McKinney, Jack (Brian Daley & James Luceno) - Robotech 14 - Dark Powers

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Robotech Sentinels: Dark Powers
Book 14 of the Robotech Series
Copyright 1988 by Jack McKinney
CHAPTER ONE
All I have learned of the Shapings of the Protoculture tell me that it does
not work randomly; that there is a grand design or scheme. I feel that we have
been brought here, kept here, for some reason.
Yet, what purpose can there be in SDF-3's being stranded here on Tirol for
perhaps as long as five years? And during that time will the Robotech Masters
be pursuing their search for Earth?
Since tempers are short, I do not mention the Shaping; I'm a little too long
in the tooth, I fear, for hand-to-hand confrontations with homesick,
frightened, and frustrated REF fighters.
Dr. Emil Lang, personal journal of the SDF-3 mission
On captured Tirol, after a fierce battle, the Humans and their Zentraedi
allies-the Robotech Expeditionary Force-licked their wounds, then decided it
was time to mark the occasion of their triumph. It was, as nearly as they
could calculate, New Year's Eve.
But far out near the edge of Tirol's system, a newcomer appeared-a
massive spacegoing battleship, closing in on the war-torn, planet-sized moon.
Our first victory celebration, young Susan Graham exulted. What a
wonderful party! She was just shy of sixteen, and to her it was the most
romantic evening in human history.
She was struggling to load a bulky cassette into her sound-vid recorder
while scurrying around to get a better angle at Admirals Rick Hunter and Lisa
Hayes Hunter. They had just stood up, in full-dress uniforms, clasping white-
gloved hands, apparently about to dance. There had been rumors that the
relationship between the two senior officers of the Robotech Expeditionary
Force was on shaky ground, but for the moment at least, they seemed altogether
in love.
Sue let out a short romantic sigh and envied Lisa Hunter. Then her
thoughts returned to the cassette which she was tapping with the heel of her
hand. A lowly student-trainee, Sue had to make do with whatever equipment she
could find at the G-5 public-information shop, or Psy-ops, Morale or wherever.
At last the cassette was in place, and she began to move toward her
quarry.
In Tiresia, the moon's shattered capital city, the Royal Hall was aglow.
The improvised lighting and decorations reemphasized the vast, almost endless
size of the place.
The lush ballroom music remained slow-something from Strauss, Karen Penn
thought; something even Jack Baker could handle. As she had expected, he asked
her to waltz a second time.
And he wasn't too bad at it. The speed and reflexes that made him such a
good Veritech pilot-almost as good as I am, she thought-made him a passable
dancer. Still, she maintained her aloof air, gliding flawlessly, making him
seem clumsy by comparison; otherwise, that maddening brashness of his would
surface again at any second.
They were about the same height, five ten or so, he redheaded and
freckled and frenetic, she honey-blond and smooth-skinned and model-gorgeous-
and long since tired of panting male attention. Jack had turned eighteen two
months ago; Karen would celebrate her majority in three more weeks.
They had been like oil and water, cats and dogs, Unseducible Object and
Irrepressible Force, ever since they had met. But they had also been battle
comrades, and now they swayed as the music swelled, and somehow their friendly
antagonism was put aside, at least for the moment.
The deepspace dreadnought was a bewildering, almost slapdash length of
components: different technologies, different philosophies of design, even
different stages of scientific awareness, showed in the contrasts among its
various modules. From it, scores of disparate weapons bristled and many kinds
of sensors probed.
With Tirol before it, the motley battlewagon went on combat alert.
On the outer rim of the ballroom, members of General Edwards's Ghost
Squadron and Colonel Wolff's Wolff Pack traded hostile looks, but refrained
from any overt clashes; Admiral Lisa Hunter's warnings, and her promises of
retribution, had been very specific on that point.
Edwards was there, a haughty, splendidly military figure, his sardonic
handsomeness marred by the half cowl that covered the right half of his head.
Per Lisa's confidential order, Vince Grant and his Ground Mobile Unit
people were keeping an eye on the rivals, ready to break up any scuffles. So
far things seemed to be peaceful-nothing more than a bit of glowering and
boasting.
Hanging in orbit over the war-torn ruin of Tirol, Super-dimensional
Fortress Three registered the rapid approach of the unidentified battleship.
SDF-3 had been tardy in detecting the newcomer; the Earth warship's
systems had been damaged in the ferocious engagement that had destroyed her
spacefold apparatus, and some systems were still functioning far short of peak
efficiency.
But she had spotted the possible adversary now. According to procedure,
SDF-3 went to battle stations, and communications personnel rushed to open
downlinks with the contingent on Tirol's surface.
Perhaps the strangest pair at the celebration was Janice Em, the lovely
and enigmatic singer, and Rem, assistant to the Tiresian scientist Cabell.
Janice was Dr. Lang's creation, an android, an artificial person, though
she was unaware of it.
Lang shook his head and reminded himself that the Shapings of the
Protoculture were not to be defied. He was really quite happy that the two
were drawn together.
He turned to Cabell, the ancient lone survivor of the scientists of
Tirol.
What were once the gorgeous cityscape of Tiresia and magnificent gardens
surrounding the Royal Hall, were now only blasted wasteland.
Above was a jade-green crescent of Fantoma, the massive planet that
Tirol circled. Its alien beauty hid the ugliness that Lynn-Minmei knew to be
there in the light of Valivarre, the system's primary. The green Fantoma-light
cast a spell with magic all its own. How could the scene of so much death and
suffering be so unspeakably beautiful?
She shivered a bit, and Colonel Jonathan Wolff slipped his arm around
her. Minmei could feel from the way he had moved closer that he wanted to kiss
her; she wasn't sure whether she felt the same or not.
He was the debonair, tigerishly brave, good-looking Alpha Wolf of the
Wolff Pack-and had rescued her from certain death, melodramatic as it might
sound to others. Still, there was a danger in love; she had learned that not
once but several times now.
Wolff could see what was running through Minmei's thoughts. He feasted
his eyes on her, hungered for her. The Big, Bad Wolff, indeed-an expression he
had never liked.
Only this time, the Big Bad was bewitched, and helpless. She was the
blue-eyed, black-haired gamine whose voice and guileless charm had been the
key to Human victory in the Robotech War. She was the child-woman who,
unknowingly, had tormented him with fantasies he could not exorcise by day,
and with erotic fever-dreams by night.
She hadn't moved from the circle of his arm; she looked at him, eyes as
wide as those of a startled doe. Wolff leaned closer, lips parting.
I love her so much, Rick thought, as he and Lisa went to join the
dancing. His wife's waist was supple under his gloved hand; her eyes danced
with fondness. He felt himself breaking into a languorous smile, and she
beamed at him.
I can't live without her, he knew. All these problems between us-we'll
find some way to deal with them. Because otherwise life's not worth living.
The music had just begun when it stopped again, raggedly, as Dr. Lang
quieted people from the mike stand. The ship's orchestra's conductor stood to
one side, looking peeved but apprehensive.
Everyone there had already served in war. Something inside them
anticipated the words. "Unidentified ship...course for Tirol...Skull and Ghost
squadrons...Admiral Hayes and Admiral Hunter..."
The war's come between us again.
Rick started off in a dash, but stopped before he had gone three steps,
realizing his wife was no longer with him. Fortunately, in all the confusion,
only one person noticed.
He looked back and saw Lisa waiting there, head erect, watching him. He
realized he had reacted with a fighter jock's reflexes, the headlong run of a
hot scramble.
It was the argument they had been having for days, for weeks now-
tersely, in quick exchanges, by day; wearily, taxing to the limit their
patience with one another, by night. Rick was a pilot, and had come to the
conclusion that he couldn't be-shouldn't be-anything else. Lisa insisted that
his job now was to command, to oversee flight-group ops. He was to do the job
he had been chosen to do, because nobody else could do it.
Rick saw nothing but confidence in his wife's eyes as she looked at him,
her chin held high-that, and a proud set to her features.
Sue Graham, wielding her aud-vid recorder, had caught the whole thing,
the momentary lapse in protocol, in confidence-in love. Now, she rewound the
tape a bit, so that the sight of Rick Hunter dashing off from his wife would
be obliterated, and began recording over it.
Just as people were turning to the Admirals Hunter, Rick stepped closer
to Lisa. In that time, conversation and noise died away, and the Royal Hall
itself, weighted by its eons of history and haunting events, seemed to be
listening, evaluating. Rick's high dress boots clacked on an alien floor that
shone like a black mirror.
He offered her his arm, formal and meticulously correct, inclining his
head to her. "Madam?"
She did a shallow military curtsy, supple in her dress-uniform skirt,
and laid her hand on his forearm. The whole room was listening and watching;
Rick and Lisa had reminded everyone what the REF was, and what was expected of
it.
"Orders, Admiral?" Rick asked his wife crisply, loudly, in his role as
second-ranking officer present. By speaking those words, he officially ended
the ball and put everyone on notice that they were on duty.
Lisa, suddenly their rock, gazed about at them. She didn't have to raise
her voice very much to be heard. "You all know what to do, ladies, gentlemen.
We will treat this as a red alert. SDF-3 will stand to General Quarters. GMU
and other ground units report to combat stations; all designated personnel
will return to the dimensional fortress."
There was already movement, as people strode or hurried to their duties.
But no one was running; Lisa had given them back their center.
"Fire-control and combat-operations officers will insure that no
provocative or hostile acts are committed," she said in a sharp voice. "I will
remind you that we are still on a diplomatic mission."
"Carry on."
Men and women were moving purposefully, the yawning hall quickly
clearing. Lisa turned to an aide, a commo officer. "My respects to the
Plenipotentiary Council, and would they be so gracious as to convene a meeting
immediately upon my return to SDF-3."
The aide disappeared; Lisa turned to Rick. "If you please?"
Rick, his wife on his arm, turned toward the shuttle grounding area. REF
personnel made way for them. Rick let Lisa set the pace: businesslike, but not
frantic.
When the shuttle was arrowing up through Tirol's atmosphere for SDF-3
rendezvous, and the two were studying preliminary reports while staff officers
ran analyses and more data poured in, Rick paused for a moment to look at his
wife as she meditated over the most recent updates.
He covered her hand with his for a moment; squeezed it. "We owe each
other a waltz, Lisa."
She gave him a quick, loving smile, squeezing his hand back. Then she
turned to issue more orders to her staff.
To Rem, the Humans and their REF mission had been bewildering from the
beginning, but never more so than now.
With this news of an unidentified warship, he and Cabell-who had been a
father to him, really, and more than a father-were hastened toward the shuttle
touchdown area, to await their turn to be lifted up to the SDF-3. Their
preference in the matter wasn't asked; they were an important-perhaps crucial-
military intelligence resource now, even though they were just as mystified as
anybody else.
There were confused snatches of conversation and fragments of scenes as
Rem guided Cabell along in the general milling.
There were the two young cadets Rem had come to know as Karen Penn and
Jack Baker. They had been pressed into service as crowd controllers and
expediters of the evacuation. Jack kept trying to catch Karen's eye and call
some sort of jest or other; she just spared him the occasional withering
glance and concentrated on her duties.
Rem couldn't blame her. What could be funny about a situation like this?
Was Jack psychologically malfunctional?
Then there was the singer, Minmei, Janice Em's partner, possessed of a
voice so moving that it defied logic, and a face and form of unsettling
appeal. The one they called Colonel Wolff seemed to be trying to usher her
along, seemed to be proprietary toward her, but she wasn't having any of it.
In fact, it appeared that she was about to burst into that startling and
alarming human physiological aberration called tears.
The Ghost and Skull and GMU teams were cooperating like mind-linked
Triumvirates, though Rem had seen them ready to come to blows only a short
time before.
He look about for Janice Em, Minmei's partner and harmony and, in some
measure, alter ego, but couldn't see her. She had been with Lang only moments
before, but now Lang was gone, too. Rem tried to push troubling thoughts from
his mind, such as the rumors that were rife about Lang and Janice. Lang was
supposed to be like an uncle to her, though some said he was "much more."
But what? Rem barely understood the concept "uncle," and had no idea
what "much more" might mean. Yet his cheeks flushed, and he felt a puzzling
rage when he thought of Jan having some nebulous relationship to Lang that
would make the old Human scientist more important to her than, than...
Then all at once Rem and Cabell were being rushed into a shuttle, and a
sliding hatch cut off the haunted nighttime view of ruined Tiresia.
CHAPTER TWO
I never got tired of covering the Hunters, the admirals. To me, they were a
perfect couple, the best the Earth could field But in another sense, the enemy
had fielded his worst
Susan Graham, narration from documentary Protoculture's Privateers. SDF-3,
Farrago, Sentinels, and the REF
On the bridge of the Superdimensional Fortress Three, Lisa Hayes surveyed the
preparations for battle and despaired, thinking the REF diplomatic mission
might be doomed to find nothing but war.
Approximately twenty minutes had passed since the unidentified
dreadnought was spotted, and it was nearly upon them. Yet it had not responded
to any visual or electromagnetic signal. Peace was important to her, but so
were the lives of her crew and the survival of her command. She was as edgy as
any enlisted-rating gunner, but didn't have the luxury of simply hoping she
could shoot first.
And, the SDF-3 was only partially combat-worthy; letting the enemy get
to close range might mean ultimate disaster. Still, the REF mission had to
mean something more than crossing the galaxy only to fight battle upon battle,
had to mean more than war without end.
She went over every detail, to see if there wasn't one more preparation
she could make. Lisa looked around the bridge. There was the same small bridge
watch-gang setup that her mentor, Captain Gloval, had used, except that the
three enlisted-rating techs were male, as were the watch officer and Lisa's
exec, Commander Forsythe.
Rick and the other officers from the Tactical Information Center-the
ship's cavernous command, communications, and control facility-kept up the
flow of information, but none of it was very helpful. The Plenipotentiary
Council, the civilian body in overall control of the Robotech Expeditionary
Force, had convened just long enough to give Lisa operational control over the
situation; they were satisfied that she wasn't trigger-happy, and that she was
well aware of the dicey tactical dilemma.
Veritechs were scrambled, sent out to block the newcomer's way, and
intercept and engage if necessary. Alphas, Betas, and Logans were deployed to
their appointed places. Lisa's eye found the tactical display symbol for the
Skull team for a moment, and she thought of Rick-trapped down there among the
rows of consoles and techs' duty stations, monitors, and instruments. She knew
he was longing to be out there with his beloved former outfit.
She supposed his heart was even more with them in this moment than it
was with her. If so, that was something she could understand, could forgive,
as long as he carried out his current assignment.
She thrust the thought aside; the Veritechs were coming within range of
the unidentified dreadnought. Although the ship was as big as any Earth
battlecruiser, it was still far smaller than the mammoth SDF-3. It maintained
its worrisome silence.
According to the rule book, the next step should be a close flyby,
performed by VTs-a warning to the intruder. If there was still no
acknowledgment, it would be time for a shot across the battlewagon's bow.
She found herself about to order Ghost in for the flyby, avoiding the
use of Skull, but stopped herself. Although Rick would want to be with his old
outfit in the thick of things, he would just have to maintain his duties as a
commander. Edwards was too rash-he might even enjoy goading the newcomers into
a shooting incident. Max Sterling, who had taken over Skull, was a more
reliable man and the best flier in the REF.
She opened her mouth to give the command to Skull, when one of the male
enlisted-rating techs said, "The incoming ship is decelerating, Captain.
Changing course for possible insertion to Tirol orbit. It's deactivating its
weapons systems."
As soon as the tech relayed the information, a female voice from the
Tactical Information Center came up. TIC commo instruments were intercepting
radio transmissions from the newcomer.
When the transmissions were patched through to the bridge, Lisa found
herself listening to a strange, voice-processed-sounding garble. But bit by
bit, she began to recognize syllables.
"Zentraedi," Lisa's bridge officer, Mister Blake, said softly, but Lisa
was already turning to have a comline opened to Dr. Lang's science/research
division.
"Respond, please," the transmissions came, in that strange, processed-
sounding voice that might have been computer generated. "Alien vessel, please
respond."
Alien? Lisa pondered as Lang came onscreen. He was flanked by Breetai,
and Exedore. Once Humanity's greatest enemies, these two Zentraedi were now
staunch allies.
"Can you speculate on what this means, Doctor?" Lisa asked. "Or
Commander Breetai? Lord Exedore?"
It was Exedore who answered, his voice still holding something of the
weird Zentraedi quaver, even though he had been Micronized to Human size.
His was the greatest mind of his race, and the storehouse of its
accumulated-in some cases, fabricated-lore and history. "The language is
Tiresian," he confirmed, "with loan-words from our own battle language and
some elements of the Robotech Masters' speech. But it is being spoken by a
non-Zentraedi, non-Tiresian.
"As for the ship, it fits no profile known to my data banks, although
certain portions of it bear resemblances to the spacecraft of various
spacefaring cultures."
"But this is no Zentraedi ship," boomed Breetai. "Of that I feel sure.
Our race conquered thousands of worlds, contacted tens of thousands of
species. The language of Tirol became the lingua franca of much of this part
of the galaxy. This warcraft might come from anywhere in the entire region, or
even beyond."
All of them heard the next transmission from the battleship. "We come in
peace," that eerie voice said. "We come in friendship. Do not fire! We are
desperately in need of your help!"
"Identify yourselves," a commo officer transmitted in her clear
contralto. "Incoming vessel, who are you?"
"We are the Sentinels," the eldritch voice answered. "We are the
Sentinels."
Down in the TIC, Rick Hunter had a sudden vision of black obelisks and
dire events to the tune of Also Spracht Zarathustra.
Lisa looked at the bridge's main viewscreen.
Suddenly Edwards's face appeared in an inset at one corner of it. "It's
some kind of trick! Admiral, you can't let them-"
"General, that...will...do!" Lisa thundered, and blanked him from the
screen. A moment later she was talking to the Plenipotentiary Council.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I recommend that we allow the, er, alien ship to
land under close escort by our VTs and with its weapons systems inert. We can
track it with the SDF-3's main gun, and cover it with the GMU's as well, once
it's down. If it turns out that they want to fight, let it be from a position
of such tactical disadvantage."
That touched off a hectic, bitter debate in the council. Some members
shared Edwards's attitude after the almost mindless hatred with which the SDF-
3's arrival had been greeted by the Invid.
It was Lang who cut through the rancor with a single quiet plea, perhaps
the most Human thing he had said since that Protoculture boost so long ago.
"My dear companions, we've traveled across the better part of the Milky
Way galaxy with the express hope of hearing the word they've just used:
friendship."
Permission to land was carried unanimously.
Exedore was less the frog-eyed, misshapen dwarf he had once been, thanks
to Human biosurgery and cosmetic treatments. It seemed to make people more at
ease in his presence, but other than that it meant little to him.
Now he pushed back his unruly mass of barn-red hair and squinted at the
readouts as his own data banks interfaced with those of the SDF-3 mainframes,
with input from the detectors tracking the newcomer battleship's descent. As
had happened so often in the past, he could feel great Breetai looming nearby.
Exedore, Breetai, and many of the star players of the REF were in the
Tactical Information Center. Techs, intel, and ops officers were scurrying
around the compartment, which was two hundred feet on a side and half as high,
crammed with screens and instrumentation. A main screen fifty feet square
dominated the place.
Exedore was matching disparate parts of the newcomer's hull features
with profiles in Zentraedi files. "You see? That portion toward the stern,
starboard-it's Praxian! A-and the section there just forward of midship's
starboard: is that not a Perytonian silhouette, I ask you?"
Nobody there was about to argue with him, but nobody understood what it
meant-and neither did Exedore. "It's as if these Sentinels slapped together a
variety of space vessels and united them with a central structure-you see?-to
form, oh, I don't know-a sort of aggregate. Certainly, it's not a design well
suited to atmospheric entry."
Exedore was correct. The assemblage ship, asymmetrical and unbalanced in
gravity and atmosphere, was already being battered as it fought its way down
toward Tirol's surface.
But by some miracle the lumbering vessel held together. Rick Hunter
found himself rooting for the Sentinels, whoever they were. He felt emotions
he hadn't felt in years-buried exaltation from his days in his father's air
circus.
"Our analyses of their power systems don't make any sense," a female
tech officer reported to the bridge. "Some indications are consistent with
Protoculture, but other readings are totally incompatible. We're even picking
up systemry that appears to be-well, like something from the steam age,
Captain."
"Thank you, Colonel," Lisa said, and the woman's image disappeared from
the bridge's main screen.
She turned to Exedore and Breetai. "Gentlemen-friends-can you tell me
what we've encountered?"
Breetai drew a breath, expanding his massive chest, then crossed his
tree limb arms across it. "It is galling to us, Lisa, and so we were slow to
bring it up, but many of the memories of the Zentraedi are false-constructs of
the Robotech Masters, implanted when they-"
For once she saw Breetai's head, as huge and indomitable as a buffalo's,
hang in dejection. Lisa could feel immense grief and loss coming from him.
"They deceived us; made a mockery of our loyalty, our valor, our
sacrifices..."
Exedore hastened to fill the ensuing silence. "We know less of this
local star group than we do of far-distant ones; the Zentraedi were expanding
the Masters' empire-the outer marches, as your ancient Romans might put it.
But you must understand, Mrs. Hunter-um, Captain!-that we cannot trust our own
memories in matters like these."
Breetai's chin had come up again. "Still, we'll tell you what we know.
Praxis, Peryton, Karbarra, and the other planets whose technology you see
mingled there-they were all valued parts of the Masters' empire. Planets of
the local star group, easily reached, they were allowed to keep a large
measure of their self-determination so long as they subordinated themselves to
the Robotech Masters' ambitions. They survived, in their fashion, in the eye
of the storm."
"So-they would be the last to fall to the Invid," Lisa said slowly.
Exedore nodded. "The last, except for Tirol. And worlds upon which the
Invid Regis and Regent might wish to vent their anger, or as much of it as
they can mount, now that both sides have been so reduced in numbers."
It was true that the Invid were victorious in the long war against the
Masters, but in many cases what they ruled was an empire of ash. Planets, even
suns, had died. What was left in that region of the galaxy seemed scarcely
worth taking.
Rick's face appeared on the main screen. "Landing party standing by,
Cap'n." He saluted his wife. He showed nothing but an unerring precision,
aware that his demeanor and expression would be studied on a thousand other
screens throughout the SDF-3. Behind him were the two heavily armed landing
craft that would fly down with the expedition's envoys to greet the Sentinels.
Max's Skulls were forming up to fly escort and cover. The GMU had already
churned into position, its titanic cannon trained on the grounded space-
battleship.
Lisa returned Rick's salute. They cut their hands away from their brows
smartly, just like the manual said. She wondered if anyone who was witnessing
the exchange could tell how happy he was, now that he was once more venturing
into danger. She wondered if he knew it himself.
The Sentinels' ship had chosen a big patch of ground that would serve as
its landing pad. VTs and ground units came in to cover; fearsome armored
vehicles clanked and wheeled on their tracks. The descent of the landing craft
kicked up clouds of sand and dust that settled quickly.
The protocol had been argued a bit, but nobody on the council wanted to
be the one to go up and knock on the Sentinels' door. So it was Lisa and Rick,
flanked by Breetai and Exedore and Lang, who approached the ship unarmed. The
group walked under Fantoma's light and the glare of a hundred of the two-
legged Tiresian Ambler spotlights, to what appeared to be the main hatch of
the Sentinels' starship.
But when the main hatch of the ship rolled open, there were none of the
dramatics Lisa had unconsciously braced herself for. Instead, a robed figure
stood there, at the top of a ramp extended like an impudent tongue from the
side of the Sentinels' ship.
Actually, the figure floated there; the hem of its robe billowed gently
an inch or two above the ramp.
Lang had been elected to speak for the REF. He coughed a bit in the
swirling dust, one foot on the ramp where it met the sand. "If you come in
friendship, I offer you my hand, on behalf of all of us, in friendship."
The being looking down on him was virtually smoothfaced, like some blank
mask. "I cannot offer mine," it said in the same voice they had heard over the
commo.
Other figures, larger, loomed up behind it. Still more crowded at the
sides, lower and surreptitiously slinky. Out-gassing from the Sentinels'
ship's atmosphere put a sudden mist in the air of Tirol, and it got even
harder to see.
Then Rick heard Lisa's scream, and he cried out her name. All at once he
was grappling hand-to-hand with the devil.
CHAPTER THREE
I suppose we shouldn't have been surprised. We had already discovered, back
during the Robotech War, that wherever the basic chemical building blocks of
life coexisted, they linked preferentially to form the same subunits that
defined the essential biogenetic structures found on Earth. In other words,
the ordering of the DNA code wasn't a quirk of nature.
The formation and linking of ammo acids and nucleotides was all but
inevitable. The messenger RNA codon-anticodon linkages seemed to operate on a
coding intrinsic to the molecules themselves. We knew that life throughout the
universe would be very similar, and that some force appeared to dictate that
it be so.
But that didn't keep the sight of the Sentinels from knocking most of us right
off our pins.
Lisa Hayes, Recollections
The devil who was fending Rick off wasn't quite the one from Old Testament
scare stories. At least he seemed to lack the power of fire and brimstone, and
was trying to reason in accented Tiresian rather than condemning Rick to the
Lower Depths and Agony Everlasting.
"Release me! Unhand me!"
All Rick could see was a grinning, slightly demonic face from which
horns grew. Then Rick felt himself pulled away with such strength that he
thought the massive Vince Grant or even Breetai himself had laid hands on him.
To Rick's astonishment it was Lang, carefully but forcefully preventing
a diplomatic catastrophe.
The Protoculture, working through him? the young admiral wondered.
The air was clearing and a riot had been averted. The Humans' jaws
dropped in wonder as the Sentinels presented themselves.
"I am Veidt, of Haydon IV," the robed one-the one who had refused Lisa's
hand-said. "And as I was about to say, I cannot offer you my hand, for I have
none, nor have I arms, as you understand the concept. Yet, I welcome your
words of friendship, and reaffirm mine." Veidt floated down the ramp toward
them and inclined his head solemnly.
Lisa, finding no words, returned the gesture.
The envoys from the Sentinels adjourned with those of the REF to a big,
round table, set out at the council's decree, under the jade glow of crescent
Fantoma in the long Tiresian night. The area was lit by banks of illuminator
grids, and by the odd-looking, two-legged Tiresian searchlights.
Human servitors brought trays of food and drink, and some of the
Sentinels showed no reluctance about helping themselves, though others
declined, having different nutritive requirements.
Great Breetai, his oversized chair creaking ominously beneath him,
noticed figures pressed against viewports and observation domes in the thrown-
together battleship. At his suggestion, a wide assortment of provisions was
placed in the airlocks; the Sentinel envoys were loud in their thanks, and
mentioned, almost as a matter unworthy of discussion, that they had been on
near-starvation rations.
The beings who looked like male and female bears walking around on
broad, elephantine feet-and wearing harnesses that supported cases and pouches
and hand weapons of some sort-were Karbarrans.
Veidt and his mate Sarna were from Haydon IV, a revelation that made
Cabell and Rem exchange significant glances that Lang and the others didn't
have time to question them about. All of a sudden, Micronized Zentraedi seemed
about as Human as most in-laws, Jack Baker reflected, looking on from the
sidelines.
The couple who looked like they were made of living crystal were from a
world called Spheris. And the big, supremely proud and athletic women in the
daring, barbaric gladiatorial outfits, Gnea and Bela, came from the planet
Praxis.
Karen Penn, watching from her vantage point on the roof of a commo van,
stared in fascination at a foxlike pair, known as "Gerudans." They had feet
whose tripartite structure reminded her of a hat-rack's base, and their mouths
and snouts were hidden by complex breathing apparatus. Gerudans liked to
thrash their long, luxuriant tails when they talked, and on-the-spot
adaptations had to be done on their chairs to accommodate them.
Cabell and Exedore had helped Lang and a scratch task force from G-2
Intel and G-5 Community Affairs prepare translation programs for interpreter
computers, but in general the envoys managed with broken Tiresian. Most of the
REF spoke a Zentraedi-modified version of the language, and virtually everyone
in the SDF-3 had had some exposure to it, while all the Sentinels spoke it-as
Breetai had said, a lingua franca.
One of the first things to become clear was that the Sentinels weren't
an army, or a governmental body-they were fugitives.
"Fugitives from the Invid tyranny," Veidt said in his whispery,
processed-sounding voice. The voice came from no source Lisa could detect;
Veidt and Sarna did not have mouths, but they could be heard and they were
being recorded.
"Haydon IV, Karbarra, Peryton, Geruda, Praxis, Spheris-our homes are
worlds under the Invid heel, to one degree or another. The ship in which we
arrived was to be our prison, a sort of-zoo? No, what's the word?-trophy case!
Yes, and the hundreds and hundreds of us aboard, its artifacts-all for the
pleasure of the Invid Regent."
"And what happened?" inquired Justine Huxley, former United Earth
Government Superior Court Judge, now a council member. Her tone was neutral,
from years of habit. "What changed your circumstances?"
Lang noted that Burak of Peryton-the devil-horned one-the only Sentinel
with neither mate nor companion, had looked fretful throughout the getting-
acquainted proceedings. Now he slammed a six-fingered hand-equipped with a
second opposable thumb where the edge of a human's hand would be-on the table
and raised a whistling, furious voice.
"What do the details matter? We overcame our captors, and took the ship!
And for every minute we delay here, every minute we wait, sentient beings
suffer and die under the Regent's savagery! Our instruments have shown us your
battles; you should recognize by now that the Regent will never offer you
peace, or even a truce!
"Here you sit with your dimensional fortress all but disabled. You don't
dare wait for the Regent to bring the battle to you, do you deny it? Very
well! Help us bring it to him! Join us, for our sake and your own survival!"
The wicked points of Burak's horns seemed to be vibrating. He glared at
them with pupilless, irisless eyes from beneath heavily boned brows. "Help us
for the sake of those who are in slavery and anguish, and dying, even at this
moment!"
Something was plainly tearing at Burak's guts, and Rick was afraid the
Perytonian was going to come across the round table at somebody. But Lron, the
big male of the two bearish Karbarrans, laid a weighty hand on Burak's
shoulder, and he quieted.
Nearly Breetai's height, but far heavier, Lron looked around with what
he perhaps meant as an amiable smile. On him, though, it was rather scary, at
摘要：

RobotechSentinels:DarkPowersBook14oftheRobotechSeriesCopyright1988byJackMcKinneyCHAPTERONEAllIhavelearnedoftheShapingsoftheProtoculturetellmethatitdoesnotworkrandomly;thatthereisagranddesignorscheme.Ifeelthatwehavebeenbroughthere,kepthere,forsomereason.Yet,whatpurposecantherebeinSDF-3'sbeingstranded...

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