since the
beginning of time!"
Musica, eyes lowered to the carpeted deck, trembled at the heresy she
was committing. And yet she said, "Yes, I know that. We've been chosen for
each other as mates, and we must resign ourselves to it. But-that doesn't
change the fact that we are strangers, we Muses and you Guards."
Karno's brows knit, as if she were speaking in some language he had
never heard before. "But...what does that matter?"
Musica gave him a pleading look, then averted her eyes again. "I want so
much to accept the Masters' decision and believe that it is right, but
something very strange within me keeps saying that the Masters cannot be right
if their decision makes me feel this way."
"`Feel'?" Karno repeated. Could she have contracted some awful plague
from the Humans when the primitives from Earth managed to board the flagship
for that brief foray?
Darsis and Sookol had gasped, as had Allegra and Octavia. "It's
madness!" Sookol burst out.
Musica nodded miserably. "Yes, feelings! Even though we've always been
told that we're immune to them, I'm guilty of emotions."
Madness, indeed.
She saw the repulsed looks on their faces as they realized, she was
polluted, debased. But somehow it didn't change her determination not to
surrender these new sensations-not to be cleansed of them, even if she could.
"I know I should be punished for it," she declared. "I know I'm guilty!
But-I cannot deny my feelings!" She broke down into tears.
"What's-what's that you're doing?" Darsis asked, baffled.
"I think I know," Karno answered tonelessly. "It's a sickness of the
Earthlings called `crying.'"
If it was a sickness, Musica knew, there was no question about who had
infected her with it. It was Bowie Grant, the handsome young ATAC trooper who
she had met when his unit staged a recon on board the flagship.
Instead of a mindless primitive in armor, he had turned out to be a
sensitive creature. Bowie was a musician and he sat down at her Cosmic Harp
and played tunes of his own devising-beautiful, heart-rending compositions
that bound her feelings to him. New songs-songs that wouldn't be found in the
approved songlore of the Masters. He had shown an inexplicable warmth toward
her from the very start, and he quickly drew the same from her.
Now Musica found herself sitting at her Harp, playing those same airs,
as the other five looked on in shock.
Bowie, do you feel this way about me? How I wish we could be together
again!
CHAPTER THREE
There was never any other child born on Earth from a union of Zentraedi and
Human. I made sure of that, with the powers at my command. Because, of course,
I immediately knew that Dana was the One; Dana was all that was needed. And
the plan went forward.
Dr. Lazlo Zand, notes for Event Horizon: Perspectives on Dana Sterling and the
Second Robotech War
Lieutenant Nova Satori took a precise sip of wine, then consulted the heavy
chronometer on her wrist. "Zero hour."
Across from her, Zor gave her a puzzled look. "Something important?"
Although he was good at fighting, there were still so many things he
simply didn't understand. Was he, in the terms of this "date," behind schedule
somehow? Was he late in initiating the curious physical interchanges the
barracks braggarts always talked about? Was there some accepted procedure for
abbreviating the preliminaries? Perhaps he should begin removing garments-but
whose?
Nova stared at him. "Well...don't tell Dana or anyone else, but the
relief force is just lifting off for the moon."
Nova couldn't for the life of her figure out why she was telling him,
except that she liked one-upping Dana. She couldn't really put a finger on why
she had come along with him to the restaurant either, except that she felt
drawn to him-almost against her will.
When Zor was first captured, Nova was responsible for his interrogation.
She had felt that he was an enemy then and was suspicious that that still
might be the case. But there was something singularly attractive about him. He
had an agelessness about him even though he looked young, a serenity even
though he was tormented by his missing memory, as though he were a part of
her. It was as if he, as the expression went, had a very old soul.
Zor was thinking along quite different lines. Nova's mention of Dana
reminded him that he was supposed to have gone to the movie with her. It had
completely slipped his mind; he wondered if bit by bit he was losing all
memory functions.
Some curiosity-more of a compulsion, actually-had made him ask Nova to
dinner. He hoped that she could tell him more about himself; he might even be
able to recover a part of his lost self. But there was more to it than that,
motivations Zor Prime couldn't fathom.
He studied Nova, an attractive young woman with a mantle of blue-black
hair so long that she had to sweep it aside when she sat down. Like Dana, she
wore a techno-hairband that suggested a headphone. Her face was heart-shaped,
her eyes dark and intense, lips mobile, bright, expressive.
"Earth calling Zor." She chuckled, breaking his reverie.
"Eh?"
"Promise not to mention it, I said. Dana's got an awful temper; she's
going to split a seam when her precious 15th squad gets left out of another
摘要：

Robotech:TheFinalNightmareBookNineoftheRobotechSeriesCopyright1987byJackMcKinneyCHAPTERONEManywomenwereofteninthethickofthefightingduringtheFirstRobotechWar.Theyservedsplendidlyandgallantly.Buttheywereusuallyrestrictedtowhatthemilitaryinsistedoncalling"non-combatroles,"despitethegreatnumbersofthemki...

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