McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 03 - Homecoming

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Robotech: Homecoming

Book Three of the Robotech series

CHAPTER ONE

The enemy armada, so vastly superior to us in numbers of fighting mecha and

aggregate firepower, continues to harry and harass us. But time and again the

Zentraedi stop short of all-out attack. They impede our long voyage back to

Earth, but they cannot stop us. I am still uncertain as to what good fortune is

working in the SDF-1's favor.

I do not point out any of this to the crew or refugees, however. It does no good

to tell grieving friends and loved ones that casualties could have been far

worse.

From the log of Captain Henry Gloval

Blue lines of enemy cannon fire streaked by Roy Fokker's cockpit, scorching one

of his Veritech fighter's tail stabilizers, ranging in for a final volley.

"Flying sense" the aviators called it, jargon that came from the

twentieth-century term "air sense": honed and superior high-speed piloting

instincts. It was something a raw beginner took a while to develop, something

that separated the novices from the vets.

And it was something Lieutenant Commander Roy Fokker, Skull Team leader

and Veritech squadron commander, had in abundance, even in the airlessness of a

deep-space dogfight.

Responding to his deft touch at the controls and his very will-passed

along to it by Robotech sensors in his flight helmet-Roy's Veritech fighter did

a wingover and veered onto a new vector with tooth-snapping force.

Thrusters blaring full-bore, the maneuver forces pressed him into his

seat, just as the enemy was concentrating more on his aim than on his flying.

The Zentraedi in the Battlepod on Roy's tail, trying so diligently to kill

him and destroy his Robotech fighter, was a good pilot, steady and cool like all

of them, but he lacked Roy's flying abilities.

While the giant alien gaped, astounded, at his suddenly empty gunsight

reticle, the Skull Team leader was already coming around behind the pod into the

kill position.

Around that fragment of the battle, an enormous dogfight raged as

Zentraedi pods and their Cyclops recon ships mixed it up ferociously with the

grimly determined human defenders in their Veritechs. The bright spherical

explosions characteristic of zero-g battle blossomed all around, dozens at a

time. Blue Zentraedi radiation blasts were matched by the Veritechs'

autocannons, which flung torrents of high-density armor-piercers at the enemy.

Roy was relieved to see that the SDF-1 was unharmed. Most of the fighting

seemed to be going on at some distance from it, although it was clear that the

enemy fleet had all the odds on its side. The Zentraedi armada easily numbered

over a million warships.

Roy located his wingman, Captain Kramer, in the furious engagement;

forming up for mutual security, he looked around again for the fantastic

Zentraedi mecha that had done so much damage a few minutes before. It had flown

rings around the Veritechs that had gone after it, taking Roy and the Skulls by

surprise and smashing their formation after cutting a swath through Vermilion

Team.

Whatever it was, it was unlike any Zentraedi weapon the humans had seen so

far. Unlike the pods, which resembled towering metal ostriches bristling with

guns, the newcomer was more human-shaped-a bigger, more hulking, and heavily

armed and armored version of the Veritechs' own Battloid mode. And fast-

frightfully fast and impossible to stop, eluding even the SDF-1's massive

defensive barrages.

Roy had expected to see the battle fortress under intense attack; instead,

the super dimensional fortress was cruising along unbothered and alone.

Moreover, transmissions over the tac net indicated that the Zentraedi pods and

Cyclopses were withdrawing. Roy couldn't figure that out.

He switched from the tac net to SDF-1's command net. There was word of the

new Zentraedi mecha. The thing had made it as far as SDF-1-getting in beneath

the fields of fire of most of the ship's batteries-then had suddenly withdrawn

at blinding speed, outmaneuvering gunfire and outracing pursuit. The ship had

suffered only minor damage, and the operations and intelligence people had

concluded that the whole thing had been a probing attack of some kind, a test of

a new machine and new tactics.

Roy didn't care as long as the battle fortress was still safe. He gathered

the Veritechs, ready to head home.

"Enemy pod," Skull Five called over the tac net. "Bearing one-niner-four-

seven."

Roy already had the computer reference on one of his situation screens. A

pod, all right, but evidently damaged and drifting, none of its weapons firing;

it was leaking atmosphere.

"Could be a trick," Skull Seven said. "What d' ya think, skipper? Do we

blast it out of the sky?"

"Negative; somebody may still be alive in there, and a live captive is

what the intelligence staff's been praying for." The incredible savagery of this

deep-space war was such that few survived as casualties. Alien or human, a

fighter almost always either triumphed or died, a simple formula. The humans had

never recovered a living enemy.

Besides, for very personal reasons, Roy was especially eager to see a

Zentraedi undergo interrogation.

"We're getting signals from it, nothing we can unscramble," a

communications officer reported over the command net.

Whatever was going on, none of the Zentraedi forces seemed to be turning

back for a rescue. Veritech fly-bys drew no fire; eyeball inspection and

instruments indicated that the damaged pod's main power source had been knocked

out but that some of its weapons were still functioning. Nevertheless, it passed

up several opportunities to blast away at nearby VTs.

"This is too good an opportunity to pass up," Gloval finally announced

over the main command net. "If there is a survivor aboard, we must get him into

the SDF-1 immediately."

"That thing could be booby-trapped-or its occupant could be!" a security

staff officer protested from one of Roy's display screens.

Gloval replied, "That is why we will push the pod closer to SDF-1-but not

too close-and connect a boarding tube to it. An EVA team will make a thorough

examination before we permit it any closer."

"But-" the officer began.

Roy cut in over the command net, "You heard the captain, so put a sock in

it, mac!" Roy was elated with Gloval's decision; it was only a slim hope, but

now there was hope of finding out what had happened to Roy's closest friend in

the world, Rick Hunter and Lisa Hayes and the others who'd disappeared on their

desperate mission to guide the SDF-1 through danger.

Roy began swinging into place, shifting his ship to Battloid mode. "Okay,

Skull Team; time to play a little bumper cars."

Two more Skulls went to Battloid, their Robotech ships transforming and

reconfiguring. When the shift was complete, the war machines looked like

enormous armored ultramech knights.

They joined Roy in pushing the inert pod back toward the battle fortress.

The men and women of the EVA-Extra Vehicular Activity-crews were efficient

and careful. They're also gutsy as hell, Roy reflected, his Battloid towering

over them in the boarding tube lock. But of course, everybody knew and honored

the legendary dedication and tenacity of the EVA crews.

Crowded into the boarding tube lock with two other Battloids behind him,

Roy watched expectantly. The huge lock, extending from the SDF-1 at the end of

nearly a mile of large-diameter tube, was a yawning dome on a heavy base,

equipped with every sort of contingency gear imaginable. The captured pod and

EVA crew and Roy's security detail took up only a small part of its floor space.

"Not beat up too bad," the EVA crew chief observed over the com net. "But

I dunno how much air it lost. What d' ya say, Fokker? Do we open 'er up?" She

was holding a thermotorch ready. She'd turned to gaze up at Roy's cockpit.

As ranking officer on the scene, Lt. Comdr. Roy Fokker had the

responsibility of advising Gloval. Tampering with the pod was very risky; they

could trigger some kind of booby trap humans couldn't even imagine, destroying

everyone there and perhaps even damaging the SDF-1.

But we can't go on fighting war this way! Roy thought. Knowing next to

nothing about these creatures we're up against or even why we're fighting-we

can't go on like this much longer!

"Cap'n Gloval, sir, I say we take a shot."

"Very well. Good luck to you," Gloval answered. "Proceed."

Roy reached down and put a giant hand in front of the EVA crew chief,

blocking her way as she approached the enemy mecha. "Sorry, Pietra; this is my

party."

His Battloid stood upright again and walked to the pod, shouldering its

autocannon, its footsteps shaking the deck. "Cover me," he told his teammates,

and they fanned out, muzzles leveled, for clear fields of fire. The Battloid's

forearms extruded metal tentacles, complicated waldos and manipulators, and

thermotorches.

"Just try not to break anything unnecessarily," Pietra warned, and led her

crew to the shelter of a blast shield.

Roy looked the pod over, trying a few external controls tentatively.

Nothing happened. He moved closer still, examining the pressure seals that ran

around the great hatch at the rear top of the pod's bulbous torso. Being this

close to a pod's guns had him sweating under his VT helmet.

"Careful, Roy," Kramer said quietly.

He didn't want to use the torch for fear of fire or explosion. He decided

to try simply pulling the pod's hatch open with the Battloid's huge, strong

hands. He ran his ship's fingers along the seams, feeling for a place to grab

hold...

The pod shook, rattled, and began to open.

Roy's Battloid leapt back, weapon aimed, as the hatch lifted up. Battloid

forefingers tightened on triggers, but there was no occupant immediately to be

seen.

However, the Battloids' external sound sensors relayed a remarkable

exchange, muffled and a little resonant, coming from the pod.

"Well, finally! Thank goodness! When you start bragging to your fighter

pilot buddies about this mission, boys, don't forget it took you just about

forever to get a simple hatch open!"

That voice was womanly and very pleasant, if a little arch and teasing.

Another, a young male's, sounding highly insulted, answered, "You weren't so hot

at getting in touch with your precious bridge, I noticed!"

If this is some kind of trick, we're up against the zaniest enemies in the

universe, Roy thought.

"I thought you both did very well," another male voice said calmly, humbly

placatingly.

"Ah, look out, Max," the first male voice said. "And let's get outta

here."

There was a certain amount of grunting and straining then, and at one

point the female voice yelled, "Ben, if you don't get your big foot out of my

face, I'm going to break it off!" A vociferous argument broke out.

"Everybody shut up!" the first male voice screamed. "Ben, Max: Gimme a

boost up, here."

Moments later, two flight-gloved, human-size hands gripped the edge of the

hatch. A dark mop of black hair rose into view.

Rick Hunter, standing on the head of the husky Ben Dixon, hauled himself

up triumphantly.

"Hold your fire! We're back! Roy, we escaped from the Zentraedi-um..."

Three Battloids stood there looking at him, hands resting casually on the

upturned muzzles of their grounded autocannon, heads cocked to one side or the

other. Their attitude seemed to be one of resigned disgust.

"We escaped!" Rick repeated, thinking perhaps they hadn't heard him. "Man,

have we got stories to tell! We were in an enemy ship! We met their leaders! We

shot our way out in this pod! We...we...What's wrong?"

Roy couldn't tell Rick how overjoyed and relieved he was; it would have

spoiled their friendship.

"We were hoping for a POW," he said. "Boy, is Captain Gloval gonna be sore

at you for not being a Zentraedi."

CHAPTER TWO

The Zentraedi version of psychology could only be termed primitive, of course,

except as it applied to such things as maintaining military discipline and

motivating warriors. And even there, it was brutal and straightforward.

No surprise, then, that when those particular three Zentraedi were quick to

accept their spying mission, Breetai scarcely thought twice about it.

But of course, he hadn't spent as much time watching transmissions of the

swimsuit portion of the Miss Macross contest.

Zeitgeist, Alien Psychology

The SDF-1'S survival of the latest Zentraedi attack had buoyed morale all

through the ship-at least in most cases; there were those whom the lessons of

war had made too wary to quickly believe in good fortune. Even with Earth

looming large before it and the long, dark billions of miles safely crossed, the

battle fortress was dogged by the enemy-now more than ever. Continued vigilance

was imperative.

One of those acutely aware of the continuing danger was Claudia Grant, who

was acting as the vessel's First Officer in Lisa Hayes's absence. Though Claudia

and Lisa were friends, Claudia had always felt a little put off by Lisa's

single-minded devotion to duty, her severity. But now, elevated to the

responsibilities of her new position-especially at this moment, with Gloval off

the bridge-Claudia was seeing things in a different light.

The members of her usual watch, the female enlisted-rating techs, Sammie,

Kim, and Vanessa, were off duty for a long-postponed pass into Macross City.

Lisa, Claudia, and the other three had formed something very much like a family,

with Gloval as patriarch; they had become a highly efficient team both under

everyday stresses and demands and under fire.

The turmoil of the war had brought an assortment of other techs to the

bridge on relief watches, and Claudia didn't trust any of them to really know

what they were doing, just as Lisa hadn't. So even though she was almost out on

her feet with fatigue, Claudia had refused to be relieved of her duties as long

as Gloval was away.

There was no telling how long that would be. The glorious news of the

rescue of Lisa and the others was tarnished by the fact that the SDF-1 was still

surrounded by the enemy armada. Debriefings and command conferences might go on

for a very long while.

Claudia looked up wearily from her instruments as she heard one of the

relief-watch techs say wistfully, "Boy, is that beautiful! D' you think we'll

ever set foot on Earth again?"

The tech had brought up a long-range image of their blue-white homeworld

on the screen before her.

Claudia was a tall woman in her late twenties, with exotic good looks and

glowing honey-brown skin. Her dark eyes twinkled and shone when she was happy,

and flashed when she was angry. Right now, they were flashing like warning

beacons.

"Why don't you go ask the commander of that Zentraedi fleet? Go ahead,

take a look at them! Maybe they've gone away!"

The tech, a teenage girl who wore her auburn hair in a pageboy and still

didn't look quite comfortable in uniform, swallowed and went a little pale.

Claudia Grant's temper was well known, and she had the size and speed to back it

up when she needed to.

The tech worked her controls obediently, bringing up a visual of the

Zentraedi fleet. They were all around the battle fortress, standing out of range

of the ship's secondary batteries and lesser weapons. They were like a seaful of

predatory fish-cruisers and destroyers and smaller craft in swarms, blocking out

the stars. And farther away, the instruments registered their flagship: nine

miles of armor and heavy weapons.

The tech gasped, eyes big and round.

"Still there, huh?" Claudia nodded, knowing full well they were. "All

right, then, let's not hear any more about wanting to go home; not until our

job's done. Understood?"

The tech hastened to say, "Aye aye!" as did the rest of the watch.

Claudia eased off a bit, looking around at the watch members. "There are a

lot of folks depending on us. And I guarantee you, you don't want to know what

it feels like to let people down in a situation like this."

In a far-off compartment of the SDF-1, three strange beings skulked and

crept around. They were not Zentraedi, at least not any longer; they were of

human scale. But neither could they fairly be called human, though that was the

appearance they gave; until a few hours before they had been members of the

giant warrior race.

The devastatingly fast and ferocious enemy mecha that had wreaked such

havoc among the VTs-the one the humans hadn't seen before-had put this threesome

aboard. The one thing they could accurately be called was "spies."

They had hastily retreated from the metal canister in which they'd

arrived. The mighty Quadrono Battalion mecha that had, in its lightning raid,

torn open a section of the SDF-1's hull to toss them inside had also

(understandably enough) attracted a certain amount of attention. If the canister

was found before it quietly dissolved, it might set off a massive search.

The smallest of the three, Rico, said, "Okay, let's start spying!" He was

dark-haired and wiry.

The sturdy Bron, a head taller, said sourly, "But we can't spy in these

clothes; they'll know who we are!"

Even though the Zentraedi military had little experience in espionage-out-

and-out battle was what the warrior race preferred-it was obvious that Bron was

right. The Zentraedi fleet carried no wardrobe in human size, of course, and so

the three wore improvised, shapeless knee-length robes of coarsely woven blue

sackcloth. The sleeveless robes were gathered at the waist with a turn or two of

Zentraedi string, more or less the thickness of clothesline. Not surprisingly,

the spies were barefoot.

It all had them a bit shaken, this matter of dress. The Zentraedi drew

much of their sense of self from their uniforms. The best the trio had been able

to do was agree to maintain the attitude that they were wearing the special

attire of an elite unit. A very small elite unit.

Konda, nearly Bron's height but lean and angular, shook his hair back out

of his eyes. His hair was purple, but intelligence reported that the color

wouldn't stand out much in light of current human fads. "Then, let's find some

other clothes," Konda proposed.

They'd been given some briefings and rather broad guidelines by Zentraedi

intelligence officers, but to a great extent they were improvising as they went

along. Still, Konda's idea made a lot of sense. The spies leapt from hiding and

set off down a passageway, slipping among the shadows and peering around

corners, much more conspicuous than if they'd simply strolled along chatting.

Naturally, SDF-1 had no internal security measures against Zentraedi

spies, since it was generally assumed that a fifty-foot-high armored warrior

wouldn't be difficult to spot in the average crowd.

There followed a period of ducking and darting, of peeping into various

compartments and avoiding any contact with the occasional passerby. The spies

knew the general location of the battle fortress's bridge and worked their way

in that direction, since the ship's nerve center was something the Zentraedi

wanted very much to know about.

As the motley trio peeked out from concealment, they heard a very strange

and appealing sound, something none of them had ever heard before. It was human;

Konda wondered if it was some alien form of singing, even if it didn't sound

very military.

The sound was coming in their direction. They yanked themselves back out

of sight. The oddly interesting sound stopped, and the spies heard human female

voices.

"Where d' you want to go tonight, Sammie?"

There was the sound of slender shoe heels clicking along the deck. The

human females were coming their way, so the spies drew back even deeper into

darkness.

"Oh, I don't really care, as long as I can get out of this uniform,"

Sammie answered.

"Mine feels like it'll be glad to get off me!" Vanessa said.

The Terrible Trio giggled together again; they'd been laughing with

delight ever since the relief watch had shown up on the bridge to give them a

brief taste of freedom. The hatch to a complex of enlisted ratings' quarters

compartments slid open for them and they entered. The hatch closed, shutting off

the giggles.

The accelerated course in human language the three spies had been given

let them understand the words perfectly, but the content was another question

entirely. "What did all that mean?" Konda wondered, rubbing feet that had been

made very, very cold by the deck plates.

Little Rico was thinking of a uniform wanting to get off somebody. Can

these creatures have sentient clothing? Perhaps with artificial enhancements?

That would indicate a supreme control of Protoculture! "It seems these

Micronians have some great powers."

"Micronians" had always been a derogatory Zentraedi term for small

humanoid beings such as Homo sapiens. Now, the spies weren't so sure that the

condescension was justified.

Bron nodded. "Well, let's keep watch and see what else we can find out."

It seemed like a very long time before the hatch reopened. The Terrible

Trio emerged, each dressed for a night on the town in a different, fetching

outfit. They laughed and joked, going off in the opposite direction, leaving the

very faint but heady fragrance of three perfumes in the passageway.

"Different clothes!" Rico exclaimed softly. With different powers,

perhaps, specialized for a particular mission?

"I know!" Bron said with a certain surprising emphasis.

"Do these people change uniforms every time they do something?" Konda

posed a tactical question:

But why, then, did the clothes all look different? The spies somehow knew

what they'd just seen weren't uniforms. But how could the Micronians bear to

lose their identity by not wearing their uniforms? It was all too unsettling for

words.

Not to mention the fact that the three Micronian females looked and

sounded, well, somehow delightful. Beguiling. It was very puzzling. The three

looked at one another.

"Incredible," Bron summarized.

"Uh, but what does it all mean?" Rico said with troubled brow.

Konda rubbed his jaw in thought. "They changed their clothes in that

compartment down there. So that means...we can get disguises!"

"Good thinking!" Bron cried.

"Let's go!" Rico exploded.

They dashed down the passageway, bare feet slapping the deck. After first

making sure nobody was still inside, they piled through the hatch together,

anxious to blend in with the Micronians. And though none of them admitted it to

the others, they were all thinking of those three intriguing Micronian females

but trying not to.

They'd had a previous close encounter with the human enemy, monitoring

SDF-1 transmissions that were confusing and puzzling but ever so fascinating.

What they'd seen was the swimsuit competition of the ship's Miss Macross

pageant. Though they hadn't been able to make head or tail of it, and neither

had Zentraedi intelligence analysts, the experience had made Rico, Bron, and

Konda eager to sign up for the spying mission.

Inside, various small subcompartments opened off a narrow central

passageway. The spies began searching through them, looking for garments that

might fit.

They approached the clothes tentatively, timidly. The human fabric

constructions seemed unthreatening enough, hanging there docilely; but if they

somehow incorporated Protoculture forces, there might be no limit to what they

could do. The threesome moved as carefully as if they were in the midst of a

pack of sleeping Dobermans.

When at last they worked up the nerve to actually touch a dangling cuff

and nothing catastrophic happened, the Zentraedi proceeded with more confidence.

A pattern emerged: The lockers in those quarters on the forward side of

the passageway tended to have rather recognizable clothing suited to normal

activities, even if the cut was a little strange. The ones on the aft side,

however, had frilly things, as well as trousers and the skirt-type uniforms the

females had worn, as well as more elaborate designs of the same undivided lower

garments.

After a lot of rummaging and trying on, Konda and Rico, now in human

attire, stepped back into the main passageway. Konda wore dark slacks and a

yellow turtleneck, settling the collar uncomfortably. Rico had found blue

trousers and a red pullover.

"Hey, Bron, let's get moving!" Rico called.

"This uniform is very unusual," Bron said, lumbering to catch up. "But

it's all I can find that fits me. I dressed to conform with a two-dimensional

image I saw in that compartment. What d' you think?"

Bron held out the hem of his pleated skirt, standing awkwardly in the

large pumps he'd found. His white silk blouse was arranged correctly, its fluffy

bow tie and the tasteful string of pearls exactly corresponding to the fashion

photo he'd seen.

"Y' look fine, Bron! Now, let's get started," Rico snapped. Bron looked

wounded.

Rico was edgy; he and the others had come aboard unarmed, since all

Zentraedi weapons were now far too big for them to handle or hide. They'd found

no Micronian weapons at all in the humans' personal quarters except those of a

makeshift and unsuitable sort. How could these creatures feel any peace of mind

without at least a few small arms close at hand? It all made less and less

sense.

Bron glowered, and Rico subsided; it was unwise to get the big fellow

irritated. Bron gave his skirt a final hitch and said, "Ready."

They fell in together and trooped off in the direction the Terrible Trio

had gone, ready to bring triumph and glory to the mighty Zentraedi race.

CHAPTER THREE

We had met the enemy, and he wasn't us. Then we wound up in front of some of

"us," and they were the enemy.

Lisa Hayes, Recollections

"Please continue your report, commander Hayes," the captain bade her.

They sat in high-back chairs along the gleaming conference room table, all

in a row. A short time ago they'd been greeted as heroes, but now-despite

Captain Gloval's comforting presence-Lisa felt very much as if she were sitting

before a board of inquiry.

Lisa, Rick, Ben, and Max looked across the long, wide table at the row of

four member officers of the evaluation team. Only one of them held rank in one

of the combat arms, Colonel Maistroff, an Air Group officer with a reputation as

a martinet and stuffed shirt.

The others were intelligence and operations staffers, though the bearded

and balding Major Aldershot was supposed to be something of a mainstay over at

G3 Operations and had earned a Combat Infantry Star in his youth. The team

studied the escapees as if they were something on a microscope slide.

Gloval, presiding at the head of the table, was encouraging Lisa. "You are

certain that what you've made is a fair estimate? At this Zentraedi central base

there are really that many more ships than we've already seen?" The comlink

handset next to him began beeping softly; he ignored it.

Lisa thought carefully. So many things about their captivity in the

planetoid-size enemy base, a spacefold jump away-somewhere else in the universe-

were astounding and unnerving that she rechecked her recollections again,

minutely.

Rick looked over to her, and their eyes met. He didn't nod; that might

have tainted her testimony. But she saw that he was ready to back her up.

"Yes, sir, at least that many. And quite possibly millions more. I made a

conservative estimate."

Gloval, hand on the phone, looked to Rick. "Truly?"

Rick nodded. "Yes, sir. That many."

Gloval listened to the handset for a moment, then replaced it in its

cradle without responding. "Based on all combined reports," he resumed, "our

computers place the total enemy resources at somewhere between four and five

million ships."

"Sir, forgive me, but that's ridiculous," one team member said. From the

security branch, he was the officer who'd been all for destroying the escapees'

pod. "Our projections are based on the most accurate data and statistical

techniques known.

"No species could accumulate that sort of power! And even if they could,

they couldn't possibly remain at the primitive social and psychological level of

these aliens!"

"Now, granted, we're seeing a great deal of military display here," the

Intel man, a portly fellow in his early thirties, added. "But how many of those

ships have actually proved themselves to be combat-ready? A comparative handful!

No, Captain; I think what we're seeing is just a bluff. And I think your people

here have been taken in by it. My analysis is that Commander Hayes and her party

were permitted to escape so that they could bring us this...hysterical report

and demoralize us."

"Permitted?" Ben Dixon was halfway out of his chair, the big hands

clenched into fists, about to leap across the table and pummel the intel

officer. "D' you know how many times we almost got killed? How close we came to

not making it? When was the last time you saw any action, you-"

"Captain!" the intelligence officer burst out to Gloval by way of

complaint.

"That will do!" Gloval thundered, and there was sudden silence as Max

Sterling and Rick Hunter pulled Ben back.

Having shown his Jovian side for an instant, Gloval lapsed back into a

reasonable voice. "Gentlemen, let's hear the entire report before discussing

it." It wasn't a suggestion, and everybody understood that. The debriefing team

subsided.

Lisa had thought her words out carefully. "In the course of our captivity,

we observed that the aliens have absolutely no concept of human emotions.

They've been groomed entirely for war. And their society is organized along

purely military lines.

"It appears that they've increased their physical size and strength

artificially through genetic manipulation and that they also have the ability to

reverse the process."

The others present were studying the few video records she'd managed to

make surreptitiously during captivity, but Lisa's memory, with Rick's, Ben's,

and Max's, provided vivid and chilling recollections. They'd witnessed Zentraedi

trans-vid records of the destruction of an entire planet, seen the gigantic

protoculture sizing chambers the aliens used to manipulate their size and

structure, felt the deathly squeeze of Commander in Chief Dolza's fist around

them.

And something else had happened, something Lisa could only bring herself

to refer to obliquely. The enemy leaders had been repulsed, but fascinated, by

the human custom of kissing. At their demand, and to ascertain what effect it

would have on them, Lisa and Rick had kissed, long and deeply, on an enemy

conference table as big as a playing field.

None of the four escapees had mentioned the kiss. Lisa still wasn't sure

exactly what it was she'd felt afterward. She suspected that Rick was also a

little confused, in spite of his love affair with the girl called Minmei. Max

and Ben had kept silent, Rick's friends as well as his wingmates.

Lisa finished, "And I think this last part is very important: While they

examined and interrogated us, they constantly made reference to something they

called -'Protoculture.'"

The intel officer who had almost been attacked by Ben Dixon tilted his

chair back arrogantly. "That's pure fantasy."

His security buddy added, "And were there any little green men?"

Major Aldershot glanced around at him stiffly, the ends of his waxed

mustache seeming to bristle. "I will point out that the commander is a much-

decorated soldier. This insulting levity is unbecoming from someone who has yet

to prove himself under fire." It was the most he'd said all morning.

"What is this `Protoculture'?" Gloval put things back on track.

Lisa hesitated before answering. "It's apparently something that relates

to their use of Robotech. I'm not sure, but they think that Protoculture is the

highest science in the universe and that somehow we possess some of its deepest

secrets."

Colonel Maistroff said with a sly grin to the other evaluation team

officers, "Too deep for me!" and guffawed at his own joke.

The intel and security officers roared spitefully along with him as Lisa's

cheeks colored and Rick felt himself flush in anger.

"Silence!" Gloval barked. It was instantly quiet. "This is a very grave

moment. This alien armada has pursued and harried us across the solar system for

almost a year and yet has never made an all-out attempt to destroy us; perhaps

we do possess a power in the SDF-1 that we don't fully understand."

That was a good bet, the way Rick saw it. Even the brilliant Dr. Lang

understood only a fraction of the alien ship's secrets, and he was the one who

had masterminded its reconstruction from a burned and battered wreck.

Maistroff fixed Lisa with a gimlet stare, red-faced at being rebuked in

front of junior officers. "Commander Hayes, is that all?"

Lisa met his glare. "Yes, sir, that's all."

Ben whispered to Rick, "I don't think they believe us." Ben wasn't exactly

point man on the genius roster, and the idea that such a thing could happen had

never occurred to him until the debriefing was well along.

"It's probably the dishonest expression on your face," Rick whispered back

absently.

Maistroff placed both hands flat on the table and turned to Gloval. "Do

you really believe this wild tale? It's enemy trickery! Hallucinations!"

Gloval began stoking up his evil-smelling briar, tamping the tobacco

slowly with his thumb, pondering. "This information must be correlated and

reported to Earth immediately, whether I believe it or not-"

Maistroff interrupted him, saying tightly and too quickly, "I'll send a

coded message right away-"

"Colonel Maistroff." It was Gloval's turn to interrupt. "No, you won't."

He lit his briar while they all gaped at him.

Gloval said, "We've got to break through the enemy elements that stand

between the SDF-1 and our homeworld."

The evaluation team was aghast, Maistroff shouting, "We can't make it!"

Rick looked around and saw that everybody on his side of the table thought

it was a magnificent idea. Gloval rose. "At our current speed, we are only two

days from Earth, and they must have this information." He started for the hatch.

Maistroff scowled at Gloval's back. "And then what?"

The captain answered over his shoulder. "And then nothing. We just await

orders while we relax, Colonel Maistroff."

He cut through all their protests. "That will be all, gentlemen."

Gloval turned to the escapees. "And as for you four..." They all shot to

their feet at rigid attention.

"At least for the time being, you'll be relieved of duty. You've earned a

little R and R. You're dismissed."

The four saluted him happily. "Enjoy yourselves," Gloval said gruffly;

puffing his pipe. They did a precise right-face and marched out of the

conference room in style. But at the last moment, Gloval removed his pipe from

his mouth and called, "One moment, Lisa."

The others continued on. Lisa paused at the hatch and turned back to him.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Personally, I am inclined to believe that your report is accurate.

However..."

"Certainly," she said. "Thank you, Captain. I know you believe in us, and

I appreciate that."

"I'm glad you understand."

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Robotech:HomecomingBookThreeoftheRobotechseriesCopyright1987byJackMcKinneyCHAPTERONETheenemyarmada,sovastlysuperiortousinnumbersoffightingmechaandaggregatefirepower,continuestoharryandharassus.ButtimeandagaintheZentraedistopshortofall-outattack.TheyimpedeourlongvoyagebacktoEarth,buttheycannotstopus....

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McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 03 - Homecoming

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