parella@middletown.ny.frontiercomm.net (Presley H. Cannady II) ROBOTECH Special I - Flight of the Leopard By Presley H. Cannady parella@middletown.ny.frontiercomm.net Book 1: Partial Truths Episode One : Markers _________________________________________ Copyright 1995@ Presley H. Cannady This story is not to be bought or sold, in whole or in part. The electronic publication of this novel is intended for free access, and does not intend to infringe on the rights of Harmony Gold USA. The author has not accepted and will not accept any renumeration for this work. This book is a combination of events from the series and source material, the RPG and events of the McKinney Novels. Its canonity is uncertain and is completely of my universe design. Thanks to John Tarnowski and Aubry Thonon, who've contributed to my writing style... Special thanks to Mad Mike Choi, whose callsign inspired me to design a character around him. Trivia: see if you can spot Patlabor references and then e- mail them to me at the address below. To comment on the content of the story, please write me at either the Robotech or E-mail me at parella@middletown.ny.frontiercomm.net __________________________________________ ...dedicated to Pat Mataraza- 1947-1995 and to Brian Daley, a loved part of the McKinney Family _______________ Third Edition 1996 ____________________________________________________________ Robotech Special I: Flight of the Leopard can be found at ftp.std.com. The books of this series include- rt.fotl.special.1.gz Robotech Leopard: Partial Truths rt.fotl.special.2.gz Robotech Leopard: The First Storm rt.fotl.special.3.gz Robotech Leopard: Last Regrets The objective of all New Era and AMDG Robotech prospects is to follow the television series, while maintaining a sense of originality on part of those who helped to author these stories, separating them from the typical Hunter-Hayes plotline that has been so eloquently elaborated on for ten years in comic, novel, and fan-fiction form. New Era is the concept of fourteen teenagers in the New York area. FOTL represents about six of those. While under the founder's name, FOTL is the result of months of study and time-line reconfiguration. This story will begin a second New Era series of prequels elaborating on allusions presented here. This is in no way expressive of either views of purist or McKinneyist stances, but is the original work of its authors. Comments may be mailed to Chief Writer Cannady at 76725.1245@compuserve.com or parella@middletown.ny.frontier.comm Second Posting Note- I would like to make amends on behalf of the AMDG to Peter Walker. Recently, part of FOTL that had been subject to group input was discovered to have used his characters without his permission. I, as the founder of this group, accept full responsibility. I've made changes to this and would appreciate any other nuances refering to ORP. I would like to remind you that this story, New Era, is in NO WAY related to Objective: Reflex Point, and is in no way ENDORSED by anyone outside of the AMDG. The characters that replaced those of Walker's fan-fic are of a different draft story of the Continent Saga (FOTL's predecessor). We hope to have caused no confusion. Thank you. I respect all Robotech media in this order- 1. The series and the original anime for Macross, Southern Cross and Mospeada. This is namely for technical data and overall plot continuity. The general spirit of Robotech is derived from these 85 episodes compliments of Harmony Gold and Tatsunoko (Japan). I however, have disregarded remarks in dialogue and narrative I've painstakingly determined to be insignifigant to further isolate myself from purist and McKinneyist camps. 2. The novels and RPG for further plot outline and technical data. Though the novels and the RPG conflict someplaces with the series, I've gound these contradictions negligible, and incorporated the best aspects of all of the Robotech media currently available to me to form a beautiful combination between the series and her spinoffs. These include the blending of timelines and technical information as to further define the path the future of the New Era will take. The novels are the primary source for dramatic emphasis for the ARMDG New Era series, supplementing the lack there of in the series itself 3. The Robotech Art Books. Sentinels is an unfinished product, as compared to the complete, but sometimes lacking, project of the novels. I've therefore listed these sources third in priority. 4. The Comics and Robotech Mailing List, Echo, and USENet Groups. These mediums help me to understand what fans of Robotech are looking for in a story, and the people both on and off the Internet involved in this sprawlingly massive project may consider themselves authors as well. _________________________________________________________ * * * _______ _______ Prologue- Loyalty is neither leasable to liege or ruler.... -Rathman, 2001 Attack Veritech Armored Corps: A mixed detachment of various branch units and pilots temporarily or *permanently* assigned to one task force/hybrid division [respectively] for generally `special forces' interests. -Robotech Technical Manual Military Glossary, 2073 * * * .2036, prelude... "LIEUTENENT!" A RATHER GAUNT REF MARINE LANCE CORPORAL RACED to catch up with his current assignment. He was nearly out of breath, flanked by a lovely cherry blond private. The corporal's traditional Americana buzz cut revealed his awkward set of ears, hinting at his Alabaman ancestry. The lieutenent turned around, her uniform a blackened version of that worn by the Robotech Expeditionary Force's Naval Wing pilots: the bussards missing and a raised, comfortably snug black turtle-neck rising from between the stiffened collars. She straightenend the ivory collar as she waited patiently for her escort to catch her breath. "Sorry, sir. We weren't notified of your change in debarking plans," he managed out. "At east, corporal," she glanced in the way of the private, whom the corporal had picked up during the rush. She had expected a naval subofficer, a master chief or a traditionally armed spaceman- the space-theater equivalent of the late 20th century American wet-naval rank "seaman" - that was usually onhand for escort duty. However, the marine would do. The corporal continued to lead her down the corridor until they happened upon another corporal- private pair. Rachel nodded to her escort, dismissing them, and turned to the tall and large, black-skinned Marines sergeant guarding lift, who took over the escort duties with a firm glare and a hard salute, and then repeated the ritual for the lieutenent. Rachel's eyes quickly darted about her.. The debarking bay was a rather massive, complex structure. This intermediate stage between the receiving terminal and the main quarter of the station itself was diaphanous to the outside world. The lieutenent took a keen fascination to the view. Turning towards the transparent corridor she had just come out of, she could see her vessel, the UES Patterson, disembark from her holding position; her Horizont-like design augmenting the illusion of a giant eagle releasing her perch and soaring out into the vast unknowns. The doors opened to reveal a small, step-like platform standing level out inside a transparent tube angling down about forty-something degrees. She and the sergeant carefully rooted their feet onto the matting, special fields taking note of their presence and intertializing the platform. As the doors hissed closed behind her, the transport-platform began to move at a rather high speeds; she could detect not even so much as a discernable jerk. The shadows concealed much beyond a few hundred feet of the station's massive interior; however, a few dim lights in the distance shown on the skeletal array of Karbarran and REF vessels. Rachel kept largely quiet to herself for the first leg of the trip down. The receiving terminal pod they were heading for drew closer and closer, mile after mile. On occasion, the sergeant would glance in her direction, before he let loose a deliberate ahem and attempted to spark some conversation. "Name's Biggs, sir," the sergeant finally said, also a hint of a Terran Southern American accent, with a hint of Creole. Rachel didn't acknowledge, so the sergeant tried again. "Cole Biggs. I reckon you're recently of the VFE-1 Omega-Clear, right?" "You've heard of us?" she replied nonchalantly. "I was led to believe it was classified information." Biggs swallowed a bit, but continued courteously. "What you've been up to for the past year, I dunno. But your name ain't classified, just your affiliate group. I like to keep up to date on things." True enough. Rachel nodded and turned back to the window. A few seconds later, Biggs tried again. "So what do you think of the place, considering its your first time onboard?" "Hmm?" "The factory, what do you think." "Astonishing," she replied dryly. That was a drastic understatement, she realized. She had all but ignored the sheer gradiousity of her surroundings. As the transparent corridor seemed to stretch on for infinity, the darker areas of the station seemed to illuminate themselves. The Karbarran Robotech Station, classified as a G-96 type by the RRG, demonstrated itself as magnificent piece of engineering. Her power source, centralized like an internal sun, seemed to capture the warm glow of Karbarra's own sun, Yirrbisst. Stretching one-thousand-seven hundred kilometers in radius, it was the same oblonged, alien shape as her sister in Earth orbit, though much larger; the same special low-level forcefield preventing the satellite from rending apart or causing severe orbital shifts in her geosynchronus orbit. The interior was completely different from the one Rachel had known as a child, growing up in space with her militaristically-tuned parents. Hundreds of smaller vessels and tens of capital ships did not even fill her still starving interior. Lights stretched alongside the inner curves as Rachel could clearly comprehend the massiveness of this place even to the Zentraedi Giants who had onced manned it. But clearly, the hands of Karbarrans were at work here. Much of the station had changed over the course of nearly a decade, since its discovery by Expeditionary Force mod-up crews from the Sentinels campaign. Even as the Plenipotentiary Council and the SDF-3, playing nurse for her various escorts, continued an ever-growing power struggle between her opposing factions on Tirol, a contigent of former Robotech Defense Force irregulars established themselves as powerful detachments to each of the liberated worlds. Naturally, Karbarra had come first. Though the esteemed Admiral Hayes-Hunter had not waited for the ursinoid planet to produce her the ships that would have assuredly cut the Sentinel's crusade for independence short by a great many years, the RDF divisions from the Robotech Expeditionary Force had successfully begun establishing free- electoral governments, though most more successful than on proud Karbarra. Now, the Karbarran Robotech Factory had been transformed into the base of Operations for the still under-construction Mars Fleet and the sole contact with the Relief Group on the Terran homeworld, a planet nearly forgotten by Tirol's new generation of Terran colonists; and long remembered by those Tirolian refugees rescued from a world falling back into entropy. Rachel was looking inside the womb of one of the greatest shipyards and manufacturing plants outside the Valivarre system. Massive and self-contained, the Karbarran Factory had built some sixty-percent of the Garfish vessels (Katana, Marathon and the experimental Callant classes) that would return with the flagship Xerxes cruisers. The nearly completed refit of the De Ruyter took most of her view, and she could barely see how the SDF-7 had evolved into the strangely brick-like Zentraedi battlewagon basic design. The frame of the carrier barely indicated its relation to the SDF-7 Ikazuchi superclass, which included all the carrier designs of the REF: the Tokugawa, the Xerxes, and the Thunderer. Long-forgotten were the Ark Angel series of the SDF-7, a design which had been scaled down to serve as mere assault carriers for the return fleet. Three of the five vessels- the Ark Angel herself, the Amicable, and the Patterson - remained. The the Patrician and the Marcus Antonius had faded into the past, reminders of treachery, valiance, and the general feeling of weariness amongst the REF. She closed her eyes, allowing memories to flood back into her consciousness... * * * two years ago... "Oh shit!" A deadly dance, that's what it was. The Scout Invid mecha swung around her gracefully, nearly tearing her Valkyrie's wing clear off. The VF-1S seemed to tango dangerously with its sluglike opponent. "Fox Four Charlie!" Three missiles forced themselves out of their holds and into the Scout as she pulled away. As the explosion cleared, she could see the Katana gunship and her escort fleet of Horizont's descend into LEO. The UES Hideyoshi descended slowly, directing her Horizont's to place the Titan ground mobile units. "Clean, clear and naked, boys!" she exclaimed into her radio. Already, the thousands of Alpha Units from Cyphedia were moving into the hive units of the uninhabitted planets. Next, relief shuttles departed from the Hideyoshi, as the remainder of the fleet left the decimination of the Tav'alea hive to Lieutenent Rachel DuBois' squadron. "Alright, 45th, move your asses!" "Hey! Clear on this channel!" the lead Horizont delivering the 45th, 67th, and 12th REF-ATAC's shouted back. "Get those damned Logans down here! I read a thicket of these purple bastards at our landing coordinates!" Already, a specially geared team of Cyclone and Logans were moving in to the West, as AJACS swept in from the East. It was a minor hive- everyone knew that -so why sacrifice so many lives on a harmless raid when we could nuke it- Politics, Rachel had already decided. Politicians trying to sway the Plenipotentiary Council to their side, to do their bidding. The Super Valkyrie raced toward the Logan-carrying Horizont shuttles. "This is Bright Star, Green Deployer. Alpha and Beta units are in place." "Roger, Bright Star," the pilot answered. "We've got Scrimm Inorganics and Gurab Shock units ground based. Primarily Scrimms- that's what our sensors say. Escort duty?" "Just to deployment point. Let the rowboats take care of themselves." "We hear ya' Bright Star," the Logan leader, a colonel, warned smuggly. "You VT pilots always get so big in the head." "Look whose talking, colonel," DuBois replied. "Good hunting." "It's a small galaxy," the colonel replied. "What could go wrong?" A lot of things. * * * _______ _______ CHAPTER I- Amazing isn't it. The specimen's physiology is completely centered on the detection of protoculture E-band emissions. They actually see the stuff. I remember reading something that the Soviet KGB used in their interrogation techniques [sic] called a sensory deprivation chamber. One of the components would take a resonance of a compressional wave from a person's voice, play it back exactly and out of phase, and that would cancel out the sound. Why can't we do that with E-band emmissions. I mean, afterall, they were just waves, and they can be duplicated. The math and setup is tricky, but, damn! Its so easy! -Dr. Raizo Tijaro (developer of the VF-1SVF) to Dr. Emil Lang, 2026 * * * "LIEUTENENT?" THE SERGEANT TAPPED GENTLY ON HER SHOULDER. Twenty-two hundred.... A stern voice quickly evaporated the flashback. Memories of still Imperatived Zentraedi, evidence of fleets separate of those of Dolza's, and the deathtraps of the Master's most coveted worlds; and most of all, the Invid Hive, had remained with her for years, recurring to her both day and night for the two months she spent in sickbay onboard the Patterson. She turned to the built sergeant. "You still with me? I see you've been drownin' in that view. Maybe you'll get to tour the rest of the place later." Rachel nodded, but did not avert her eyes from their aimless gaze. She had been one of the first civilians onboard, a year before she left for the Tirol REF academy. "Its most impressive," she managed to concede. Biggs coughed again, this time more discernibly. "If I may ask, your Cap'n DuBois' daughter, right sir?" "Huh?" "Cap'n Andy DuBois, you're her daughter, right?" "Uh, yes." "I thought so, you have `er hair. Pete DuBois' your dad?" "Yes. Why?" Rachel narrowed her eyes. Biggs coughed slightly. "I was an acquaint' with your dad back on the Factory, some twenty-years ago. I met him a few times before the SDF- 3 jumped. Then, there was your mom. She used to be my sister's team commander, before she got her promotion and filled that open naval commission and all that." "Really?" Rachel's ears perked in mock interest, though something deep-down gnawed at her heart. It had been several years since her mother had died, or was presumed dead, along with the Patrician. Sometime ago, her mother had become involved in a complicated situation, leaving Rachel planetside of Haydon Monoceros while she galloped around the galaxy with a man that seemed to have taken Rachel's father's place, at least in her eyes. The Patrician had been wounded severely when Captain Andrea DuBois had rescued it from the late General Edwards' grasp on the Karbarran Station. For four years, they had taken the work of the Sentinels beyond the local group worlds, which eventually the REF, once free of Edwards political yoke, would go to three years into that lone-campaign. She had not died only at the hands of her enemy, but as Rachel believed, her betrayer came from within. Father. "She was a good woman. Don't you worry about what the news or the brass have to say. They've got their own asses to look at for. Anyway, we're here." The receiving terminal's computerized tele-image displayed a cheerful, nubile young female's face with skin as swarthy as the women of Rilac and and the off-Tirol C'va colonies. The face brought back memories of the hundreds of ruined and annihilated colonies of Tirol she had passed by on her voyages through the Fourth Quadrant. At the age of fifteen, she left her uncle on Haydon Monoceros to enter the Tirol Academy. Completing the officers requirement course in one year, she had received a warming letter of recommendation from Major General Charles Simmons and the late Rear Admiral Nagamuraka. It wasn't more than a month before she had been booted up to Full Lieutenent, and assigned (with surprising haste) to the last of the Ark Angel series of the SDF-7 starship, the Patterson. For the past two years she had been an extension of the Galactic Mop- Up, a sweep of the Fourth Quadrant for surviving colonies formerly under the dominion of the Robotech Masters and the remnants of the Regent's Invid Empire. However, at 21, she was one of the youngest in the Elite Special Forces divisions that drug out seemingly both the incompetent dregs and the geniuses of mecha combat alike. She barely noticed how the architecture had gone decisively Zentraedi as she passed under the sweeping entrance of Command Deck. The arches were whittled with age and neglect, the primary weakness of the repair-illiterate Master's warrior-Clones. Stockpiled in this factory, this deck had once been the horde of thousands of Bioroids, and what some would identify as Triumveroids. The vagaries of the final defense against the invid horde that so longed to see this station taken alive was remembered only by a plaque, dedicated to those brave Tirolians and Karbarrans, who in a moment of need, had fought side by side against the inevitable, and in some, unseen way, had won. Still more than an Olympic pool's length high, it was the final reminder of the Zentraedi clone presence that had once swarmed this station, when it had been a tool of forced domination, not the tool of liberation. She saluted him as he approached the doors himself, stepping aside and keying in commands on the pad imbedded in the wall. Immediately, the doors slid open, with surprising ease. With the vague feeling of insignifigence that the hall impressed on her, she entered the stium like "bridge." It was unimaginably incredulous in its sheer representation of size. About the size of small stadium, well over four-thousand Micronians (only four hundred were really even needed) could control almost every aspect of the stations functions with surprising detail and ease. The lifts themselves were well lit antigrav pods that zipped about like fireflies in the Tirolian tropical belt. Rachel immediately noticed that the cherry-blonde female spaceman was waiting as a well-decorated, Aerospace Force officer approached. Bigg's saluted his escort, allowing the captain the liberty of dismissing him. He turned to Rachel with a wild smile that seemed to say take care of yourself, Lieutenent. The Aerospace Force Captain, himself an old RDF veteran, signalled the nearest antigrav platform. "My-my, Lieutenent Rachel DuBois?" he commented. "I haven't seen you since you were thirteen. I think..." "Uncle Vin--er...Captain Aston?" "Uncle Vinny's fine with me. Just don't do it in front of the men. I think you were in seventh grade last time I saw you." "Fourteen, sir." "Hopped to Monoceros with Tom, right?" "Yes, sir." "Vinny." "Yeah. I got offplanet four years ago. How have you been doing?" "Pretty well, might I say. I'm back from my tour over in the Flagellan Quarter. I heard you're back from the Badlands." "Are you cleared for that?" "Why the hell would I be here if I weren't," he replied. "Better pay, lower taxes, superior home-equity..." "It's not that good," Captain Aston replied. "Get's pretty drafty around here. Besides, what did you have to worry about home-equity. The Patterson gives you free quarters, free food-" "If I wanted to live in the barracks, I would've signed up for the Army, or the Marines, or something like that." "Got tired of home, just not the comfort." "Right-o-mondo....er...sir." * * * early 2029... "Not fast enough, kid!" the old man shouted. "Don't slow down on me now, you here?!" "Got it, Gramps," Brigidier General Reinherdt watched his grandson take a hand at the Veritech Simulator in the Civilian Lounge. "Three Armored Invid ships- Scout Class -heading three- three-eight mark neg. three!" The Veritech, an Alpha fighter, swung full around, letting the the first Invid mecha pass him. "Alright," the twelve year-old breathed. The simulator switched to Battleoid mode as he got used to the many controls surrounding him. "First is at point Ulysses, moving in." The Armored Scout wasn't very smart, considering the simulator was on its lowest setting. Three missiles struck broadside, while a forth hit the sensor (eye). The pilot was dead immediatly, as the Armored Scout missiles finished off the armor. The Invid slammed into. He had admired his work to much. The other two Scout's had easily come behind him, disecting his Alpha inside and- "That's enough for today," the cockpit swung open, and the holographic display disappeared. "I would've had him Gramps," Daniel Reinherdt struck the front end of the mock-up Alpha fighter. "I just got..." "Cocky," General Reinherdt inserted. "It happens, son. But in real life, people die because of it." A small puase as the exited the factory's simulator room. "Is that what happened to dad?" Reinherdt went silent, looking away. "Danny, your father died not because of cockiness, because of stupidity. Someone couldn't make up his mind where I work, and it cost alot of lives." A few years ago, twelve-year old Danny Reinherdt, his grandfather, and his mother, heard that Ghost Squadron group Delta had been ordered to attack the Karbarran Hive that used to infest the planet below. That had been a mistake, and one the Reinherdt would have never let Edward slip pass by on. But he couldn't touch the scarface bastard. The man still had strong ties to the Southern Cross, and untouchable except by the Plenipotentiary Council. In his eyes, forever, Edwards was a traitor. * * * the present... Major General Reinherdt snapped out of his reverie, his thoughts of his now cadre-member grandson flooding from his mind. The table held a maximum of twenty-eight seats, and was an equilateral triangle capped with the "guest of honor" position at the vertice. He was sitting next to the younger Commander Grant, who spearheaded the Optera siege six years ago, and was being considered for a promotion to rear admiral (with a Brigidier General REF-AF equivalency in the Sit-Room) and assigned a command position on the Ark Angel. Sarah Olvesky, Brigidier General and Director of Karbarran- REF Internal Affairs, had been one of Grant's engineering teachers years ago, before this whole tirade started. Commander Raul Forsythe, second-in-command of the SDF-3, held an acting rank of a full Admiral when amongst the General staff. He was seated adjacent to the empty first vertice seat. And good old Admiral Kulaski, the Polish- American wet-Navy skipper and Global War veteran who often commented with mock enmity about being injustly "thown" into this business by Forsythe decades ago, sat at the base table's right vertice. Right next to the seat Rachel DuBois would take in a few moments. The command table was not very well staffed. Separated from the rest of the station by a good five centimeters of sound-proof transaluminum, it allowed for virtually 100% securable secret briefings, meetings, and with the blinding diodes within the transperency itself, those occasional "encounters." About five or six G2 intelligence colonel and some Planetary Corps and Aerospace Force high-ranked officers, surrounded a table made up of currently five flag- ranked division commanders, all with very esteemed reputations. A few naval staff-captains and commanders also accompanied the group- most likely from the separate naval intelligence services. When Rachel stepped onto the command balcony, it was almost as if she had stepped into a royal court. The balcony was soundproof, sealed by a transperency the was completely limpid all around. Hundreds of Karbarrans, Terrans, Praxians, and others were hard at work with the construction of the REF fleet vessels: refitting the Ikazuchi Command Carriers of the Xerxes design. From the even larger viewshield that enveloped the far-end of the three o'clock pod command center, they could see the Tokugawa-class Jutland, the only survivor of her species, nose into view. She was being remodeled and refitted; not into the Ark Angel-series prototype that Rachel had served on (they had lost to the Xerxes class), but into a new vessel to be named the Montgolfier, leader of a new class of vessels that would serve as tenders and factories to the fleet. The view took her breath away. "Nice to see you again, Rachel," Rachel snapped out of it. Recently promoted Brigidier General Sarah Olvesky smiled from cheek-to-cheek, growing rosy pink. "Captain Aston." Both saluted, followed by an informal return. "Good morning, General," Rachel replied. "I think its been..." "Five years." "How's Arthur doing?" A mutual friend of there's, Aruther Caruthers was Sarah's godson, and one of the many children brought in their infancy to Tirol. "First year at the Academy," Sarah's tone dropped decisively. "He's got his father's ambition. Anyway, I would hate to see such talent lost." "With the way you spoil you're friends' kids? Sarah, I think not," a slightly older voice emitted from the behind. Seated at the table were Major General Reinherdt, Plenipoteniary Council member and a member of the REF Situation Command Committee, Commander Grant, CO of the Ark Angel (which had departed shortly before the Patterson's arrival), Rear Admiral Shawn Kulaksi (defunct rank- captain), and Rear Admiral (defunct rank- commander) Raul Forsythe, the latter two formerly of the SDF-3 bridge command. The one who had spoken, Raul Forsythe, picked at his beard, resembling a white-bearded version of the equally bald Reinherdt, "Well, its pretty damn nice to meet the kid of Pete DuBois. You're father would have been very proud of you, from what I've heard." Forsythe had been a war history instructor at the Macross Island Training Center during DuBois' brief stint before 2008. Reinherdt had acquainted with his father both during the War of Unification and following the Dolzan Holocaust. It was during the Zentraedi Malcontent episode where Pete DuBois had fought side-by-side with Max Sterling, through whom he met Vince Grant and eventually the then young "Lieutenent Colonel" Sarah Olvesky, following his transfer to the factory satellite. However, Kulaski remained quiet, holding in his stories of his and her father's missions over the Southlands, and a partnership of three men long lost in memory. "The TCIC has been slightly delayed, so I guess we have some catch-up time," Sarah noted. "I haven't seen Dr. Garetteau since he left with the Sentinels. I heard you and Arthur got along pretty well." "Fairly," Rachel nostagically recalled the days she had held baby Arthur Olvesky on her lap, and suddenly remembered that the age difference between them seemed so negligable now-a-days. Already, he was ranking in the top percentiles of the Tirolian Academy, she had learned from communiques she received from the general. "I guess he's found a new friend in Reghan's daughter." "And Danny, right Gunther? They're just kids," Sarah retorted. "That's right, they are just kids," Reinherdt shook his head. He didn't know Arthur personally, and had met the Reghan Martin and his family only on occasion, but had agreed with the almost third world notion of thrusting children in front of a sight. "Too tender an age." "There's very little we can do about it now," Grant noted. "Back on a lighter note," Sarah interjected. "I read your file from the Patterson's commanders. Andrea would've been proud. Three distinguished sorties, four Star Cross Medallions." The Patterson's commander, as Sarah was refering to, was the CAG of the 89th REF Naval Air Group, Commander Sam Huxley. The son of Councilwoman and former judge Justine Huxley, he had distinguished himself and earned the command of two-hundred and fifty fighters, as well as the fifty- eight that were assigned to ship defense, various support craft and five escorting Horizont assault carriers. The second commander, the skipper of the Patterson, Harbringer, was now a full commodore, with a track record that was almost legendary since the days of the old Ophelia and ARMD cruisers. "We pushed the Invid remnants around those sectors outta the galaxy, sir. I believe you received the report on Cyphedia-45A, the lost Dee-oh-Zee colony." General Olvesky didn't reply. "General, sir. Don't ou remember?" The general paused in thought. "In the Lyles-Organa Sector?" A mission that resulted in the discovery lost Tirolian rebel colony, once under the control of a blooming steller republic that was associated with the birth of the Disciples of Zor, had turned into a bloodbath when rogue Invid units suddenly arrived and swept across the face of the planet and its orbit, killing nearly eighty-percent of the refugees and decimating elements of the 45th Air Group and the 24th Tactical AVAC, Rachel's mixed-division attachment. "Uh...yes," Olvesky replied. She recalled the report, but the legendary exploits of the Patterson would remained under closed files for some time to come on a need-to-know basis. Rachel fidgetted. "Anyway, the Patterson's a good ship. Trustworthy and reliable. A lot like the Patrician." The Patrician, part of an expirement with her sisters, was stripped over her Tokugawa frame and remodelled into the experimental Ark Angel (The Ark Angel being the production- line prototype) SFC-7000AX series. These sleek vessels, the forefathers of the Horizont assault shuttle carriers, were built painstakingly designed and constructed over three years, designed to be the testbeds of new fold drives to send reinforcements to Terra-bound Leonard's divided forces. Prior to the Patrician's refit, Captain Andrea DuBois commanded the behemouth vessel. Arriving in Tirol's orbit, the Patrician suffered extensive damage at Invid hands, so much so that it was conceded to the RRC for its new pet project. That first battle had seen the death of a young Rachel's father. For Andrea, it was if something had died in her. Then something simply snapped. For reasons still unexplained to her daughter, she had hijacked her former command and fled to the far reaches of the Tirolian Empire, a contraband REF group that played a covert but important role in the semi-legal Sentinel Campaign. After four years, she was destroyed by not only Invid warships, but apparently forces under the command of Major General Edward's factions. Since her mother's death, followed the death of Edwards a year later, she had been utterly alone, save for her uncle. Even he was absent from her personal life for many weeks at a time. A moment of silence seemed almost ceremonious as it followed the last word from her lips. Sarah coughed. It wasn't the view of the many, those who had faced dangers that seemed several hundred times more vagarious than those the rogue crew of that ill-fated starship had faced, but among this small circle of brass, her name would ring legendary among those cleared for that classified information. That included Reinherdt and especially Kulaski and Grant. "Did they ever find that one unaccounted-for crewman?" Rachel changed the subject momentarily. "Hmm?" Sarah Olvesky turned her attention to the lieutenent. "Tennyson, I think his name was. Uncle Tom says they were close friends after Dad died. Did they ever find his body." "They stopped the wreckage years ago, lieutenent," Kulaski fingers ran through his beard. "There was no sign of him; he was most likely vaporized or blown to far away from the ship to be noticed. I'm afraid we'll probably never find out what happened to him." "I understand," Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. Then, she proceded prematurely on what she considered to be the topic at hand, regarding a decision she had made a few months earlier. "As you probably know, sirs, Commodore Harbringer approved and filed my request for pulling my active call file and assigning me to the Tirolian Academy, right? With most of the mop-up under way, and the Mars Fleet beached for at least another four years, and I didn't make final cut for the destroyer group's scout mission. I knew the Academy was looking to squeeze in one more teacherm but I had no idea it would be forwarded to the general staff for review." "Well, Rachel..." General Olvesky said uneasily. Rachel gave her a quisitive glance as Olvesky tried to explain. "Now's not really a good time to jump out of-" "Request denied, its simple as that, Sarah. Lieutenent, your job isn't finished just yet," a powerful voice interrupted. A monumental man, almost as lofty and built as Commander Grant, took his seat at the opposite end of the table. Rachel realized that her seat was at the foot of the obsidian slab, looking across at an almost dark, imposing and commanding face masked in shadow. "I apologize for pulling your request and placing it on permanent hold, but I don't feel the need to explain my actions immediately. That explanation will be presented to you during the course of this briefing." The gruff-looking admiral was incredibly tall and impressive, giving Rachel pause to even try and speak up. "I am, of course, delighted to meet you finally, Lieutenent DuBois," a tinge of a Russian accent broke through the nearly perfect Anglo-Saxon dialect. Fleet Admiral Vasalya Koyilaich Yoshanava leaned both of his elbows on the table, his shoulder emblazoned with the REF- Karbarra/RDF Flying Kite and the two laurel leaves with four golden bars, the symbol of the Karbarran Theater Commander in Chief of the Robotech Expeditionary Forces. Only answerable to Fleet Admiral Hunter, the military commander- in-chief; and Fleet [Supreme] Admiral Hayes-Hunter, the mission commander; he was the most powerful human being within this sector. "At the behest of the Plenipotentiary Council-" Reinherdt, the only man with any command equivalence to Yoshanava, nodded "-Special Committee on Intelligence Operations, I am commencing this briefing. I believe I need not remind you that this meeting is strictly and completely most confidential." All at the table nodded in agreement, with Rachel the most dumbfounded of all. Yoshanava, even before the Hayes- Hunters, was a living legend; having already released a biography that was required reading for all Naval Command Academy graduates. A former senior adjutant to Marshal Zukav prior to the destruction of the Alaskan Grand Cannon, he had been saved from that devastating holocaust by the chance of being within the sight of the never completed Panama Grand Cannon and from the purges of former UEDC members in archaic Amazonia by his commandable respectablity, and his efforts at reuniting much of Central America. "Shall we begin?" as if his will was the force that powered this balcony room, the lights darkened, and the table was sudddenly illuminated by a ceiling light directly center and above it. From the center of the table, an obsidian black panel raised a few centimeters above the tableline, flashes of fluorescents fluttering in its vague transparency. Subsequently, a holo-display of the REF logo appeared in 3D, rotating itself slowly. "Your record from Commodore Harbringer; and your CAG," he held up a small datadisc and subsequently set it on his hardcopy folder next to his right hand. "You've earned yourself a reputation of being an excellent pilot and officer with exemplary command capability. I have no doubts you would make a fine ship commander some day, or a teacher." "Thank you sir." "However, I find myself quite at a loss of judging new recruits. As you see, I've had quite a dialogue with Admiral Kulaski while discussing our intentions for you." "Getting to the point," he turned to Sarah. "General Olvesky?" "Yes sir," she rose, slipping a wink at Rachel as she withdrew a small pointing device from the table. All of sudden, she fell into a "nothing-but-business" mode. "Recapping the final events of the Sentinels War, we can see that with the exception of Admiral Hunter and company, no one has been able to confirm the existence of the Regis and her so-called half of the Invid continuum. During the galactic mop-up operations in the Caligulus and Apholos sub- quadrants, we have come across fascinating examples of Invid social and militaristic organization amongst the more organized factions of the Regent's forces. I believe, Lieutenent, you are most familiar with the incident of Domera II." "Yes, sir." "During the Patrician incident, we've received reports of brief skirmishes just outside of the Haydon system with what we would designate as unaffiliated forces. Four years later, Ambassador Exedore and a group from Dr. Emil Lang's astrophysics team have determined an energy pulse heading in the direction of the First Quadrant, and more specifically, the Alpha Supersector. Its almost synomonous with intel reports and myths we've heard about the Regis, and her ability to fold her entire species into what I'll simply refer to as mindstuff. All this is limited knowledge amongst the REF, since almost eighty-percent of the general staff and ninety-five percent of the P-Council concur that the Regis either doesn't exist or has forces far beneath the Regent's military level. However, we have come across new evidence that finally supports our fears of the Regis' active forces in the Galaxy, particularly long-range spectroscopic images that seem to indicate that a nebulaic substance has been travelling near our Local Group, possibly having found Earth. The composition is similar to the material residue left behind by the Invid Sensor Nebula discovered hiding in Haydon IV's periphelion orbit. First we've prepared a background summary for you. Colonel Greenwood?" A lanky-jawed colonel with a decisively Southland accent reared up from the sub-brass contigent sitting close to Yoshanava. "Thank you, General. I begin with noting that the REF has currently launched two publicly announced expeditions back to Earth, Major Carpenter's Recon Group and the Relief Group under the co-supervision of Colonel Wolff. The Recon mission was sent to discover the reason for the lapse in Space Station Liberty's automatic transmissions following the first of January 2028. After Carpenter's launch, we received a single distress call. It was determined that hyperspace comms had flucuated between Earth and Tirol with considerable interference from our initial spacefold. We originally postulated a time-suspension anamoly that would've resulted in the SDF-3 maintaining hyperspace velocity for an undetermined amount of time, but reports dictate that the fold engine's of the SDF-3 have operated correctly and we have suffered only a total of one month of hyperspace suspension. We've discovered that the Recon Group suffered a brief time lapse in its fold from its launch in 2029, and its defold- confirmed -in 2030. The Relief Group, consisting of the Marcus Antonius and Chimera-class refitted attack cruisers, folded back to Earth to respond to the distress call, suffering little hyperspace flucuation and successfully avoiding any fold problems. However, a special detachment to the Relief Group had missed the transgalactic "fold window," and ended up defolding in the year 2032, well after the REF's Earth Joint Defense Forces and Southern Cross had been marginally rebuilt. Major Caan has prepared a brief technical report on the subject." He temporarily conceded to a smaller, stockier G2 major from their science division. "Both Robotech Research Groups," Caan cleared his throat and read from his paper-brief, "on Tirol and Haydon IV hypothesized that the relatively slow velocities of Valivarre in relation to Sol regularly effect the hyperspace `map' fold engines mathmatically caculate to engage in the space-fold physical activities that allows this method of transportation to take place. Currently, both teams are working on a solution, although they have ruled out one answer based on the mavigational problems of making a series of short spacefolds across the galaxy. As you do know, folds made within local jump, such as a maximum of three kiloparsecs, are not seriously affected by this time dilation factor. However, a fold jump in excess of ten kiloparsecs will suffer up to years in defold-suspension. May I remind you that Terra is approximately sixty-thousand lightyears from the closest fold point in the Tirolian Local Group. In the mean time, a chronology and almanac of these shifts in fold varience have been recorded in all databanks with the greatest degree of accuracy at this time. According to these databanks, the optimum fold window closed off two years ago." "Thank you, Major," the major took his seat as the floor focused back on the intelligence colonel. "The hyperspace communication lapse has been generally solved, however, we've lost contact with Wolff soon after the ASC 15th's return with the Antonius. We've learned that Major Carpenter is alive and well, though the Tokugawa is destroyed. We've also learned of the final results of the Terran war against the Masters. However, following May of 2033, Earth went silent to us, except in certain cases. May I turn over the floor to my collegue." "Thank you, Colonel. Colonel Reid, continue," Yoshanava permissed. A much smaller, pot-bellied young man who seemed to resemble a Karbarran cub, produced his report. Rachel had noticed that much of the activity on the lower bridges had halted. "We know, with all probability, that the Invid have reached Earth, and the REF is finally releasing official reports on the situation. We've maintained an intermittent non-protoculture link with the Uranus outpost setup up by the 3rd SC, as well as occasional communications Mars Base Gloval. The Trident report finalized the needed confirmation." "The Regis- its indisputably her -is now in possession of Earth," G3 analyst Reid said nonplussedly, with an unearthly monotone voice. "During this time, we have established a small, near-realtime tachyon radio link with a group of agents, labelled ULYSSES and RIGEN specifically, about the same time we confirmed the Regis' existence, and her destination: Earth." Reid immediately ceded to Yoshanava after completing the details of his report, including much more convincing evidence of the Regis' existence and estimated strength. "Lieutenent," the Russian said. "Basically what we have elaborated on here today is a small part of a larger picture that we hope you will learn once this mission is underway. The REF command is asking for your service in the reclamation of Earth from her captors." "Sir?" "Which is why we have arranged for your transfer along with your 24th AVAC, Sigma-Clear, with which you will carry the war to the Regis, in a manner of the most elite confidentiality..." "We intend to launch a sole Tristar-class starship, the Thunderbolt, to establish a new wave of Point Forces here." A map of Earth appeared on the holo-screen at the center of the table. It moved inward towards a point in Southlands. "Point K." The holomap focused in on the Amazonas, and stats of the force's strength were listed to the side. "The last transmissions from RIGEN indicated that ALuCE commanders were planning to wait for a surmounted offensive. Mars Base Gloval hasn't the foggiest idea of when or where this will be taking place, and we need to desperately establish a communicable operative to appraise us of the situation surrounding Reflex Point." "Reflex Point?" The holo-map shifted north by north-east over the Caribbean and halting over a spot of land that had once been the Ohio Valley. "Reflex Point is a hive, pretty much like the one on Optera and Cephaid 96 Grinch II. However, it is of incredible proportions in comparison, it least two or three times larger than the aforementioned two." The hologram indicated it had been taken by a satellite that remained undetected in orbit. Of course, the image was two years old, during the three year construction phase of Invid hives and fortifications planetside. Rachel pulled in a breath as every rumor she had ever heard seemed to be fulfilling themselves like apoclyptic prophecies. "Our last communiques with our operatives gave us sketchy comfirmation regarding an Invid related attack on the Zentraedi Robotech Factory- only a fifth escaped to Earth. Our Earth-link continued for a year longer before cutting off completely." "Beyond that, we can only conclude that Earth has indeed been subjugated by the Invid presence. We have received intermittent communiques from Mars Base Gloval and Sara, but both have ceased within two years of each other. We still cannot dispute the death and disarmament, however, of the Regent's forces." "According to these reports, all the hives of the Regis on Earth are signifigantly more powerful than those we've encountered amongst the Regent's forces. We are very curious of this breed of Invid's behavioral patterns- a much more efficient and unbreakable bond of hive-mind than that examplified by interviews with the Invid Tesla." Rachel decided this G3 analyst, by the name of Gramm, was some sort of psychologist, or xenopschyiology specialist. Gramm continued. "The point is is that forces under Wolff's command and the elite forces of Colonel Tojirama's 23rd AVAC have encountered almost debilitating resistence, much more severe and haunch that any we've ever encountered. For that reason, we gave orders to the 23rd's Southlands group to establish a base around one of the old United Earth Alliance's secrets, kept hidden even from the UEG by the RDF during Reconstruction." With expert timing, an image that DuBois recognized to be schematics of a Grand Cannon, appeared. "The Grand Cannon project in Alaska had been opened to UEDC review under former RDF Admiral Hayes. However, the Admiral had concealed the construction of the seven other Grand Cannon's, save the never completed Venezuela mechanism. This included a strategic point that had survived the First Robotech War." "The Brazilian Grand Cannon is located some two-hundred kilometers south-west of the Southland region known as the Brazilas. The Amazon Bason has retained much of its foliage, making it the ideal encampment for a Special Forces Unit. When we received the 15th's reports on the spores that had spread across Canada and the Southlands, Wolff's units had received orders following the Marcus Antonius' return to Tirol to setup points of resistence for the pending Invid attack. The Thunderbolt will complete this mission, but you will depart before hand to ensure that this information is received by the commander of a specific Southland resistence force, Agent RIGEN." "We are interested in setting up this cannon as a Robotech factory, and it will produce mecha that will not only run on protoculture reflex drives, but drives capable of supporting a new ionic-fusion technique." "You'll be supplying the information that will arm our world against a falsely assumed `indomitable' foe." The social ramifications were staggering. No doubt High Command understood that Terra had gone through enough damage and tears to turn feelings of heated resentment towards any force from space, human or not. But to work from within... The colonel sat down; Olvesky immediately took the reins of the briefing. "Now, we all understand the major reason for misfolds between our two star systems are the result of Valivarre's and Sol's relative slow velocities compared to their great distances from each other. Currently, a device developed on Earth is being tested and retrofitted to key vessels to test for intra-galactic long distance instantaneous fold. The Mars Fleet, we've determined, may suffer a two-year lapse in what seems to be a rather instant spacefold. However, we currently have two teams working to resolve this problem. However, they will not be in time for what we have in store for you, lieutenent." Vince Grant eased his collar as he stared at the holo- display, which immediately projected the schematics of a strange looking vessel. "Dr. Tijaro?" Olvesky called. Lieutenent DuBois whipped her head around as two men stepped out of the shadow. One, she recognized, was rich boy pilot, an ebony-skinned commander, and heir to the TXI Encom corporation based on Tirol, and CAG of the Black Angels, stationed currently on the Yamato. He escorted a much elder man of Japanese descent, one whom she recognized from her early years on Haydon Monoceros. "Its nice to see you again, Lieutenent. Its only too bad I can't actually see you," he smiled, removing a pair of augmented glasses to reveal his permanently closed eyes. During the years struggling against time on Haydon menoceros, he had developed a rare strain of some alien disease that had only stopped once his sight was permanently wrecked. Only the small sensor devices in his sunglasses allowed him to register the world around him in a mechanical excuse for sight. Though now, he could see more and see farther than any human being's perfect naked eyes, his were permanently raped of their youthful brilliance, and that maniacal glint that Rachel had so admired would be forever shut behind his eyelids. However, he seemed to now catch the mysticism that only Lang and Zand had received, their eyes betraying their unique contact with protoculture. If anything could be said, Tijaro had a unique grasp of Robotechnology itself. "This is my aide, Commander Cannady. I'm not sure if you've met." "I'm afraid not," the commander replied for her. "However, I've heard much about you from Dr. Garreteau. It is a pleasure to meet you." An abrupt cough from the TCIC shifted the focus back on the briefing. "Of course," Tijaro mumbled. "Forgive me. This is the prototype of the third generation of Terran starship design, the UES Rigellan, SDF-6 Lunayoshin superclass. As you know, the Rigel series of the Ikazuchi superclass will probably not be completed by the launch time for the Mars Fleet, and is reserved for the command groups only. However, there are Invid back home, and this ship is the one to get you there safe and sound." He elaborated on the schematics, with a fidget that Rachel recognized as hiting to something even more exciting. Tijaro had only minimal influence with this new design, but he was well-known to take pride in his inventions that superceded even Lang's in the secretive eyes of these group of men. For decades, he had been in the shadow of the mind- boosted German protoculturist, but since he departed from the great Earthling Robotech "Master," he had made a legend out of himself, reclaiming the credit for the design of the Valkyrie Veritech fighter, and, as this discussion was reaching, the design of further Valkyrie contigents. "As you know already, Admiral Hunter has expressed an almost nostalgic interest in the development of the Valkyrie fighter, to which this carrier design is most adapt to supporting, so now, we shift to the next phase of this preliminary mission briefing." "Lieutenent DuBois, may I also present to you the YF- 1SVF Leopard Vindicator Valkyrie, the first to incorporate the Shadow Device." "With all due respect," DuBois cut in. "Lang's research teams-" "Haven't completed their device," Tijaro completed. "By now you should know what your dear uncle has been working on with me for the past three years, right?" "He never really told me much about his job." "What a shame," Tijaro clicked his tongue. "Anyway, the Tijaro Shadow Device, while not as elaborate as Lang's protoculture machine, may actually prove to be a more practical design when incorporated into the Valkyrie design. We've had some problems with Alpha Fighter versions, and currently, only four of those `Shadow Fighters' are operational. However, we've developed an entire wing of these bastards with the Leopard design." Tijaro concluded with schematics of the pitch-black fighter, describing its Shadow Device, which ran on the principle of cloaking a fighters protoculture and non- protoculture emmissions by re-energizing them out of phase; it managed to use those emmissions to supply forty percent of its needed power. Rachel listened intently as the briefing continued, but it sooned turn to emotionless expression as she thought back, only a short time ago, when black missions had first lost the sweet taste of success, and the bitterness tripled. * * * Four months later.... ..and three years, Earth actual.... "Dammit!" the communications officer cursed to herself. "Captain, nothing on three-band frequencies, nothing!" "Keep trying, that tachyon radio's in prime condition. Something's gotta be getting through," the ship's commander, a Karbarran "commodore" by the name of K'rrk, had found even the widened version of the Terran command chair painfully uncomfortable. Wearing the traditional uniform of a Local Group Space officer, he found himself emersed with a largely Terran and Zentraedi crew. Ferrying these "hoo-mans" across the galaxy was hardly the apple of promotion in the eyes of his superiors, but surely he could get the Tracialle, or maybe the Yirrbisst, or any true Karbarran vessel, out of this. K'rrk had made a small name for himself in the battles against Invid reciprocal forces following the Karbarran campaign, and had commanded the second of the Karbarran Oomak design starships following their production subsequently after the discovery and reactivation of the Master's Karbarran satellite. "Nothing, sir," she took off her headset. "Four weeks and nothing. You do realize that even tachyon communications between us and the rest of the REF were only tentative." "Lorek?" The only other Karbarran on the bridge, a rather stolid specimen, turned from his station. "Captain, it would be logical to assume that the Sol's current velocity to Valivarre is dirupting communication. With this equipment, or even anything in the whole of the old Robotech Master's empire, its not guarenteed that they are even receiving or communications. It is also possible to assume that they are receiving, and yet are unable to reply." "But why?" "Might I remind you that our spacefold, as expected, took a lapse of three years. I've intercepted various radio waves from the planet's surface; there are a scant few that are decipherable. I have reached to conclusions. One, the current date, now set into our computers is August 28, 2039, at least three years from our former Tirol-Terran Standard Date, placing our arrival date on July 30. Second, it is possible an incident has occured in the Fourth Quadrant, as I am reading an unprecedented supernova in the general direction of the Karbarran-Garudan sector. It is most logical to conclude it is the result of the contained nova of the Terran-labelled 5677 Trianguli; a burgeoning star in the Southern Cross. The resultant nebula's light will not reach Earth for thirty-eight thousand standard Terran-years, discounting dispersal factors. Location: approximately fourteen kiloparsecs from the center of Tirol's local sector. It war formerly a member of the supercluster of the proper name Faro'fanto, Terran labelled Trianguli-Beta cluster, and previously an unstable red giant. I estimate the nova's probability of disrupting tachyon communications at at least seventy-eight percent. However, that would fail to explain why Carpenter's and Wolff's groups communications were disrupted. Therefor, two other possibilities are presented: Either the REF has faced an incident within the past three years that has disabled there ability to receive and/or transmit tachyon long-range communications, and/or we are simply unable to transmit due to unexplainable circumstances over such distances. However, both currently have no sufficient data to go on." "Well, isn't that a bit grim," K'rrk growled. "What else can you tell me." "Nothing save we have not yet been able to achieve any contact with the Terran `Mars Base Gloval,' which does carry tachyon-communication equipment. I would not recommend the use of normal radio frequencies at this time though, captain, although I would recommend `round-the-clock' monitoring." "Couldn't Gloval have been destroyed by the Invid by now? The base that is.": K'rrk speculated, turning to his human operations officer. At the same time, a tuft of debris, possibly Zentraedi, or Terran, or Tirolian, floated by the forward viewshield. "Possibly, but reports did indicate that this ULYSSES was in contact at least four months after the initial Invasion. We'd have to insert ourselves in Martian orbit to ascertain much of anything. Obviously, we risk opening our guard if we do." "Damn," the Karbarran growled. "Keep monitoring. Still nothing on any enemy or even remotely hostile activity?" "She's as quiet as a mouse," the ops officer replied, and then to himself. "Too quiet.." * * * "Commander," Rachel hesitated before turning around; she was still uncertain about her sudden promotion to command rank. Lieutenent Commander. "Yeah?" "Seems kinda eerie out here, don't it?" "What the hell are you talkin' about, Pheta?" "Well," he took in a breath. Corsette was a descendent of the Cherokee and Mannussett tribes of that long-forgotten people that original inhabited the eastern coastline of North America. They had blended into the homogenous mixture of that region far earlier than the SDF-3's departure. "I've never been planetside on Earth, or Terra, or whatever the hell the astrogationist call it. Probably saw it when I was a little kid, on the factory satellite, but even that's gone now. The memory...you know? I've never been planetside." "Really," Rachel understood. She herself was of a new generation raised half-way across the galaxy. Though privilaged to have once been nursed in the beautiful tropics of what had once been Technoctitlan, she now found herself emersed with more memories of a vast, cold metallic interior of a gigantic, warped starbase, and even those memories were faint compared to those she had collected during her ten years in the Fourth Quadrant. "There's nothing much. Rain, you'll get to see some rain, but nothing much different from...er...where are you from?" "Rilac Base," Corsette broadly grinned. "No, no precipitation there." Tirol was blanketed with a vast vapor content that allowed for the respiration and transpiration of her sparse plant life to continue without the aide of rain. Droughts, however, were always a common fact of life. "Look at those weather patterns. You'd think they'd use an atmospheric controller or something." "I doubt they've developed that technology yet. You haven't really been off Tirol much, have you?" "I'm probably the best transatmospheric and orbital fighter jock you'll find `round these parts, but those were wargames and simulations. I'm afraid I missed the action by some four years, sir." "Ma'am." "Uh...yes ma'am." "But we're off duty now, so you can call me Rachel." "Yes ma'am." "Nevermind." Rachel sighed. She had grown up all over the Fourth Quadrant, though her primary home had been with her uncle on Haydon's moon, Monoceros, after her mother had left four years after the REF's arrival over Fantoma. To her surprise, the elite squadron group she had anticipated commanding had turned out to be nothing more than a group of hotshot planetary defensies Command figured burned enough to be put into active duty. Corsette had a flight rating of 8.9, at least one point above her rating. Anything above seven was extraordinary, and the top notch, including such pilots as Roy Fokker, Rick Hunter, Maximillian Sterling, Thomas Edwards, Jeanne Tabereaux, Xiao Pi'ching and Marty Fenston were all above nine point five. However, very few had over a month or so of active duty, and even less had seen some measure of combat. Rachel, a veteran of the mop- up operation, which was considered a trifle compared to the preceding war, was one of the most war-hardened among them. "Earth's as real a planet as you'll ever see, Lieutenent. No massive gas giant looking over your shoulder for months, 24 hour days with roughly equal daylight and nightlight. But she's still not as beautiful as you might've been hoping for..." She pointed a finger pass the observatory window towards a greenish-white could hovering over Australia and stretching upward towards. A string of lights seemed to emit from the center, as if a vague sign of civilization. Her hopes of Earth's survival sometimes felt hinged on these brief periods in which they passed over the Oceania Quadrant. Both had read, but had never fully realized the extent of damage the Holocaust had done. "She really looks wrecked." "Imagine Garuda, or Karbarra. Better yet, Optera, after defoliation." Corsette breathed in. "Yeah," she bit her lip. "This'll be our next to final orbit.. We better get ready." "Yes, ma'am," Corsette shot up to attention, immediately heading out of the observatory. Rachel found herself alone with her thoughts, staring at the sapphire jewel that she would have to bear to see alone, without family nor friend. * * * Captain (Lieutenent full Naval equivalent) Winters, REF Aerospace Force detachment to the 24th AVAC, which would link up and assimilate into the 23rd as soon as they reached Earth, and recenty turned twenty-five, strapped himself in snuggly, adjusting for maximum comfortability. The feel of a Veritech underneath him felt as if someone had reattached a lost limb to the point of perfection. Inserting his system disc, he watched in delight as the systems danced to life. "Warm-up's not for another hour, sir." "I know, Sarge," he looked down to his bird's chief mechanic. "I like to get an early start, as I gather the Commander does. Whattya think?" "About what?" "RIGEN and the Colonel. Think they're still down there, at least alive? Second time around, Sarge, I think you'd get the picture." Sarge smiled. He wasn't the master sergeant his stripes indicated, though he had been a senior agent once in the intel business under Niles Obstat, decades ago. "Not really. I would gather they're still about. Look for my old friend ULYSSES when you get planetside; I picked out a good crew for you." Winters smiled. He had sorted out early before the trip across space and time back to Earth. Winters had been a warrant officer canidate slated for the original mission when the 23rd AVAC had left secretly in this same ship, deposited in the exit same landing drop that they were about to make now. His mission was the same as any other fighter pilot under the command of Commander DuBois, with the second function as their "passport." As the canopy closed, he stared through the glass at the pitch-black Horizont carrier that would shuttle down a large amount of the Cyclone troops assigned to the small Leopard group. The other two groups of the AVAC including a Marine company and two older Cheetah "Shadowcat" VT squadrons. Running his fingers up and down the leather of his sidestick, he suddenly came to a halt, imersed in the anticipation of this new cause. His position with the AVAC was vital; he would be the 24th's ID certificate in the Southlands. * * * The beginning of the beginning had come. Earth looked newborn, more like she had millenia ago before man discovered fire, and then the rising of civilization. The pollution greened the atmosphere slightly, while large pockets over the Pacific, since healed by reconstruction and Earh-healing measures executed by the massive fleet of the Southern Cross during the `20s, and the clear skies over the Southlands. They had not seen the Northlands as of yet, the wreckages of Monument and Macross, the meccas that humanity had crawled into with their Zentraedi brethren, and had been forced to coexist in. The second millenia had brought on an age of change so great, it was beyond the imaginations of the futurists of the previous; the Book of Revelations itself could not have adeqautely described Armeggedon in the words of the time, a time where destruction of that magnitude was unconcievable, although quite viable. Nearly twenty years ago, the SDF-3 and a rag-tag group of Tokugawa series Ikazuchi battlewagons and ARMD and Ophelia class escorts departed from Earth orbit, from the berth of the Zentraedi Factory Satellite that had all but disappeared completely in the wrath of the Invid Queen. Nearly stranded in the warp between Earth and Tirol, and a further decade repairing the engines and constructing the fleets. As time passed in space, it seemed much more slowly than on Earth. The children grew, but their preceding generation did not seem to grow much older. Even Hunters themselves had been subject to the intersteller phenomona so dubbed the fountain of youth, and his age was only indicated in his weariness of the war he had brought to the Master's frontyard. Seven years of war against the Invid, a powerful enemy whose King had sought to dominate the Local Group, then the Fourth Quadrant and Earth, and finally, the whole of the Galaxy. Never in several billion years had a race came so close to achieving its goal of galactic conquest in this seemingly backwater galaxy, but only those men called gods, and others called beings, had any idea why and how. The battles that had liberated the ursinoids of Karbarra, the fox-like Garudans, the silicon based crystal- people of Spheris, and the Devils of Peryton. Haydon IV came into question, but thoughts of that world, and even that system sent chills down the spine of those Academy graduates who had come by that way. "Olorin Prime to Homeplate, receive and acknowledge." "Receiving Olorin Prime. Olorin Secondary and Teritary are lining up now, deploying....released." "Copy that, Homeplate. Have a nice day, and give us a little room on your way out." "Roger that, Olorin Prime. Wish we could check out the motel before we head out." "Negative. Give my regards to K'rrk." "He accepts." A slight chuchle from both ends was muffled as the Horizont "Olorin Prime" moved out of close range communications and into the ship-to-ship "black-out zone." >From here, only priority bursts between shuttles would be permitted. She began her slow descent towards Earth, flanked by two Shadow Alpha's requisitioned at painstaking costs from the RRG and retrofitted with the Tijaro Cloak. The other two were flanked by the more standard Cheetah escort, invisible to human, or Invid, sensors. At least for the moment. The mix bag of Marine, Aerospace Force, and Naval units, all grouped together in mixed bag divisions and ready to disperse across the planet, descended through the upper atmosphere. Pete watched the surface of the blue-white world hover in darkness, no movement, no signs of technology whatsoever. As could be anticipated, he succombed to the sharp feeling that for whatever they came to save, it was too late. "No movement whatsoever. Few areas of concentrated uses of electricity, but nothing major. Minimal returns on the forcefield data." "Relax, Pete," the Horizont shuttle commander replied. "We're not even over the Argentine, yet. I'll bet there something up north, at least in the way of Monument." "There was before I left." "We've got a pretty good idea what Earth was like before the jump; your barside stories need to fine-tuning." "Thank's cap'n." "Coming to fifty kilometers ASL, passing forty-seven over Andes Territory Mark fifteen minutes." Outside, DuBois and Corsette escorted Olorin Secondary into the Earth's atmosphere. The initial heating was immediately muffled by wide-spread sensor countermeasures and disruption, wiping the dazzlement from the buildup on their heat shields. As they passed through the red zone, she could see the Pacific Ocean, South America gaining upon them. "Still nothing, not even a fire." she said over the highly secured tac-net. They were approaching blindside to any sensor units the Invid might have picked up; although, radio silence in these instances was a text-book rule. "No volcanic activity?" "Not so much as a rumble, sir?" Rachel switched off her fighter-to-ship monitor and concentrated on the task at hand. Gaging their speed and distance, they would drop down to subsonic around the Galapogos islands, following the same exact flight pattern the 23rd used only four years before, or seven in local reckoning. "Radio activity is getting real dull around here. A few scramps of static, but nothing decipherable." "Ignore it, commander," Pheta suggested. "It can't be anything important." "I wonder if anyone's left alive down there." "What about Australia?" "Who knows?" The Horizont group swept inward, slowing down ever so gradually as they reached the shoreline of what was once Peru, sloping southward over Amazonia and lower, low enough to define the twilight treetops looking to the stars of a new night. * * * _______ _______ CHAPTER II- I had spent some four years on the run before I found out as much about the Expedition as I could. The more I heard, the more I became esentful, and even pitiful for these first returnees who had been deceived by a most-likely corrupt leadership into believing victory was inevitable. Almost trained not to consider their own safety over the mission, I realized that many had virtually lost contact with their humanness, a quality that made many of these `freedom fighters' seem alien to all of us. Our mission was not only to support these fighters from the stars, but to remind them of where they all came from. I knew, however, Earth was now far from being called by home by these newcomers. -Lieutenent (ret) Alfred Nathaniel Foley, Southern Cross Navy, from his book Before the Beginning- The Pre-Mars Fleet War, read live over radio, 2049, incorporated into the Human Relations series publications in 2058 * * * 28 August 2039 MACK LOOKED AT THE SKY, A FAINT EMANATION WHAT SEEMED LIKE A sonic boom; it had dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. Intrigued, he jumped back into the makeshift trailer, constructed from surrogated metal welded by a mysteriously acquired Olbram MpK29 Goruyva-Kalashnikov plasma rifle, an EBSIS firearm. His rich-black, salt-and-pepper beard from ten years earlier had long faded into a forest of mixed grey and green-brown. The grey shadows over the Amazon Basin signalled another indoor alert. However, that state of emergency had ended nearly six years ago. A fool had detonated a nuclear warhead not far from the coast of what was once Chile, and the flattened South Andean Chain of mountainous terrain gave a perfect, if not aesthetically pleasing, view of the horrendous pollution build up on what was known as Dead Walker's Coast. Stretching out fifty kilometers from the grey coastline, and lining the coast of Chile from Santiago to New Valdivia (some ten hundred kilometers), it was barely navigable, and deadly to swim in without adequate protection. He sweated in the heated fog as he completed the his last survey of the area before moving on. The trailer was modest, and clean. Inside was a personal oven, a toilet and some computerized plumbing, a refridgerator and freezer, and a computer terminal. He headed for his terminal station, long since severed from the once busy Worldnet and Internet; though not dead, these services interconnecting lines of communications (by the 21st century, was primarily satellite), had been swept away by first the Zentraedi Holocaust, the Master's communicative disruptions, and finally, the forwardness of the Invid Regis' attack. As he looked down into the valley, he knew that few people actually recognized their oppressors presence, and fewer cared. At this time, heroes were criminals in the eyes of the many, the ones who had brought punishment and pain to the world. He, unfortunately, had left the comfortable ranks of the majority to become the rare of persecuted breeds. "Point-Alpha-Romeo-November, this is Recon-Trump- Crimea." "Read, RTC. This is Alpha-Romeo-November. Go ahead." "I just heard a sonic boom over our area. To submissive to be a Scout unit." "Scoutship?" "I doubt it, sir." "What about one of Lamos' jets?" "Unless he's wasting some of his Falcon's fuel over us, I doubt it. I haven't heard something that quiet in years." "You heard something quiet? Maybe that means its nothing, Mack." "It was a sonic boom, sir." "We hear ya'. Did you get a vector and/or course?" "I didn't get a sensor reading on it, but it seemed to be heading north-north-east, towards Brazil." "That's pretty damn close." "I know," Mack nodded, lighting a cigarrette. "I recommend you advise HQ." "Will do. ARN out." * * * For a person who had only heard of the Robotech Defense Force, the Southern Cross, the REF, and the old Global Defense Forces in elaborate fashion, it would surprise them to see that the only REF "base" in Amazonia resembled a ragtag former local airfield supporting a band of high-tech mercenaries. In some sense, this was true, and "mercenary" was an adequate, if somewhat overly harsh, label for this group. Their duty uniforms greatly differed from those used by either the REF in the Fourth Quadrant, or the former Robotech Defenders and Southern Cross; all which emphasized stringent codes of uniform. Robotech mecha were much more easily cared for than their non-transformable counterparts. For that reason, old cartel runways and third-rate military installations had been salvaged and put back to use. The official REF designation for this group would be a squadron-battalion combined; though a mere two companies of five fast attack Destroids, and a fourteen plane squadron hardly satisfied the G4 definition. The "mercenaries" donned light and loose uniforms that conveniently fitted in with the surrounding environment. Duty personnel wore barely-issuable khaki shorts and tee-shirts, adorning only a rank pin and a few service honorifics. Pilots wore traditional flight suits, outfitted with micro-coolant waves that kept them comfortable and at full alert during suit up. Nausea was best to be avoided in business like this, so every member of the task force was assigned liquid booster packs, and coolant packs. The Amazonian winter barely differed from its summer, particularly when the annhilation bolts of Dolza's fleet had struck the western fringes broadside over twenty years ago. The Commander had been thinking about things long past, a time when her superiors were so sure of victory, they had already decided how to reorganize an occupied Earth following the overthrow of her current regents. They had originally come, as Wolff and the Relief Group and Tojirama's "Venus Wave" to clean up Earth from the mess the Robotech Masters were causing. However, both Wolff's and Tojirama's folds had deprived them of the luxury of rendezvousing with the remains of the Jutland Advance Fleet, and Wolff appeared in real space months after the Jutland had refolded back for Tirol. Even more astounding, the Venus group arrived two years later! They were in time to be faced with an internal planetary skirmish, but not before both sides of the Second Robotech War nearly mutually- annihilated each others fighting forces. Her mission had changed as soon as his had, and it had been only a few short weeks before rumors that had been floating prior to the Opteran Invasion Task Force's departure- that the Regis, that mystical being that had been little more than a rumor, a ghost to the REF, was leaving for Earth. Combing through the Fourth and First Quadrants (a triangular Fourth Quadrant by Tirolian reckoning) for the lost Protoculture Matrix, she finally found a world rich with Flowers of Life and a climate similar to Optera pre-defoliation. Naturally, she took it for her own. Ror jolted from her reverie as a chief popped his head through the tent opening. "Commander Toussainte just got back from the Alpha Points. She wants you keyed in on something immediately." "Let her in," she felt like some type of TC commander, her office a mere tent shrouded with a dehumidifier to clear the warm equatorial atmosphere of excess moisture. A mildly tall blond woman of Frankish-Anglo descent stepped into the room. Her hair was frizzled from days out in the "field;" gathering reports from the various outer perimeter lookouts and tracking Invid movements to the nearer enforcements near Norristown and even as far as Roca Negra and Cabualo territories. Toussainte was a young woman with over twelve years of distinguished service, and one of the youngest soldier veterans of the Earth Defense Forces, or Army of the Southern Cross has it had become known to be by 2030. She had participated in the `28 EDF peace-keeping mission to Venezuela, only to find herself and her commander, Captain Kyle Mitingham, who had died only two years ago in one of the most vain attacks the 23rd AVAC had engaged in, pitting against the `former' Southern Cross apparat of the peace- keeping force. Her heart held no love for Anatole Leonard, the would-be-dictator that even today suffered the burden as the man who had failed to protect Earth from both the Masters and the Invid. His death had quickly brought anarchy to much of the world, and cities like Mannattan and even the vaguely "independent" Tokyo had fallen prey to disorder and unrest. The Canadian frontier had become the slaving grounds of the Northlands, all territories she was familiar with during her stint with the 25th TASC. But the Southern Cross, her forces, and her power, as well as the UEG and the EBSIS, were long gone. Over five years had passed since the Invid swarm had broken past Earth's meager orbital defenses, destroying the factory satellite and many of the millions of Zentraedi that had finally been forced onboard. Only a few thousand survived the holocaust to find themselves herded with their Micronian brethren in slave camps in Europe and Canada. After the Invid had lost interest in Europe's nearly infertile plain, the Zentraedi had finally championed their civil rights; equality in misery was a fact of life. Starving cities in ruin, radiation clouds over North Africa and Near Asia, and the terrorism and disorder throughout the world had stiffened the former French State national to her cause in the Southlands. "Lieutenent Charlotte Toussaint, sir." "Welcome back, Chez.. How was your trip?" "Uneventful, except for this." She removed a crude audio player, a turn of the century minidisk machine, and popped in a diskette labelled Point- ARN. The point commander, Aaron Mackall, was a former Robotech Defense Force Destroid Company commander during the First Robotech War. That time had receded into the shadows of two other wars, where chivalry and love were all but forgotten. Few recalled that it was the voice and soul of Lynn-Minmei that had captivated Dolza's armada into a lulling daze, leaving them vunerable to Breetai's and Gloval's combined forces. Jan Ror had always considered the formerly retired a reminder of those days where war seemed to have certain rules. Ror stood, placing her hands akimbo while wiping a trickle of sweat from her brow. She simply donned a military-black tank-top revealled a camoflauged olive overshirt. Her name was printed as J. Ror, 2nd Team 23rd AVAC, on the crown of her right-breast pocket. "How many sonic booms?" "Three over at Manazua, one near Mack's position." "But the Invid use oblique flying signatures, so their craft wouldn't make a audibly detectable sonic booms, at least not in this type of nominal condition. I'll be damned if they'd fly supersonic over land; it's just not them." "That's what got to me, Chez. No civilian flights have passed over that area for two years," the Invid had halted most hypersonic transports from operation (directed from the Atlantian Hive near Washington) after five incidents of "terrorism" that resulted in the severe damage of the Amazonian River hive. That damage had since been repaired, as Toussaint's own intelligence-network had verified in the last few months. "What about near New Lima?" "Nothing there." "They'll be passing pretty close by, right?" "Yes, but..." Ror looked away from her advisor and keyed her intercom to the "outside office.' "Michaels?" "Here sir," a tight voice replied. "I want Childs and Porter in the air in five minutes, lieutenent." "Yes sir!" * * * The anni-disc raved body of a Queadol-Magdomilla rose like an artifice from the morning sky. Not nearly as impressive as the flagship that had rooted itself in Britain, one of the few remaining such vessels after the delitteration program the UEG affected back in the teens, it remained as a subtle reminder by the Souther Cross of the Zentraedi war, and an empty bandy around which Northland refugees of both races would find as their home for the next ten years. A small desert in Argentina had formed slowly around this sole survivor of this massive eyesore. Pilgrimages from the moderately populated and recently tamed Cape Horn had often passed through this area, reminded of a war that had begun it all. One of the lead command battleships of the 1405th Sarpeno Mechanized Division, a non-Dolzan detachment (presumably from another legendary and mystical fleet), she had supported over 20 thousand full-size Zentraedi in stasis or in action. Many of her sisters that did not make planetfall had fallen prey to the scavenging operations of the REF some fifteen years earlier. The commander of the Sarpeno Mech-Division, Pargu Tul, had been a former adjutant to Clozan, flagship commander under Dolza, and a personal liaison between Breetai and Clozan during the search for the SDF-1. When that search ended up with the discovery of Earth and the exposure of the Grand Fleet to the acculturating music of Lynn-Minmei, his ships had been most strong and resistent to its effects. However, most of his battalion of five-hundred starships had been immediately engulfed in the gargantuan energy surge that had bludgeoned apart Dolza's fortress and wiped half of the Zentraedi fleet out of existence by the first shockwave. Their recovery had not been complete when the second wave had knocked the remainder of the Sarpeno Division detachment out of stable orbit. As the Jiabo and the Quadrono battalions and their thousands of starships bludgeoned towards the Earth, Commander Pargu had managed to control a crashlanding on a relatively unblasted patch of land in the Southlands. Their apparent survival had been almost instantly diminished when a second cruiser, a smaller Thurvaal Salan, buried herself some four-hundred meters away, and had been disintegrated by a contained nuclear blast which helped formed the small desert around it- part of the UEG delitteration program. All of the four thousand survivors of Pargu's battalion, including the commander himself, had perished, leaving only the Queadol Magdomilla battleship intact, as an appeasement to the Breetai friendly battalion. During the Masters conflict, the area had heated down, only to become the battleground of Southern Cross units dispatched from ruined Monument command, Canada's suriving bases, and New Detroit to deal with the double EBSIS and HEARTH threats. Had the Masters noticed that the Argentine had become the central location of Earth's own internal wars, their surgical strikes may have been more successfully deployed against the irritating wound, toppling the Southern Cross forces from her appendages. The Sarpeno grave site had continued to remain intact, and preserved, even after the Jiabo wreckages of Arkansas and the Azonian wreckages near the Rocky Mountains had been looted and firebombed by both malcontents and opposing RDF/SCA/EDF forces. It wasn't until the Invid came that this site had finally been recognized for what its full worth as a salvage yard. "It seems like its been decades since I've been here last." "Right, Mack," a petite woman wearing a green bandana and faded tee-shirt said, irritated by the sweltering heat. "Let's hope its cooler in there than out here." "It should be. The interior of that thing couldn't have seen much sunlight, juding from how intact it is." "Which is it?" "What?" "Well, you're the Zent expert around here, Mack." "Zentraedi, private." "Sorry, sir. But you're the expert." "That's right Jeanne. Anyway, its one of their strike cruisers. See how it constrictes towards the forward bow looks like the slope off a Battle-class destroyer? It was a command ship, probably in the Orgotho Mechanized Division. A regular strike cruiser would've cut off at the drive section, with a sort of arching overhang for a bow." The Queadol-Magdomilla lay prone on its ventral- starboard hull, with its nosed inclined into the sand and dirt at a very negligble angle. But still, it was of appreciable size. Nearly three kilometers long, and nearly tall as a skyscraper, she placed some 82 million metric tonnes, minus the 18 million that compromised its bow section, of sheer weight onto the slowly sinking sand; indeed, she was sinking. From what Mack could judge, some twenty feet more than last year, at a probably rate of 1.6 feet a month. It would take a few decades before any appreciable sinking could be detected- Mack just had a much more acute eye than others, considering it was positronic. The sensor had been fashioned into the shape of an eye after he had seriously damaged is original during the Battle for Monument City. The remaining Southern Cross officers, including himself, had met and officially disbanded the Canadian sector from operational status, leaving the European and Asian bases in command. Incompetence along the lines of Anatole Leonard ran wild as succession after succession for Marshal of the Southern Cross continued at a rapid pace. Until the Invid all; in a perverted irony, they had brought some order to a world that had gone years without knowing such. The rover moved towards the great massive structure. It could hold a feasible compliment of 200,000 human-sized Micronians or micronized-Zentraedi as easily as it held at least nine thousand operational full-sized Zentraedi with seven-hundred mecha troops. "I guess it could be considered that we got the last of these bastards," Jeanne Marcel, a recent aquisition from Freetown, Mexico, thought to muse. Mack gave her a condescending look. "Hardly. I've read some books on Zent ships. They had some six million, and that means their are at least some five-hundred thousand still out there. Even with the REF coming back, I doubt they'd have the firepower to deal with that much force. Guess what?" "What?" "I also heard from some of the older aliens in my day about even more fleets, the size of Dolza's and Breetai's. Some say thousands, other's say hundreds or tens. But ever since I first saw this wreckage, and I kid you not, I have not seen one Dolzan emblazon or Adoclas subfleet division marking. In fact, it has a typical Zentraedi logo, but colored purple where it should be yellow." "So?" "If there are any of those fleets still out there, they must be rogues. The Master's are gone and the Zentraedi are on their own. I don't think we could stand up against those odds." "We did before," she replied with mock confidence. Jeanne was a member of the orphaned generation, those who had been children during the Rain of Death. Her family, excepting her late father and missing brother, had perished during the Jiabo and Garto Battalion lashes on Arkansas and the territory of the former United States. She had grown up during the departure of the REF, and only recollected the age of Robotech Defenders through the stories Mack had told her. Mack on the other hand, was somewhat of a mystery. "Dumb luck," Mack posed. His assessment was true. Some 6,890,000 ships had been commissioned into the Dolza Zentraedi Fleet, and at least six-hundred thousand of those remained free agents (not including the hundreds of Zentraedi vessels that had been rounded up into the asteroid field for refitting and the thousands that were scavenged to help rebuild Earth). However, he had heard stories from those medics who had gone off to Tirol and had conversed with the natives of that distant Quadrant. He was convinced that those six-hundred thousand were hardly alone, and even larger fleets than Dolza's existed, elsewhere, disbanded and probably acculturated, as the Imperative died within them as the Masters had fallen from power. Zent mysticism, Masters, death-dueling fleets. He shook the thought as they approached the long side of the cruiser. "Big sonuvabitch, ain't it?" Jeanne commented as the rover stopped in the vessels shadow. "Looks rich enough. Let's go." * * * Some seven-hundred miles north from the REF presence in the Sarpeno desert, two fourth-generation VT's took to flight, the morning sun having risen to its 8:00 position, with storm clouds forming in the East. The VTs were quite different from their Alpha cousins, and greatly resembled first-generation VF-1 Valkyries. Painted with Quickshade, their colored varied from light blue-white during the sun's higher inclinations, and slowly darkened to a pure black at night. The only standard paintjob on the Veritech was its plane designation, and a Squadron Motiff: An iron angel. The Cheetah was birthed second in a three phase expirement. Almost seven years ago, the REF Special Operations Committee, headed by temporary REF-CINC Admiral Forsythe, had deployed the elite 23rd AVAC, with seven teams to be planted throughout the world, as a retalitory force in the case of a potential Invid invasion. They had been nearly subjected to the fierce reciprocity the Invid Regis had dealt to the poor souls of the Factory Satellite, the near defunct Space Station Liberty, and the squabbling armies on the world below. The 23rd AVAC, and particularly, the 4th Team "Lance," had watched in bitter restraint as their brethren died in one last counterstrike, and had observed the movements of the Regis to the Northlands, and had watched the almost instantaneous "evolution" of Reflex Point. The Cheetah had instantly become a pocket weapon of resistence, and not of retaliation. Colonel Tojirama and Commander Ror had found themselves as freedom fighters, and no longer the opposing sides of a war. If this could be considered as such. The Cheetah's course headed from the Abitoza Airfield near Cuzanca and head for New Abuila and Teohicaten in Mexico. Childs sat in the pilot's seat, flying at low- speeds and at Nap of the Earth, running on auxillary fusion power rather than wasting Protoculture power cells. The result was not immediate inmanueverability (which had surprised many protoculture technicians). The neural interface in the helmet of the pilot and his RIO (the Cheetah that had been deployed was of the -C version of the Cheetah Valkyrie series) was the only protoculture powered mechanism operating, allowing for the fine-tuning and tactile feedback during mecha-mode operations. "Altitude, 200; speed, loitering at 160 knots. Silent running." The foward canards adjusted to allow for greater NOE manueverability. "Nothing on protoculture scopes, nothing on radar, switching to GSC mode," he touched the key that activated several variable frequency links to ground posts throughout the area. Information updates from the Ground Situation Control provided him with an adequate feel of this rather unfamiliar terrain. "No joy, Control. Negative contact, over." A slight pause. "Readjust route four degrees north-west and exceed four hundred, Gameling. Over." "This is Gameling, control. Roger." The Cheetah rose into the air, the glint of the sunlight highlighting its already indigo-ing fusealage. "Pete, I'm gettin' shit on the....hold up. I've got something here... Three positive contacts bearing two-eight-seven, relative speed, 190 knots over-loiter. Repeat, three positive contacts- two-eight-seven, bravo-over-loiter." "Confirmed, Gameling," Control responded. "Adjust for observation intercept. Go to full cloak, over." "Activating full cloak, roger." To any Invid or Terran radar in the vicinity, if any had been tracking Gameling, it had slipped into a shadow that no one on Earth could possibly explain. * * * The southern fields of the fomer Alberto Cuazco plantations had once reapped tobacco and grain for their Spanish-born peninsulares. The encomienda system had not changed even after the Rain of Death, where drug-lords, as prominent as the early 20th century, supplied their customers with various recreational product. It was here that the first sprouts of the Flower of Life had been discovered. Though it was evident that there were Flowers of Life growing near Monument as early as the destruction of Macross Three, they were quickly horded (allegedly) by the Special Protoculture Observations and Operations Kommandatura, under the tenacious watch and guard of the feared late Dr. Lazlo Zand. Here, Maria Omosora had found herself abandoned at the age of fifteen by her mother, who had assuredly died when the Invid wrested this area from her "manager's" plantation. Maria was indignatively Southlandish, but her last prefix had been added by her mother, in place of the even more alien-like, yet human, surname her father had endowed her. Two years later, she found herself wandering the wastelands between the former cities of New Cuabico and Suza. The Argentine had been mauled during the EBSIS-Southern Cross War of 2031, and had been finished off during the final wars of 2032 and the Invid subjugation the next year. Besides being a prostitute, a slave of passion, she was also budding genius level, thanks to the specially enhanced genes her father had given her. Her father had not known of her existence, particularly when her mother, a Zentraedi, had left to the harbor of the Argentine druglords, left free in the wake of Anatole Leonard's 2030 departure from the Southlands. Her Zentraedi mother had left her some nine years ago to die in the middle of a desert, or to rescue her from the permanence of a druglord's mistress. However, because she was half-Zentraedi, that didn't mean she was half-human. Particularly in the case where Zand was refered. She had dropped Omosora for Zand on her eighteenth birthday in a small passport clerking office in the "Freestate" area of Southern Argentine. Its freedom was guarenteed by its uselessness, a barren rock that the most humble of humanity had struggled to form into a last bastion of true, yet miserable, freedom. The name-change had been practical, Zand was more easily translated into both Spanglish and English Common, as well as Zentraedi. Three languages she had learned in only five months. Her baggy cloths were worn out, and she had transversed the central "plain" of Freestate, thought to even call it a desert would be unjustifiably optomistic, her Zentraedi astuteness protecting her from the still abnomal radiation levels. She carried five days rations, walking three- hundred miles between the remains of Suza and north to the Amazon. Already, she had dwindled down to her last days rations. Onward she trekked, until she heard a shriek from the north-west; her eyes logically following to what she deduced to be...a sonic boom. * * * "Shit! Who the hell fired that!" Childs cursed. Glancing down at the ground situation awareness radar display, he had found himself moving into the "aerospace" of Freestate's richer borders. Though rarely enforced, it seemed that the border laws of the quasi-nation were being upheld by a rather trigger happy bunch. A lone Mongoose missile damn near tore his tail end off, and Childs immediately vectored his craft into a climb, removing himself from visual range. * * * The Leopard flight, as if it were a squadron of Cheetahs from the future, also donned a special colorshifting tint, having shifted from black to mid-blue as they headed for the eastern sun. However, the confirmation of a SAM launch had done two things- convinced both the Horizont and the nine- craft fighter group to go to maximum cloak, and second, alerted them to another light blue craft behind them. DuBois was the first to react. "We've been lit! Ingram Two, you're with me. Scramble, scramble!" "Trying to get an ID on the pursuer, sir," Pheta thought to act. "Heavy ECM, no visual contact yet." Pheta and "Bright Star" DuBois broke off formation, having left the other seven to escort the Horizont to the designated landing area. Breaking down to an appropiate envelope, both converted to Guardian mode to hug the terrain as closely as possible. The gerwalkian mecha skimmed over the tree tops, breaking out onto clear patches of Argentine savannah, some four hundred miles south of the Amazon Basin. And they waited. Meanwhile, Childs and Porter found themselves as daazled as their now alerted targets. Having reported to Control (Argentine) of their current flight path, their search radar scanned their immediate area, anticipating a possible Scout two-craft attack, or even more logically, a Gurab Shock Trooper SAAD (Surface to Air Anni-Disc) barrage. However, it was that search radar, on passive mode, that would be the first step in defusing the possible emergency. In Ingram Two, Pheta had been monitoring and analyzing the search radar pattern. He and DuBois had converted to Battloid mode, and held their positions behind a small rise of treed hills, their new Rheinmattel GU-13 autocannons activated, as well as duel Skyseeker forearm missile packs that had formed themselves perpendicular on the dorsal of each shoulder. "Shit," he didn't dare risk radio communication with DuBois just yet. No REF intelligence had ever included anything on the Regis' weapons, and he was not eager to test the waters just yet. He had to think of something else, something random and spontaneous. Spontaneous. He quickly switched on his own search radar for Direct Laser Targetting as the unidentified bogey plotted itself on his own radar. It was then that he recognized the search pattern as very similar to the one's used by the REF during hive sweep operations before the Galactic sweep. It could be an Invid trap, he had considered, but the possibility of it...it was simply to much to ignore. To both Rachel's surprise (and immediate fury), Rob Corsette began transmitting on a small longitudinal code that had been once known as Morse Code. She held her breath and bit her lip as she tried to decipher the archaic pattern. Then, all of a sudden... "Unidentified craft," both DuBois' and Corsette's headsets emitted. "Welcome home." * * * Welcome home my ass, DuBois skeptically remarked to herself, several hours later, followed by a series of curses for falling for such a simplistic trap. Pheta had transmitted an old REF friendship IFF signature that had been picked up by the strangely modified Valkyrie fighter's pilot. However, as soon as she and Pheta had disembarked their VTs, several Wolverine Assault Rifles were suddenly trained at them, giving them no time to draw their own weapons. "You sure don't look like REF, but then again, neither do I. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but we don't play trust games here. We'll be able to determine your identities in a short time," The "Cheetah's" pilot, 1st Lieutenent Childs, formerly of the Indigo Veritech Squadron under General Klemeck's 45th Attack Air Wing; and of recent, under the 23rd AVAC 4th Special Operations Group under Commander Jan Ror. Rachel DuBois saw no alternative but to concede.. "You're discs are convincing, at least for us. But the Commander'll be the final judge," he continued to add on as five other VTs, four from Southern Argentine "bases" outside of Freestate, landed nearby. "And this VT of yours, how did you come by it?" Rachel looked to her subordinate very carefully, "That we can only answer to your commanding officer, lieutenent." * * * Maria had found herself removed from the wasteland by what one might consider an angel, but another, a nonprotoculture- powered first generation VF-1S Valkyrie Veritech. The fusion engines re-adapted into the salvaged mecha were the works of the wonderous technicians harvested from the remains of the Americas by the Southland Resistence. She had been blindfolded as they flew over the deepest of the Amazonias, but had triangulated her position easily by staring at the stars as she deboarded. However, the area she had coordinated herself into was as alien to her as Tirol would be to any hardcore Earther. The moonlight remained undimmed by the lowlit lights of the forested checkpoints before arriving in a brief clearing, large enough to support what she had determined to be a large assault carrier similar in purpse to those used by the SCA during the wars against the Masters, and during the salvaging of Liberty Space Station prior to the Invid Invasion. She had deduced from its much more aesthetically approvable design that it was an REF machine, one possibly created halfway across the galaxy. She suddenly heard, back to the east, and turned to see the signal arrival of another, maybe several more Veritechs touchdown, along with one that seemed to standout in the twilight night, with an unholy gleam. * * * Commander Janice Ror brandished her Heinkler & Koch antique MP-5 submachine-gun lightly; she had left it on safety for reasons that escaped her. The Veritech descended first in Guardian mode, its bright flashing lights casting down like an Apocolyptic Second Coming, and the roar of the gods brushing the grassy underbrush. From initial sensor logs, it was clear that none of the ships were operating under protoculture engines, though Lieutenent Childs insisted that these machines were supporting protoculture reactors. Initial scans over the "alien" VT Childs had escorted back to base. She hadn't had time to view the flight log discs yet- the computer jacks stationed onboard the facilities in the six-year grounded Horizont were still busy studying the encryption, without assistance from their two guests. Who were, at the time, standing right behind her in the custody of Lieutenent Childs. Rachel pleaded again "We're legit, Commander." "I believe you," Ror replied. "However, this is a necessary `evil' we have to go through to confirm your identities. I seriously doubt any mecha like that could have come elsewhere except Tijaro's Consortium, but first, I want to meet one of your pilots." The VT's completed their approach and landing, and powered down to prone levels in Guardian mode, all weapons at bay and primary flight systems off completely. Suddenly, the faint flicker of a loudspeaker and a radio link being opened at the same time clicked in the night air. "We understand you have yet to be-" "Cut the crap, lieutenent commander" Ror cut her off nonchalantly, but with enough ice to emphasize the diminuitive "lieutenent" in her rank. She unstrapped her mike from her waist and opened the link to the loud-speaker. "REF or no, we don't like people breaking through our air space undetected like that. Make's us a little nervous. Is Captain Winters amongst you." She had no idea which VT he was in. All were of the same color, and the new REF plane designations meant nothing to her. Finally, the reply came. "Captain Buck Winters here, sir. Long time, no see. Now you know Commander DuBois over there isn't some damn spy or whatever you're pretending she is." "I'm quite sure of that, but this is necessary. What do you know about 9-Hyber-9." "Communications satellite, the Southland non- protoculture link to the Arctic command. Correct, sir?" Winters replied without hesitation. Rachel stared dumbfoundedly at her squadron, with Corsette equally confused. "With all due respect, what the hell is going on here, Commander?" Rachel turned up an eyebrow, getting even more annoyed with this situation than the previous episode. Ror ignored her. "How's Sarge?" "About as well as anyone for their second time." "Good to have you back," she replied, cutting the link. She turned to her group and barked. "Stand down your weapons! Childs, you too." Then unexpectedly, she walked over to Rachel, who was a few inches shorter than her, and threw her arms into an embrace around her. "Welcome home, pilgrim." * * * Cuzco could be a rough place if you met up with the wrong people, at the wrong time, with just the right amount of scrip, pesos, dollars, or credits. Except now, credits weren't worth shit, and scrip was only issuable in those slightly organized areas where a paper currency proved possible. Much of the world had returned to bartering and old-world trade. The dark alleys of the Peruvian night were barely highlighted by the moon concealed in the increasing northern overcast. Cuzco had been one of the several thousand villages missed during the Dolzan Rain of Death, its meager population saved by its location right underneath the healing ozone hole. However, death had rampaged uncontrollably until the hey-day of the Southern Cross, when the ozone puncture had completed it healing process, and the plague of ultraviolet induced cancer had been contained and eliminated. Within months, the Southern Cross had fallen, as had Monument. The first home of that organization had been the first to fall to the EBSIS armed forces, pressing there battle into the Northlands before being halted by Wolff's forces only a few klicks outside of New Portland. Turned back, the EBSIS abandoned their ambitions for an American colony, leaving the Southlands in anarchy and the former Arkansas Protectorate wasted. Cuzco, near the border of the old countries of Ecuador and Peru, had become the leader of a recovering south; one of the thousands of new cities with new names that had sprouted in Post-Rain Southlands- most which were founded cooperatively by Spanglish survivors and their new Zentraedi neighbors. But in a new world where the Invid ruled supreme, that lead had taken a turn towards crime and the eternal black-market. Mack had become a sort of "trade-representative" of several freedom forces before joining up with the 23rd AVAC, recently dispatched by the would-be Earth's Messiah Jonathan Wolff.. His reputation in Cuzco had already gained him the respect of many of the still-surviving druglords, and the target of many a arms-merchant and protoculture smuggler. He had served as an informant for the M-19s during the EBSIS- UEG war, and even before hand, a depot for contraband forces under Krista Delgado. But nowadays, he had somewhat advanced beyond his "need-for-profit" attitude, and considered himself, in some respects, a freedom fighter as well. One of the facilitations working for Ror as a "supplier" was that he rarely needed to supply protoculture- something that was generatable in the working portions of what was the only remotely functioning "grand cannon" known to the Relief Group. Brazil was the perfect base for supplying rebellion. However, Cuzco had something that the 23rd lacked- supplies and replacements for the warmachines themselves. The Horizont that served as the repair hanger for the whole squadron was inadequate to support the numbers of Destroids they had accumalated in the past few years, and the Brazilian Grand Cannon was only partially functioning as a Robotech factory. They had yet to send emmissaries to bring over the remaining Robotechnologists that had not left on the Marcus Antonius. However, the robotechnicians they had brought along were adept enough at repairing and retrofitting older mecha with new fusion-Sekra (a much more versatile version of Sekiton) reactors. With the prices of protoculture increasing, the more easily handled, difficult to detect, and easily sythesizable Sekra paid for its inefficiency in cost effectiveness. Entire Hovertank and TAF battalions had been reintroduced in the Northlands and Eastern Europe, though many remained hiding in the shadows, waiting for the first major liberation move. Cuzco had the potential to blossom into an arms power base if necessary. Mack stepped into a local tavern; it was sparsely populated and reminiscent of an old Colombian salon on the verge of being condemned. Dust remained on the neglected floors, and the stair banister had been clearly ripped away by one of the many fights that erupted daily here. But today, it was clear, which seved Mack's purpose adequately. Carefully, he approached the bar, and noted a few shifty characters in the rear and near the window; none sat directly in front of a window- the gang violence that had polluted this city had made everyone into a bit of a paranoid, even loners and visitors like Mack. "Ah, buenos noches, senor," the tender looked up from his work. Along the table were goods that had been used to purchase beer, food, and entertainment from this establishment. Mack's companion, Jeanne, noted that most were weapons, pssibly functionable. "Como usted." "Bien. Muchas gracias. Que tu tienes?" "Not much today, but let's look in back," the propietor massaged the back of his neck, sweating in the sweltering humidity that had set in the northern Southlands today. "Vintage, I hope." The Colombian touched the slight growth of a mustache edging its way under his nose. With the communication of intention complete, he led Mack and Jeanne to the back room. "Lamos ditched three old VHT-01J series Hovertanks, Shizuma-2023 models," he opened the basement door to reveal a massive subterranean garage. "A few T-98 Pre-war Battloids, too. You knopw, the ones that didn't make the final cut in the Destroid Expo- 2007. If you want, they're in the garbage heap just outside Manuila. However, we do have a little something for you." Lined up in five rows of four were some rather dented and beat-up Hurguand and Hargun moditransformable bikes. "I've heard these can be retrofitted for CVR armor compatibility? Am I right?" "That would cost ya' a bit more than you could possibly afford. But we do have SLVR-1S armor with this. I'm surprised Lamos got rid of such fantastic machines. There can't be more than two or three hundred left." "I see, senor," he smiled broadly. "These freedom fighters keep you more on a tight-leesh than before. You should-" "Not today, Camillo," Mack said warningly. " What else do you have?" "Two bins of Wolverines, Wolfs, Anticipators, Magnums, AK-47s, Desert Eagle sidearms, AR-21 long-bore rifles, old M- 16s, AR-15 sport rifles, and a few miniguns. Plus, Rochelle's picked up a few vintage gas-powered JSDF AH-88 Mohawk attack helicopters with an optional micro-fusion powerplant hardpoint. With a little effort, I think you could make them servicable to your needs." "I'll check them out, and I'll take...eight of the Hurguands and two Garlands. They better still have intact sensor and weapon hardpoints." "Have I ever sold you bad product?" Mack eyed him carefully. "Relax, man," Camillo smiled weakly. "I had Rogie AND Rochelle down here today inspecting it. Lamos never fixes a damn thing, just buys it new." "I wonder who his supplier is?" "Dunno, but at least he doesn't have VTs. But then again, of the Freestate's are still collecting older generation Veritechs, I doubt the market will be closed to him forever." "Worse than Asano?" "Much more. He does have at least AJACs, and he's starting to move in on the Venezuelan markets. I was wondering...could your friends...that is...." "Give him a little pause?" Mack raised an eyebrow. "I don't see why not." "The man's dangerous. Once he's in control, you'll be paying ten times the price I'm selling." "How much are we looking at here?" "Two million scrip, or twenty-eight million in raised- gold." "Northland currency?" "Think. Portland currency is worth shit here. I'd go for scrip." The fact of the matter was that the 23rd AVAC had its own investments worth several billion throughout the world. The Southlands group could easily pay the principle in its own cash, but the conservationist spirit had often convinced them to raid Aaron Lamos' various markets in the northern Southlands to pay for repair parts and additional mecha, fuel, and supplies. "How big is Lamos now, anyway?" "Be glad I don't charge you for intelligence, or stupid questions. Let's see, how big is Lamos?" Camillo repeated the question, taking in a [sarcastic] deep breath. "Lamos confiscated the remains of the Northern Freestate's Aerospace Force right after they went down the hole. He has a political influence that stretches into Norristown and Roca Negra. He's the sole mercantalist between Manuila and Obbistown, and has enough firepower to actually start and win a war against the southern Southland Freestates. Hovertanks, Apaches, Camonos, AJACs, Mohawks, F-16 Falcons, various Hargun infantry mercenary units, and even his own private amphibious force. I'd say he's definitely moving up in the world." "Funny. For a black market dealer, you sure know alot about military intelligence." "Black market dealer," Camillo spat out the nomenclature as if were some bitter herb. "Are any of us really who we once were?" Camillo smiled. There had been a time where he had taught at a local school in Manuila, prior to Asano and Lamos' rise to power, and had raised a small family that had died in Cuzco shortly after Monument was destroyed. "I would hope to ourselves," Mack replied, waving to Jeanne to pay the amounted sum. Camillo accepted, but concluded on his thought. "Sometimes, it is in ourselves and to ourselves that we first die." * * * _______ _______ CHAPTER III- I knew Hamilton and Foley for quite sometime before they left to make a name for themselves in Europe. Viennese ballads and Zentraedi- Celtic jives and even a small amount of Franco- Saxon beat poetry had developed around their exploits. A pair that had constantly annoyed the Invid to a point where they were viewed in such a light by the Invid regents they became the modern-day Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Ironic how they began as rather eager, young wet-behind-the-ears-kids that the Lance beat into shape, into leaders and commanders. -Colonel Janice Gramm, Ashes for Dust- The Human Perspective * * * 30 August 2039 HAMILTON SOMETIMES FELT LIKE A LITTLE KID THE WAY ALFRED FOLEY constantly "nursed" him about for the past two years. Hundreds of miles away from the base camp, he brought his Cyclone down to survey the area. The Sea- the Mediterranean according to pre-war maps and an ancient resource of the Phoenicians and their successors, the Greeks and Romans - seemed to stand out as a defiance to whatever divine wind, change, or maybe even the Shapings he had heard of. He had known of a "cult" that seemingly formed from the Fourth Quadrant (Tirol-reckoning) stories and legends of a mysterious figure named Haydon, a man, or an explorer, that seemed to play a major role in the histories of the six Local Group worlds. Hamilton rarely subscribed to any alien "mysticisms," but could hardly ignore the fact that the Mediteranean also seemed to mockingly weather what many had considered the "will of protoculture." Coincidence or God, he began to wonder whether or not there was some sort of divine wind that had blessed what he considered nothing more than high-octane fusion fuel with some other use. Shapings, that rare religion that many of the engineers over Tirol were adopting to their own, Terran-bred brew. If the Shapings were real, or at least sentient, no doubt they, or it, or s/he, would be looking down on them and laughing at the confusion "it" had caused. Such an ironic personality. Hovercycles would've been to bulky to manuever this muddy terrain, and to detectable. Instead, the more rugged Cyclone Blowsperiors they had collected from the remains of the European Relief Group detachments were employed on this recon. Rice was raised on the factory satellite, an engineer's apprentice until he turned fifteen, when he folded from his friends and family forever on an eight-year mission he learned to regret. He had never been given much of an oppurtunity to try and recontact his family, to make amends for a mistake that he committed to so many years ago. The unusually-frigid August morning had quickly become moderate upon crossing over the old countryside of Salzburg, and west towards the Alps. The Battlers being reserved and refitted at camp, the VR-041 Blowsperior Cyclones had traveled five hundred odd miles across rough, parch-marked terrain to arrive at what had once been Monaco, and the beginning of the French Riveria- La C"te d'Azure. Once, a beautiful resort-dotted landscape, it had become as bleak as the Bordeaux adjacency to the Altantic- cold and forboding, as an unnaturally early winter began to set in Lieutenent Commander Rice Hamilton frowned intensely as he raised the binoculars to his eyes. It had been three years since he separated from Janice in the Southlands, hoping to complete the mission that his friend and collegue had attempted many years before. May 15 past had marked the fifth anniversary of Tomlinson's hold-out in Old Barcelona. Near Leipzig, a post soon to be abandoned, his camp of some fifteen irregulars and former regulars of the Southern Cross, awaited with a force of Cyclone bikers donning there CVR-3F Robotech battle armor and five VA/F-2B Vindicators, version-designation "Devils." He was almost tempted to call at least one in, armed with a modified Tijaro Shadow Device and retro-fitted with ion-pulse non-protoculture reflex reactors. Hamilton began to have doubts about not calling an aerial recon on this one. "It looks like one of your big fish's bows." "Naw," Hamilton replied to Alfred Foley, who had just switched on his electronic binoculars. "Way too small for a battlecarrier. See that marker? Definitely from Monument, at least the ID hasn't worn off. Its a Tristar-class light troop cruiser, not a Tokugawa battlecarrier." The senior Marine NCO (most of his outfit's officers were either naval or Aerospace Force, as NCO's and enlisted men were generally Marine or Army. Except for those few nearly abandoned posts of chiefs and specialists on Africa's sanitized West Coast, their were very few naval and Aerospace Force enlisted men about) adjusted the focus. He rechecked, unable to find the starship's name but had fixed onto its SC markings near the bridge structure forward of the bow. "I see. No name or ship identification mark. Just the emblazon. Wait. Okay, I see a name. The Tenacious? One of yours?" Hamilton nodded. "From the Marcus Antonius group, that leaves only three Tristar survivors still around, two of them are ours. I wonder where the hell are they?" "Anyway, Captain Yves must've managed to put her down in relatively one piece. But from the look of that bridge extension, I don't think many got out." Mired in the muddy, ravaged beach of the once beautiful coast lay the Tristar- class UES Tenacious, its broken hull spread out almost twice its half-a-kilometer lengeth. The muddied vessel was sinking slowly and humiliatingly into the banks, the sea lapping its long dead main engines; all the more adding to the feeling that they were standing over the grave of a massive techno-ship wreck. "Ghost ship." Next to it lay the remains of two Chimera class units that had not landed with such grace- one a Southern Cross Sublight Troop Transport that had managed to bury itself halfway into the central hull, apparently during the atmospheric descent. The other bore the remaining marks of an REF modified attack escort, slightly disintegrated from a most unfashionable angle of reentry. Arranged almost demigogically in the ship of a Reform Crucifix, it marked the final resting place of the 5th Southern Cross Marine Division, and the 45th REF Naval Recon Group, the third of three separate divisions that included the Marcus Antonius' surviving 3rd Planetary Corps and 5th REF Aerospace Force Wing. "Hey, look!" Foley pointed over the ridge. "Huh," Hamilton nodded. "Scavengers, or some sort of slum towns built up around it. Town's probably to good a word. Camp." Hamilton spotted the smoke, and traced them back to their fires. Scavengers, from what he had heard, were a small group of people who seemed to have been shocked back to a corporeal lifestyle, surviving off the remains of others who had passed through, and moving with a speed and dexterity he found quite inexplicable. His first encounter with them had been in Southern Africa, and he seemed doubly interested when they had constantly looked up in reverence to the direction of the Southern Cross in the December evenings. His home, he knew, lay some seventy-thousand to one-hundred thosuand lightyears in that direction. "We'll try approaching them first thing next week," Hamilton decided, realizing that it was important that they salvage whatever they could from the technology aboard that vessel. "I don't want any hostile confrontation, and lets consider them non-combatants, alright? We'll first head back for camp and settle in. That's our first priority." "Yes, sir!" all three answered in unison. As the Cyclones picked up dust as the headed back across the misty morning cliffline, Hamilton turned towards the west, the darkness still quite enveloping the nap of the Southlands. May ye be more blessed than I, he wished his compatriots from thousands of miles away. * * * In a sector of space in the galactic arm of the Sagittarius, beyond the center of the Southern Cross, a star lay barely visible to the naked eye when situated in the southern hemisphere. That southern celestial panaroma offered a few of millions of stars, and much of the area located in that space around the Crux constellation had once been under the control of the ancient and venerable Robotech Masters. Twenty-five kiloparsecs to the galactic south, the homeworld of that Empire remained forever time-locked, humbled only by the massive hydrolized- monopolar rich gas giant, Fantoma. The Regis had sense the workings of a higher, a "divine" being, in the cosmos, long before her encounter with Zor. The many mysteries between Creation and evolution, religion and science. Her concept of God, as many proponents of atheism would presume, was given to her by the exposure of Zor. Centuries ago, during the harmless and mediocre years of Tirol's intersteller commercial revolution, a techno-voyager and scientist by the name of Zor Deldara had traveled through the Fourth Quadrant, to the fringes of those fifty million cubic parsecs of soon-to-be Tirolian subjugation, began a chain of events that would reshape the galaxy. He had come to Tzuptum, and Optera, the homeplanet- their home planet. He came deceptively amongst the peaceful hive-like race that dwelt their, and had seduced the Queen of that race of her secrets to the strange energy symbiosis he had registered prior to his making planetfall. He stole the one thing they needed to survive- a Flower of Life. The Flower of Life. From their precious flower, he had conjured a process and substance which both he called Protoculture, having mastered its secrets to a point that even the most Ancients would have been impressed with, and becoming the first, and only true, Robotech Master. But his deception only wraught more deception and treachery. The Flower had become the pathway to power in the eyes of many polticians and generals of the currently swaddling military factions of the Tirolian government. Nimuul, chief among these, and such younger ambitionists as Shaizan and Bowkaz, had betrayed Zor and used his discoveries to ascend to power as the Elders and the Masters. The Protoculture had wrought wonders, a clone population of workers, and eventually, people themselves began to have their ages fixed and life-spans extended to centuries upon centuries. This pseudo-immortality had wraught only arrogance, and the greed to go beyond the realms of immortality. Omnipotence was the only next logical goal. So their workers were perverted into warriors, but hastily and imperfectly. The Masters moved to massive space- fortresses with their clone triumverates, and passed judgement on the "flawed" individual thinking people below. Genocide rang across the homeworld, and democracy and the Senate finally fell. All that remained was an archaic society on Tirol, completely isolated from the Masters and many of the outlying colonies, save for a few privilaged scientists and patrcians. The Robotech Masters subjected the various non-humanoid races around them, but never discovered that two things could not fall under their dominion- love, and individuality. Haydon IV had taught them that; they were wise to leave that population alone. But dissent came from within, and from farther away. The Tirolian Empire had begun to oppress her own colonies, who revolted and ignored the mercantalistic demands of the homeworld. The Masters, living with their fortresses, had become too ethnocentric to the point of self-delusion. Their strife to build an empire had left a mark on their imperfect warriors- humanity. Zor would recognize this and taught the colonies a new way to revolt and combat the fiercesome force of the T'sentrati, the people whom he, as well as Cabell and Jar, had created. Love, music, culture. All of these, particularly the last, were circumstantial blather to the T'sen people alone, but together, acculturation could be achieved. Zor, who had been sentenced to destroy the world of Optera, which he had stolen the flower from, had brought down the Master's Empire more than the Invid ever could have. But she would not know this for some time to come. Both her and her husband had developed military strength and "tactics." As the Robotech Master's Empire rotted on the inside, they moved in from the outside, destroying even the revolting colonies as they're bloodlust converged on Tirol. However, the Flower Zor had stolen was not there. Instead, he had left a gift for him here, on this world, far away from that cursed star system, that cursed area of space that seemed almost purposefully invisible from the Northern skies. However she couldn't deny that something else, something incredibly more ancient than Zor, had begun to surface. It was in the Northlands, on the 48th latidudinal parallel, that the Queen of the Invid, the Mother of her Race, had decided to set up her base hive. The Invid had come a long way from the simple hive-minded colony they had been in the early days of Optera. She would never see that patch of space from these skies ever again. Ironically, if anything human had embedded itself in the Regis, it was nostalgia. In her chambers deep in the complex built over the remains of New Detroit and old Cleveland, stretching across what had once been the Ohio Valley- the lure of settlers of this world centuries ago, she allowed herself a brief reverie. The miracle of the Invid mind, the telepathic link from the mother to her many thousand children throughout the Earth, and many more in stasis in various hives, all turned a portion of their minds to listen. However, she parted her attention, focusing on the southern continent. * * * The Southlands on the warm southern summer morning of September the 4th. The Brazilias were still lush, various tropical foliage regurgitating from mother Earth, replenishing the years of polluted air. But from Commander DuBois' sight, it was obvious that the Earth was even beyond nature's help. They had to get help soon, and quickly. But whatever god or force she believed in, Shapings or no, she knew that it would be accomplished only after the Invid had been forced off- if they left on their own freewill, there would be no world to save. She felt strangely drawn to this planet, staring at the remains of a Southern Cross fleet ship, a Battle-class subluminal destroyer with the words Reliant etched by some survivor on its side; its starboard sponson had buried itself in the small hill-side she sat upon. Her rusting CVR- 3-attachable armor was a matter of choice than lack of supplies. The 24th AVAC's modified assault carrier had settled down some five-hundred miles to the direct west of the Cannon, near the base of the Andes Mountains. She remembered. Her childhood was for from what many of the Mars Division soldiers would someday call normal. She was technically of the generation of Tirol, but had been brought aboard the Factory Satellite when she was an infant. At four, her family, Commander Andrea and Captain Pierre DuBois, shipped out on the SDF-3 attached Patrician, one of the first-line Tokugawa Cruiser's after the Antonius and the Angel. The previous day, she had been innocently basking in the celebration of the marriage of two of the REF's top commanders. The next day, her father was taken away, slain by the hands of a cold, unfeeling enemy some twenty thousand kiloparsecs from home, from this Earth. It had come as both an emotional and physical blow to her mother and herself, both injured seriously during the attack on the Patrcian. Of the seven Tokugawa cruisers that had left Earth, three of them, the Ark Angel, the Marcus Antonius, and the Patrician, having been promised as her mother's command upon the death of Commodore Kalven. The three hulks of the nearly- destroyed cruisers had been brought into the hastily constructed drydocks orbiting Tirol, and partially into the servos of the SDF-3 that would go to make the Garfish's that would accompany Wolff back to Earth at the end of the 2nd Robotech War. Andrea had never lived to see that day. Rachel had rode out on a conventional motorcycle, a Kawasaki, purchased sometime ago by an free-agent Commander Ror simply called Mack. She had plenty of free-time, particularly when not out on patrol. However, she felt a deep sense of longing, at at the same time, relief. Her mission was completed, the escorting of the technicians, supplies (which included her), and information that would turn the previously derelict Grand Cannon into what her superiors had labeled a "mecha factory." The plans had been found on an archeology recon by one of the exploration ships, Serenity-class vessels. If all went well, the Brazilian rain forest would become a major weapon production facility, perfect in its natural camoflage. Protoculture powered fighters and mecha would be produced of course, and some were the adaption of ion-fusion technology, a new microfusion power source developed on by the REF Tirol, would serve as a viable auxillary to the main protoculture fuel source. She looked to the west, and easily spotted the ship that Mack had told her about last night. "So, did you learn anything about it?" "The ship?" she turned to Mack, who had just walked up behind her. Standing up, she watched as the sun began to descend towards its starboard side. "The Sarpeno, from what we learned on Tirol-" "- seemed to be a mechanized division from some other main battle fleet, one that hadn't gone extinct at the end of their supplies or revolted in the Disciples of Zor revolution. The Zentraedi commander, Sira, or Ziral, depending on whether you like Tiresian or Zentraedi langua franca, had a reputation of ruthlessness that made Dolza out to be a child. He was of the Tul clone que, apparently, but the texts on him were hard to distinguish as record or fiction. We found about a total of three pages refering to him, and it seems to be in a form similar to Tiresian soliquy." "So you don't know if he exists." "Looking at this Battleship," Rachel said, "You can tell its definitely not Dolzan. Its much to old- the pattern uses a blue and purple version of the insignia, not the Dolzan black and yellow. Pre-1740 definitely. This is either a former member of one of the other fleets that were either destroyed or scuttled during the Revolution, or maybe even one of Sira's. By the way, what do you know about the commander?" "He was a good one, moved most of his men into Cuzco and Tiuete back in `18. Nobody heard much about him after that, and some say he went on your Expedition with Breetai and the SDF-3." Rachel thought through the names of the high-ranking Zentraedi officers in the REF, and decided to question one of her five assigned Zentraedi when she got back to-- "Hold on a sec, commander." * * * That afternoon, flying into the updrafts emminating over the western coast of Latin America, the cloaked VF-1SVF's elongated nose glinted as its color-phasic coat continued to brighten into a sky-blue. Two permanently-green low-level formerly Southern Cross Marines Devils, the VA/F-2B upgrade, had followed Lieutenent "Pheta" Corsette's point. Heading west by south-west at five thousand feet, and a relatively loitering recon speed, they would soon pass over what their knew partner and commander, Janice Ror, had called Point ARN. "Clean, clear and naked," `Mad Mike,' the second Devil- piloting wingman, announced. "No enemy contacts, no airborn contacts. Minimal ground activity. We'll be passing a bit low over a populated area, ID'd as Soir de la Noir Montagne." "That's French," "Pheta" recognized the pre-Dolzan language fluently. "Night of the Black Mountain? Sounds like a corny Neo-european flick. I didn't even know the old French colonists had setup-" "Its only forty-years old, Lieutenent," the flight-rated NCO replied, `Omen,' replied. The eighteen-year old Parisian's lovely young face appeared on his commscreen. "A small post-Holocaust Haitian colony." "Interesting," "Pheta" said nonplussedly. "We're entering into a `gray' area. Keep tac-chatter and to necessary talk." "Copy, sir," both replied. Both Mad Mike and Omen were Chief Petty Officers, full-blood Terran, never exposed to the hazards and mutative effects of outer space. Where as he had grown up knowing only the cold stars under the hellish shadow of Fantoma, they had basked under a normal size moon, a planet of seas and flourishing flora and fauna. It was as if the defoliative effects that Dolza had inflicted on this poor world were finally subsiding. For the past several months, Ror's Southland anti-Invid movement had floundered, engaging in no percussive activities as tensions between Lamos' drug empire and the Freestates in Argentina began to erupt again. There had been reports of minor Invid incursion, and the evidence was etched in half-a-dozen burning villages ravaged by annihilation discs and cobalt bombs. Much of Buenos Aires had been turned into a plague city during the mid `30s, and it seemed that the last bastion of human order and sovereignity would soon fall to anarchy, further dismissing the hope for a unified stance against the Invid. To the north, John Carpenter and Jonathon Wolff, two Robotech legends of the Sentinels and 2nd Robotech Wars, were gathering in Vahalla- in Soldierstown. Such Robotech geniuses that had survived the Master's invasion- Louie Nichols and some group from the still autonomous Tokyo and much of northern Japan -were working tiredly at establishing communications with ALuCE for a unified attack against Reflex Point, mockingly covering the Ohio Valley. "Sir, reading several abnormal energy signatures bearing zero-four-three magnetic," Omen spoke up. "They just might be Invid Scout ships." The Iigaa, the Zentraedi name for what the Terrans called a Pincer, the Invid's most fiercesome transatmospheric and extravehicular mecha. Pheta had never engaged in actual combat, having been only twelve at the end of the war that had taken place fifty-thousand lightyears in the direction the Southern Cross. The eighteen-year old graduate of the Tirolian Academy's two year officer school was the product of a generation being scurried into war, in desperation to man the many ships that would eventually come to bear against Reflex Point in a short time. "Alright then," he fell into a sort of a trance that gave him a demeanor of a war-harden veteran. "Drop to one- thousand feet, and maintain speed at 350 nk. Standby all weapons, but do not, repeat, do not arm weapon's systems." The Devils ventral missile bays opened to reveal the deadly dual tri-arrangements of Diamondback SR missiles, as Shortrange Mongoose-AAX glistened in the afternoon sunlight. Pheta's VF-1SVF opened his unlit salvos of hidden Tarpons, newly developed munitions from the REF technicians kiloparsecs away. If worse came to worse, and they engaged into Battloid mode, the three technoknights would enjoy the company of the autocannons they slung underneath their fighter's belly. * * * The Regis' voice was their lifeblood, the Living Protoculture swelling within the bile-like fluid of their surroundings. Unlike the more individualistic Invid of her husband, the Regis had "taught and raised" her "children" in the likeness of a complete hive-mind, perfect and unassailable. As they believed. Her thoughts were coordinated with her children, and she felt their pain, their agonies, and savored their triumphs. she sent through her mental link. For too long, she had put up with the rebellion in the inoculous organisms, those Master-like primitives she had shown general disdain for, on the occasions she paid attention to them. They possessed a limited but effective knowledge of protoculture. She did not destroy the entire species based on the actions of a select few, but she was not wholly unlike her husband. Areas such as Japan and Southeast Asia still prospered, having been completely left autonomous by the Invid, yet refusing to take the banner of the resistence. Many humans showed a hatred for these "traitors," though the Regis had come to know that peace had brought forth prosperity and mutual benefit for both species. However, on the eastern side of the terminator, the international dateline, Terrans had still much to learn of the value of humble subjugation. Today, she resolved, would be the final end of the mockery she had long endured. The Iigaa units changed course according to her orders; she would brook no more trifling with her plans! * * * "They're changing course. No sign of mutual contact, sir," Omen risked commo-contact via laser-induction. The Invid had indeed refused to register. "Enemy contacts now bearing 240 mark 2, heading in towards the mainland." "Pheta Leader, that's coming pretty damn close too Points ARN and TGN. Shall we send a burst-transmission? Over." Pheta was still getting use to being of a command rank in an outfit of mostly teenagers and raw recruits from the end of the 2nd Robotech War. He recollected ARN as the old hermit's outpost, and shook his head. "Forget it. They've most likely have them on their screens. How often do the Invid patrol these parts?" "Four to five months. They've become less frequent since the border wars with the Freestates." "Really." Well that's pretty damn strange. How much attention have you drawn to yourselves. "Tell ya' what. We'll form up on a prong-princer course for those ships and send a transmission for a kill approval. Have any of you engaged the enemy before?" "No, sir," both replied. Mad Mike licked his lips. "Well, that makes three of us," Pheta said to himself. Turning back to the commo unit. "Alright. I'll take the point. Adjust course 130 east for come about, adjust altitude to ten-thousand feet. Let's see if we can get above these bastards. What's their ETA before they hit the coast?" "Twenty-eight minutes." "Alright, that gives us about ten minutes to spare. Until we make contact, keep radio chatter to an absolute minimum, got it?" "Roger that." The three fighter's came about, and a glint of sunlight flashed off Corsette's aerilon. * * * Many had thought of the Invid mecha as a poor-visioned carnivore, like the large carnivorous dinosaurs of Earth's epoch past. This could be said about the slower, cumbersome Gurab Shock Troopers and their de-annigunned Trooper cousins. The odd, unorthodox shape and the REF impression of the Invid that had been spread by members of the resistence and the Relief Group had deceivingly given the Invid the impression of the slow and cumbersome slug. One could not help but feel both overpowered and yet invincible when going up against such eclectic mecha. That had been the mistake during the Regis' subsequent attacks, having vaporized the panickedly launched fleet of the remnants of Earth defenses. Gurab units had wiped clean the much more sleak and venerable-appearing hovertanks in the months that followed, until both the UEG and the Eastern Bloc of Soviet Independent States, the former barely an entity and the latter already on the road to decline, had crumbled under the weight of third alien invasion. But if anything, the Iigaa, the Scout, though lower on the Regis' scale of "military evolution," was the living essence of a flying reptile, or better yet, most identifiable with the most vicious and cunning of hunters throughout Earth history- velicorapor mongolis, the Siberian Tiger, or the mutant condors over Mannatan, the former gem of the New-England/Middle East Coast United States. the first Scout leader announced. His forearms declenched as the Scout team seemingly defied gravity from well over twenty-thousand feet up. Part of the cover-wave of the first three, these had been assigned to dissuaded the potential heavy resistence this region was known for. Their experience was limited, having been assigned to Japan (a rather resistence-free and peaceful hive below Mount Fuji). Balling themselves up, they resolved to follow the human airborne craft and determine their intent- before eliminating them from the potentially interfering threat they played. * * * Mack woke up again, this time a sonic boom had jolted him from his sleep. The warm Southern Hemisphere's spring September 5th, a Sunday, had given him a new reason to praise God. Moderately religious, he had become a born- again Christian after brief flirtations with the Church of Recurrent Tragedies, and eventually the Interstellar Retributionists. His faith, however, was coupled in the belief that God had somehow worked his will into that bio- juice that every race from here to the Sagittarius were desperate to possess. He remembered looking up to the Pleiades, and wondering whether God had inscribed his will fermently in them, uniterpretable (though frauds and mediums would claim to be able too). He had seen much to open his eyes to the realities of psychokineticism, precognations, and intuition. Whether gifts or abominations, it would be one of the many questions he resolved to ask of God himself, on the day he would meet him. Jeanne was already outside, looking up at the thick tropical overcast, impenetrable and damn-near infuriating. Activating a series of non-protoculture powered detection intruments, he scanned the stratosphere for E-band wave emmissions of any sort. "A transport jet of somesort?" "It was too feint, maybe more of those damned black- suited REFers again," Mack answered. Jeanne looked with genuine perplexity at the sky. "Maybe Invid. Who knows?" "Do we risk radio contact?" Mack turned about to look at the charts of today's scheduled passes. "Pheta 104 passed over two hours ago on a `round about over the Galapagos. Captain Winters and Del Marin are moving across Points Tracielle and Marilyn. No local air support. A few Hargun patrols fifty-miles north of here, but I don't want to risk radio broadcasts yet." "So we're sitting ducks," Jeanne folded her arms. "If its an attack," Mack thought to add. "Even if it is, exactly what danger do we-" Before he could finish his words, annihilation discs tore down against the forest floor, slicing into the rock face just short of the trailer. "Oh shit! MOVE!" * * * "Jeez!" Omen shouted over the tac-net. "Registering heavy- fire right over ARN's position." Pheta acknowledged with a nod, but was nearly stunned to the point of ambiguity. He had enough sense to activate the link to that station. "Alpha Romeo November, this is Pheta 104, over. Do you copy." Static. "Shit! What the hell is going on?!" "Recommend we engage, sir," Mad Mike said tensely, obviously infuriated at the attack. "They've probably killed unarmed personnel." How could the be so goddamn cool? "Affirmative. Stick to me guys, and break up once minimal radar contact is established. Let's hammer these bas-" Several annihilation discs once again struck from the heavens, piercing the view-limiting upper overcasts that hung some two-hundred feet above their group. Pheta and Mad Mike jinked rapidly, avoiding the barrage and immediately shooting for altitude. "OMEN!" Mad Mike had watched as three anni-discs found there mark dead on in Omen's cockpit. 18-year old Jennifer Magren was suddenly blanked out of this existence as her VA/F-2B, as valuable as its pilot, exploded in mid-air. "FUCKERS!" he cried out, loosing a few unaimed autocannon rounds. "Calm down, CPO!" Pheta shouted with as much intensity. "You keep your cool and let's handle these shitheads the right way, got it?" "Roger, sir," Mike bit on the words, out of anger and the sudden flush of sorrow that he suddenly felt. "Permission to engage?" "Granted, although a bit late. Good hunting." The Leopard and Devil lifted to higher altitudes for a clearer engagement, there deadly array of Robotech hardpoints armed to the teeth. At fifteen thousand feet, they finally made a positive aquisition. "Heading zero-four- four. They register us. Flying straight." No Invid had seen or encountered a Leopard before, Pheta noted. "Hold your fire." His targeting computer immediately formulated a firing solution as the LRAA- Silverbacks hummed in excitement, eager to taste the fanpipe of the vengence. "Alright, let loose!" Mad Mike accelerated as Pheta released a full volley of Silverbacks, six out of the eight attached to his wings. The missiles had reached their apex of Mach 4.5 transatmospheric when two slammed into the point Scout. Doubling back from the attack, the other two suddenly gained their second wind, pressing forward. Mike had gone to Battloid, revealing the fiercesomeness of the Devil's demonic form, the canardless evil cousin of the Vindicator. His GU-11, fully armed and augmented for an additional five- hundred rounds, swung upward, as he launched protoculture- emulating flares to distract his enemies. The Scout's bit down hard on the bait, and Mike rushed in like a Valkyrie on hell's winds. The second Scout reeled back from a bludgeoning attack from Mad Mike's GU-11, held barrel-first, and had connected directly with its main-sensor. He immediately took advantage of the situation, and fired several rounds at point blank, dropping a few thousand feet with the Scout before watching it plummet alone towards the Andes mountain chain. Meanwhile, Pheta had remained in fighter mode, and was currently expending the last of his Short Range missiles on the slippery first Scout unit. Frustrated, he quickly switched to Battloid, giving that extra addition of manueverability, and his antigravs and reaction thrusters kicked in to keep him in flight. Wings still extended, he armed the salvos of explosive rockets he had jury-affixed to the third and fourth hardpoints of each wing. Together with explosive missiles from the FR-01-A forearm launchers and rounds from his GU-13 shortbore, he successfully winged the bastard before rushing up with coup de grace on his mind. The engagement completed, both Mad Mike and Pheta maintained a silence as they quickly raced along the Andean chain, the flame-trail of `Omen' clearly visible from even this distance. * * * Jeanne coughed up blood, her shirt torn and jeans ripped. Her leg was severely bruised (if not crushed) and she found herself pondering on the metsphysicality of her extended existence. She didn't even know who her attacker was, though she could no doubt assume it was the Invid. Mack, somewhere on the smoky ridge, moaned outloud. Jeanne pulled herself towards the painful cry, and found Mack in a sorrier state than she could have ever imagined. He was mangled, near-death, and in pain. Soon, Jeanne knew from experience, that pain would become numbness. Death was inevitable, despite Jeanne's attempts to rationalize the opposite. "My leg...is it...?" She looked down, holding in tears and her own vomit as she saw the charred remains of Mack's leg spread out across the defoliate floor. Mack's stump itself was clotting at an unbelievable rate, though a fatal amount of blood had already been lost. Carefully, she propped him up against her lap. "Talk to me..." he knew he had little time left. All these past years, watching her grow up from a barely tolerable 15 year-old brat, to a well filled out 22 year-old competent resistence officer, they had become fast friends. But the way he asked now, it was as if their were a sudden urgency to it. "Don't worry Mack. I'll radio for-" "Too late, kid. Just talk to me." "About what/" "Don't you have any questions?" Jeanne thought awhile. She knew Mack pretty well, but nothing past 2032, when she had first met up with him, many years ago. He had been a father, an uncle, and a brother to her for so long- she had lost her original family in the Malcontent Uprisings, and her last name for a time. "Sure." "Well, shoot." He laughed weakly. Jeanne wanted desperately to ignore him. "Let me get help," she said softly again. But Mack simply shook his head, and clasped her arm with his bloody right hand. "Ask me." "Alright then," she hesitated, choking up her sobs. "Who are you?" Mack smiled, finally able to tell his story to the one he knew he cared for. He told her of his fifty odd years on this planet, his life before and after the wars, his life in the military, his family, and his losses. He shared his pain and agonies, good memories and funny stories. It lasted for forty minutes, which would've seem to be more time than Mack had left. "They were planning to attack Re....Reflex Point next month," he stuttered. "Tell Commander Ror I won't be able to attend this time." Jeanne's eyes were wet with tears, and she hadn't realized that through the whole story, as Mack revealed himself to her, that she had been crying with increasing ferocity. "God, Mack. Don't die!" "Don't have...much choice, kid. Now, anything else?" Jeanne gathered his wracked body in her arms. "Please Mack, don't leave me!" With that, Mack's eyes opened wider, and he managed to left his other arm, his hand charred and virtually skinless. He massaged the back of her neck and moved it through her hair. "Don't worry kid. Just keep care of that hair for me, okay? And...don't forget to....check the radio...uhhhh...." Jeanne held his face to hers, and placed her forehead on his. Crying heavily, she kissed him deeply on the mouth. With that, Mackall Kirkland- one of the many forgotten, unsung members of the original SDF-1 Robotech Defenders, and TASC Tiger Squadron commander during the War against the Masters -fell to deaths cold touch, the first martyr of a day of deliberation and execution by Invid hands. * * * With Point ARN and most recon positions taken out, by accident on part of the Invid, much of the interior of Amazonia was suddenly opened to them. Three new squads formed up to replace the one that had been destroyed (the Regis had felt the sharp pierce of their death, and instantly escalated her offensive). The waves of Scouts moved in first, striking at villages and camps indiscriminately. They had gone north of the 23rd AVAC's clearings, but would soon find their way to new slaughter grounds. Ror had been suited up and had boarded her Leopard- similar Cheetah, also skyblue during the day, and launched from Guardian mode. Point ARN's situation could only be speculated, but it was a certainty of what the Invid were doing farther to the north. Already, two small squadrons of Shadow Vindicators and Valkyries had lifted off, as well as protoculture guzzling Alpha-Beta Legioses and Lieutenent Commander Childs' Shadowlords, the only Shadow Alpha-Beta units in service. He formed his team up alongside Ror's Raptor Team, manned with two Cheetahs and three modified VF- 1S. Below, APCs and protoculture and non-protoculture using Cyclones, Garlands, and conventional attack vehicles, moved up into the tropics. "Pheta 104 is approaching at 289 flight relative," the sole IL-76 Mainstay, retrofitted with microfusion engines, transmitted to all fighters. "Enemy activity within Delta Envelope, two-hundred-thirty-eight miles present course, over. Recommend flights Wizard, Wyvern, and Priest- form up in Jug formation; Raptor and Arnie, take the point, over." "Acknowlege, Javelin-1," Jan brought her fighter to four- hundred knots, skillfully moving over the darkening terrain (it was nearing 2050h). "Wyvern, acknowledge and proceed." "Roger, Raptor Leader," Wyvern Leader said over the commo-net. "Switching on ECM. Enemy intercept, twenty- eight minutes, present course and speed." She switched to the real-time display the group-troop scanners were picking up. Several Gurab units were manuevering southward, rising to the challenge. "I'm reading twenty to thirty enemy units. I ain't seen this many in a hive raid," a former TASC pilot commented. Ror immediately reprised the low-chatter directive. "Alright, people. We're approaching primary targets. Maximum intensity." All fighter's engaged their long-range missiles, once the ideal perimeter of fifty-miles had been reached. Fourteen total fightersselectively chose targets from the air units of Scouts just diverting from their suppressive strikes. Before any action could be taken on the enemy's part, the hellish fury of missiles launching across the twilight sky lit the ground floor as light as day, as the fighters' hardpoints became miniture stars. Most of the missiles found their mark, the IL-76 pulling off course to maintain a safe distance. The Invid still hadn't learned to the function of the AWACS craft during the seven years of resistence. "Full spread and move out!" Jan shouted. "Tallyho!" The morning sun began to rise.... * * * _______ _______ CHAPTER IV- The work of REF agents in setting up the Resistence groups for their ten long years of occupation must have been grueling. The incompetency of the Southern Cross Leadership, augmented by the deaths of General Emerson and General Tyatte, had set the stage for the third civil war, the second Global War. With the UEG struggling to regain its power from the fall of the Southern Cross Army, and the EBSIS determined to undermine that attempt, a powerplay to control the world became a detonator- set, activated, and blown. With this in mind, the medieval dark era that fol- lowed would be the result of the deaths of the urvivors of the Mars Fleet offensive. South- ern Cross soldiers, EBSIS armies and the feudal governments that ruled Earth now turned their anger on their returning brethan. The surprising thing about this all was that it was the Zentraedi who were most co- operative in the efforts of Wolff, Carpenter and Ror to establish resistence groups. -from the Articles of the Third Robotech War, Volume XXV, Third Edition `The Second Dark Age,' pg 833, 2055 * * * 5 September 2039 SCOUTS, SHOCK TROOPERS, SCOUTS, VERITECHS, HOVERTANKS and Robotech weapons were of a variety of sorts- protoculture users, fusion-powered, and traditional chemical users; all weapons were thrown into the heat of the battle. The sky lit up with explosions as the 23rd AVAC aces worked their magic. From some independent resistence bases in Venezuela, AJACs and V/CF-1 Logans erupted from their beds, accompanied by squadrons of first generation Falcons, Dragon II's, Adventurerer II's, and Redhawk-Alpha VAF--4s, the non- transformable versions of their Alpha cousins emplyed as a weapon against the Robotech Masters only three years ago. VAF-5s and -6s revived from the Armories of the world or brought by the Resistence group quickly went to Battleoid mode to deal with the first wave of Scouts. Within minutes of calling for backup, resistence groups who had been spurned by the sudden Invid incursion were up and fighting back. But in vain. Bases were taking heavy casualties as Invid ships continued to pierce through the Robotech Defender's lines of defenses. Near Quiezco, one Invid ship suicidely slammed into the city hall, the fires quickly spreading through the village. Closer to Mesa Cueno, near the 23rd's homeplate, Invid casualties were heavy in comparison. However, RDF mecha was extremely valuable, and comrades began to feel the strains of combat as more and more began to disappear in flames. The Vindicators and Devils, as well as non-transformable Condors had rushed in on the first wave, with VF-1SVF and VF-1YSVF Wyvern, Raptor, Wizard, and Priest Groups moving from behind. A strafing attack by one VT had stopped the first ground attacks by the Shock Troopers, who had completed wiping out a squad of Battler Cyclone infantry. More air support was requested, but it was becoming increasigly harder to avoid the seemingly endless onslaught Invid conter-airstrikes. The first annihilation discs hit the base an hour after the first engagement. Wyvern had been completely destroyed, and the remaining Leopard Groups, which had landed in the bowels of the Grand Cannon, were called with increasing urgency. "Priest Leader to Priest Six! Watch out, two bogies closing from seven-o-" Priest Flight's leader watched as Six disappeared in a enveloping fireball, an easy target for the double-team Scout units that had closed from above. The VF- 1SVF quickly spun around, its skin having blackened with the rising sun, and with hell's fury, he released four volleys of Diamondback SR missiles, each on a guided track with the two Pincer units; both scored direct hits. Priest Leader through himself into a climb as two more Scouts, covered by AA fire from a group of Gurab's situated in the lush terrain below, gained on his six. Meanwhile, Raptor Leader Jan Ror had already completed her run against the first four attacks from Scout units and was flying NOE, searching and destroying Shock Trooper deployments. Her protoculture-fired engines quickly caught the attention of a small Scout Group, code Blue, and led them towards the towering hulk of a Nuptiet-Vernitz cruiser, stretching some three miles skywards and at a seventy-three degree angle. "Alright. All fighter groups. Your primary objective is to lead the units AWAY from the base. You must immediately with-" Suddenly, a large explosion ripped across the tac-net, and Ror allowed herself a brief, but dangerous, look into the direction of the AWACS IL-76 Mainstay that had just been ripped apart by enemy units. "My god, Sammi. Dianne." A few overshot annihilation discs regained her attention, as she stuffed her grief in the corner of her mind. "Alright. We're flying medium-range now. Transformation discretion is encouraged." "Roger that, Commander," group leaders acknowledged. Ror touched the luminiscent key on the smooth, black, touchscreen marked `G.' The Veritech morphed into the hybrid Robotech Warrior/fighter plane that had made its mark on the past two wars as a manueverable and preferable low- level flying configuration. Her GU-13 long-bore model autocannon, a new weapon from Tirolian REF R & D, brandished by her mecha's right hand, trained ever forward as the Zentraedi wreckage approached. "Two, Three. You still with me?" Two pilots, barely over twenty, appeared on her screen. "Yes, sir. Contacts still in pursuit." "Alright, let's finish this." She threw her mecha into Battloid mode, quickly jetting upward as she reached the base of the cruiser. Her group followed her lead, and below, the near-blind Scout Units collided with the dark hulk, leaving only one to contend with. "Alright, Two, Three. Break off." The two wingman quickly reverted to fighter mode and raced back for the battle, some twenty-miles to the east. Jan focused her attention on this last Scout, directly below her at the base of the Zentraedi flagship, staring up at her with that intimidatingly evil red eye. "Alright, you slug son of a-" She fired several rounds of her autocannon into the dazed Pincer's hull, piercing the pilot's chamber and the protoculture reaction cells, sending the Invid ship into a hell of orange-white fury. * * * However, the Invid forces had been to strong. Though avoiding the area in which the Grand Cannon was situated, the Invid finally reached the small clearing and the villages that surrounded it. Indiscriminately, they mopped up the last facets of resistence as they layed suppressive fire on the civilians. Men, women, and children were unbiasedly annihilated by the aliens, as the base itself was incinerated. Valkyries, Alphas, and Ultra-Valkyries on standby were trapped as Scout units prevented their liftoff and Shock Troopers swept in from the North and the North- east. Tula, Culaco, and Meriguez, the three nieghboring villages built around the base, were annihilated, with only a handful of the five-thousand plus populations of each township escaping the genocidal onslaught of Invid ships. The nightfall finally came, and with the final rays of the setting sun lowering below the northwestern Andes, the Invid forces moved away. Elsewhere, the Relief Group and resistence forces had been faced a crushing blow, the Invid quickly mopping up the rest of Arnie and Priest Groups. By the time Raptor had completed clearing her sector, the jungle was littered with mecha, and the Invid had left with their goals achieved, leaving only a small policing force to finish off the work started here. * * * Maria stood amongst the damage that had been inflicted on the clearing. "Hey there! You okay?!" she turned to her the shouts of a several soldiers trying to put out the brushfires the anni-disc strafes had set off. Survivors were being hurried into the forests as the suriving hovertransports rumbled the ground beneath her. One regular had noticed her and rushed to her side. "I said you okay?" "Uh...yes. I think so," she replied uncertainly, forgetting she was clenching her upper arm and a gashing wound inflicted by a piece of shrapnel. The regular ignored her and pulled her hand away. Shouting towards his partner, he broke out his own first aid case and quickly applied a turnicate. "Goddamn, this is deep. No nerve damage, no cut arteries," he worked frantically, often clenching various hypovials in his teeth, " Dammit, Kosaski! Get over here and help me." His ebony hands quickly sprayed disinfectent on the wound as his partner finally produced some clean bandages. "Oh, I'm Lieutenent Aves, chief surgeon. This is Medic Kosaski. Its not too bad, but deep. Once I get this on, I want you to jump on one of those h-transports and get the hell outta here. We've got one-hundred and fifty-eight people to move out, and we don't need any repeat service. Got it?" "Yeah," Maria replied. Looking at the smoking sky, filling itself with acrid smoke, she turned to Kosaski. "What happened?" "Damn slugs, ma'am," Kosaski, a young kid and most likely an irregular seethed between clenched teeth, tightning the bandage. "There ya' go." "Now git!" Aves ordered firmly, Maria immediately turning and running toward the next returning transport. Both Aves and Kosaski signalled for some moderately healthy irregulars to help them move out the rest before they turned their attention to the ravaged villages to the north. Many more would die before the night was through, and Lieutenent Aves at once damned the bitter irony of his already exhausted supplies and manpower. * * * Ror's group met up with Pheta's in a hidden clearing, very near to the Brazilian Grand Cannon and the last reserves of the 23rd AVAC. Many civilians had died during the raid on the three villages, and a good portion of the 23rd was wounded or dead. Fortunately, many of the mecha the 23rd and the 24th had brought from Tirol had been transferred to the Grand Cannon the night before last night. "Well, the Horizonts seems to have survived the attack," Pheta, who had arrived too late at the battle to make much difference, noted with an obvious choke in his voice. Rachel DuBois had landed the rest of her group within reach of the Horizont's as well, and had joined them be midday. Ror had called an emergency session of the AVAC command staff. "Our forces here are finished. The Invid have finally, as we should've expected and been on guard for, taken more interest in the resistence facets here and in Lamos' territory. No doubt that the Freestates will be suffering the same fate as ourselves soon enough. Many of our forces and mecha have been destroyed and damaged in the fight, and now, I've called this meeting to review our options." "Do we stay, or move on. And if we choose the latter, where?" "What about the cannon?" one of Rachel's, Winters, spoke up. "The Cannon is cloaked against Invid detection, and if we leave, we intend to keep a small radio force in contact with Valhalla and ourselves." "But," Rachel interjected, "If we leave, we're going against our original orders and the Relief Group plans-" "That's not entirely true," Lieutenent Charlotte Toussainte commented. "We'd be taking the resistence elsewhere, to an area less governed by Invid control. Asia, Southern Africa, or Europe." Ror looked at the 24th AVAC survivors. "Have you heard of a Lieutenent Rice Hamilton?" "I'm afraid not," Rachel spoke for her group once again. "During the civil war, a Relief Group contact with us, Lieutenent Tomlinson, left for Europe to try and convince members of the European duchies and militias to form resistence groups pending the Invid Invasion. He failed utterly, and Hamilton, following the Invid Invasion, tried to pick up where Tomlinson left off. He was one of us, 23rd, but we've lost contact with him." "And its your intention to find him again, right?" "Correct, we could use his help. From what we've heard from refugees coming from Cairo, he's established quite a name for himself over there, right up with Wolff and Carpenter." "All right," Rachel nodded. "But why call this meeting?" "Well, for one, the 24th is your command. This isn't the Fourth Quadrant Mop-up. Its just as disorderly as the Sentinel's conflict, and a helluva lot more bloody, too," Ror explained flattly. "Second, we need you to do something for us." Rachel took a seat on a stump of one of the grazed trees in the area, looking at the black-paint Horizont assault carriers, wondering exactly what Ror had in mind. "We've been out of contact with Valhalla for three months before your arrival, and we don't no why," Ror continued. "We need someone to go to the Northlands and tell them what's happened here; also to find out what the hell is going on. It may be that this attack is not so isolated, and intelligence is shot to hell nowadays." "I understand, but isn't an entire squadron moving around somewhat of a magnet to Invid forces, cloak or no," Rachel thought to bring up. "We were proposing that tyhe majority of your group join us, while a small group of three or four proceded to the Northlands. We can supply you with refurbished Cyclones, Battler-type, or even Garlands. But its your choice." Rachel sat in thought for a few minutes, considering the options. Ror impatiently stared at the sky, tying her long brown hair into a ponytail, draped over her skin-tight, matte-black uniforms shoulder. "When do we leave?" * * * Thousands of miles away, Hamilton was making a name for himself in the volitile world of diplomacy. His Cyclone contigent had made their way down the cliff- mechaless -and quickly scouted the area before moving on. The mudslide from the previous year had thoroughly coated the already drenched seacoast with an extra two-inches of salty grime. Foley cursed to himself as he plopped down on both feet from his hold on the cliff. The two mile walk down the beachfront was at least fifteen minutes longer than Rice Hamilton would've liked, but it would suffice. The salt air hadn't changed much since they crossed from Libya into the Balkans, five years ago. It wasn't nearly as strong as the almost acidically salty air that surrounded the Caspian-Aral basin, and it wasn't masked by the north German duchies outdated industrial complexes. About ten minutes into their trek, they encountered a rag-tag scout group watching them from an embeddment in the cliff. At first, Hamilton thought to ignore them, motioning his people to hug close to the nearest wall. That's when they heard the clear and obvious sound of rifles being cocked and loaded. Instinctively, Hamilton and Foley pulled out their sidearms, dropping to their knees, as the younger NCOs pulled out a mixture of submachine guns and rifles of various brands. Hamilton's own Beretta Coldblood was soaked from the moisture; he hadn't cleaned it since last Thursday. "Who are you down there!" the shout echoed across the cliff face. "We will not fire unless provoked, but please identify yourselves!" Foley turned aside to Hamilton and gave him a quizzical look. One of the sergeants under Foley spoke up. "Sir, since when do Scavengers have armed scout parties?" "Dunno," Hamilton muttered. "Alright, here's what we do." Whispering, he directed Foley and the Zentraedi staff sergeant with him- Gul Anam -to take three of the riflemen, and continue to hug to the wall. Four of the group, armed with old AR-21 rifles and a few Badger submachine pistols moved out with Foley; three were left with Hamilton, and he directed them to drop to their knees. Foley moved his people into position about fifteen meters down the cliff- wall, but clear of any possible fire from above. "They're sure being amicable, for guys aiming guns at us," "Gully" switched on his hands-free communications headset. "I'm asking you again," the voice on the ledge called down in thickly accented English. "Who are you and where did you come from." "We're just a group of...merchants passing through the area. We noticed your fires and were wondering if-" Hamilton was saying when, out of the blue, several rounds of automatic fire cut the mud just short of Gully. "Shit! Gully, are you and your men okay?!" "They just missed us, Commander. But that was too close." "Merchants? Arms merchants more like it, but we know who you are," the voice laughed dubiously. "Hold tight right there. I'm going to try and talk us out of this one. Foley, are you reading me?" "Yeah, commander. But I don't like it." "Well, I guess you'll have to hold your nose and chew. I don't like it either." Hamilton turned down the gain on his headset, and cupped his hands over his mouth. "I thought you said you weren't going to fire!" he shouted towards the ledge. There was a moment of silence. "Tell your men not to move, freedom fighter." "We're-!" Hamilton cut himself off. He could've sworn he heard laughter.. "Rice Hamilton. We know who you are, and we don't care. However, you're bringing weapons into our encampments; despite your name, we know you very little and have little understanding of your motivations." "Okay! I assure you, as a soldier fighting against the Invid-" This time, all of the rebel group heard the laughter. "Hamilton, many have passed us by professing the same thing, and then go looting our camps and raping our women. However, they don't have such a popular name amongst the duchies peasantry. That's why were not going to kill you. Merchants, really. Exactly what did you think we'd buy from you? Weapons? We're not prone to excercises of violence." "Like hell! I thought Scavengers never shot at people!" this time, it was Foley. Hamilton shot him a dirty glare, and prayed to God the gunmen didn't take it as a provocative statement. "Let's say we've had a minor change in `foreign' policy," the voice respond. "Put your small arms on a dry rockbed and strap your larger weapons to your back. We're not interested in them." He heard an echo that sounded something like a match striking against a watch. A small smoking cinder that was thereafter thrown down seemed to indicate someone on the ledge had lit up a cigarette. Or some old-fashioned dynamite. "Listen, we are insurrectionists, but maybe-" "Just do as I say, if you don't mind," the reply cut him off before he could go on. "You will keep your weapons, but we must make certain precautions. Cycle any protoculture powered weapons to zero." "We aren't carrying any." "All the better, then. As soon as you've secured and holstered your arms, move away from the ledge." Hamilton decided not to reply. Gruntingly, he glanced over at Foley and Gully's positions. Reluctantly, he slung his Badger submachine gun behind him, securing as to assure that he wouldn't try anything fancy once he pulled out. Slowly, with his hands raised, he stepped from the wall. "Thank you, Commander. You may order the rest of your men out," Hamilton looked up to the ledge. The five who were holding guns on top of them- two women and three men - were led by another man of rather stocky stature. "Thank you for gracing us with your unlimited hospitality," Foley stepped out next, grumbling to the point of near screaming again. "No what the hell is this all about, and where the hell-" Four shots went into the air, and instinctively, Foley and Hamilton dropped, about ready to pull out their guns. Fortunately, Hamilton recognized that no contact by the rounds with the ground had been made; he quickly calmed his men. "Scavenger. Whoever-" "I'm First Warhaft, the garvarut, of the Engle's congregation." "Warhaft, garvarut?" Gully came over the headset. "Sir, they must've picked up some Zent' buddies sometime ago. Garvarut means `squad commander.' These guys are militarists or something." "Stay calm, over there," Hamilton warned. Gully nodded and gave him a not so affirming thumbs up. The brisk sea wind was picking up, and in the distance, lights were gaining towards them through the fog. "What's going on, Warhaft?" "My name's Wembeurg, Commander Hamilton. I'm not one for the titles much, unlike yourself." The price of fame, Rice thought to himself. "Now what can we do for you?" * * * Wembeurg lived up to his promise. He allowed them to retain their weapons as soon as he was assured that they would pose no threat or attempt any hostile manuever. He was in his late forties- about fifteen years Hamilton's senior, making him a member of the Doomsdayer generation. "This is it, our primary camp. The garvalang will meet with you and his mhena," Wembeurg said as he led Hamilton and his band to the largest tents, just underneath the Tristar light cruisers raised bow. Wembeurg had allowed them to rest up a bit- they had gone down the path and across the muddy banks without their Cyclones. Hamilton radioed his base, and then made sure the Cyclone guards were still okay. Finally, the warhaft had decided to talk to his leader, the elected chairman of the migratory cult. "Who is your leader?" "Deiter Engles, a former teacher in Leipzig before the Masters War. He formed this rav in late 2029. We've been following him since." "Mhena, garvalang?" Gully spoke up. "They sound alot like Zentraedi words, without the excessive gutteral overtones. Do you mean your `favored-leader,' and he's chosen in an electoral process?" "Yes, most of the Scavenger language of this rav, our group, is composed of Germanic-Anglish and Zentraedi. There are a great many around Western Europe." "I know." "Our garvalang has remained in office since the rav's foundation in 2029. He's very popular and well-liked," Hamilton didn't press it, but he noticed Wembeurg had a sense of resignation on his face; he seemed like he was repeating something that he, and many others, had rehearsed. The REF commander decided to save his judgements for the time when he would meet Herr Engles. "He is the oldest among us, one of the late 20th century's Generation X." The term was familiar, but it seemed so alien to the Tirolian raised humans. Gully had no idea what it meant, and simply shrugged and turned to Hamilton with puzzlement in his eyes. Wembeurg approached the council tent first, pulling away the entrance tarp and leading his guests inside. There were tables- fold outs -aranged in a horseshoe fashion. On the council sat the oldest men of the rav, and the garvalang took his seat at what seemed to be the third from the right vertex of the interconnecting table. There seemed to be an air of democracy within the tent, and Foley and Hamilton were actually beginning to feel comfortable. "Private Theres?" "Yes, sir?" the private turned in answer to Foley. Hamilton nodded in approval. "Radio back to headquarters. We don't want them to think we're in trouble." "Roger, sir," with a permissive look from the warhaft, the barely adult private rushed out of the tent to their radio setup, just outside of camp. "Herr Engles," Wembeurg spoke up. "Council of the rav. These men wish to speak with you." One, a black Nigerian of probably the garvalang's age, answered. "Let them. We have not yet begun our agenda." "Herr Engles and councilpersons," Hamilton carefully addressed the governors. "We're members of the Invid resistence, REF and irregular detachments from the Southlands resistence forces. We carry the charter of the REF Relief Group commanders, signed affidavits by Colonel Tojirama and Colonel Wolff, and the approval of the UEG." "A dead organization, young man," the garvalang replied, "but continue." "We've come to sort through the wreckage you've constructed your camp underneath. We understand your core beliefs, and it is our opinion that the crashed vessels means nothing to you. We wish to salvage it for supplies, with your permission." Hamilton had originally expected to avoid an encounter. However, the prior situation with the warhaft, now serving as his mediator, invalidated that approach. He would have to negotiate for bloodless and unhostile permission to search the wreckage. "And what claim do you hold to it?" Engles responded. Much of the council seemed to look away, either out of reverence or out of fear of the garvalang. Hamilton was also taken by the question, and further doubts clouded his mind. "That vessel is a member of the 5th Naval Airwing Deployment Group, commanded and owned by the Robotech Expeditionary Force, and is property of the United Earth Government," Hamilton replied. "Indeed," Engles said. "However, the UEG is defunct- Earth is now under Invid control. The REF is considered a criminal organization by the-" "I know. However, those circumstances were mitigated by- " "The defuncation of the UEG, to which the REF was answerable to," Engles completed. "I ask again, who lays claim to the wreckage? The REF is criminal or defunct as its host organization is. This ship is UEG property, and REF jurisdiction. Once the former has been eliminated, claims by the latter cannot be validated. Am I correct?" "Your honor, its not that easy." "We've gathered valuable resources from the-" "You've scavenged an REF ship?!" Hamilton exclaimed, his blood temperature rising as fury flushed his face red. "Salvaged is a more respectful term, commander." "Sir, there is also the Defunct Military Act that states that the REF may act as the Earth's new-" "Yes, and no doubt it can be enforced. However, the UEG is dead, or defunct in this region. Second, none of us are former Southern Cross. In fact, most are EBSIS, Southern African Coalition, or former Neasianists. You've crossed the lines of juristdiction commander." "Sir, its an REF vessel." "Its an Earth vessel, and without a functioning Earth government, its up for grabs." "In any case, garvalang Engles," Hamilton breathed, wondering where the hell they had gone wrong. "We do ask for permission to salvage the ship." "Wembeurg. Display you're weapon." Wembeurg removed his sidearm. He brandished Wolff 10mm automatic, military issue, in front of Hamilton and Foley. Engles spoke for his warhaft. "We've been here for three months, commander. This ship has been most valuable in ensuring the safety of our rav." "What do Scavengers need weapons for anyway," one of the Zentraedi spoke up. "You're supposed-" "We're more human than you, alien," one of the council spoke up. Hamilton and Engles quickly quieted down their sides. "Engles," Hamilton looked dead on at the garvalang. "We've come a long way and we're in dire need of supplies. What is your answer?" "My dear Rice Hamilton. We are a rather mercantile people. Surely you have something you want to sell us," Engles smiled. Foley looked at Wembeurg, but could only see a blank, unfeeling expression. However, a flush of doubt raced across the warhaft's brow. "What are you looking for?" "These projectile weapons do not have the range we're looking for. And there were no functional mecha aboard the ship; they must have been ejected prior to its crashlanding here." "Energy and particle weapons? Mecha? You expect us to barter with the backbone of our defense." "Our business with you may conclude as quickly as it began." "Herr Engles!" "But, commander," Engles concluded. "We may have something else of interest for you. Information." "Information?" Wembeurg swallowed hard, but did not speak. "What are you saying, garvalang Engles. We will listen." "In exchange for three particle weapons, ceramic casing, and two of your Cyclones of the Blowsperior type, I will surrender salvage rights to this Tristar and grant you information on the entire Eastern Europe region. With Rimmler growing in power to the West and Borth, you'll be trying to strike at von Richter soon, correct?" "Your terms are very difficult and uninviting. I cannot simply supply you with weapons. We are not arms dealers. However, food or-" "And we want a model and schematic sheet of your Gallant energy weapon with collimating affixtures and rifle-stock conversion extensions." Foley blinked but Hamilton reacted first. "I'm afraid not, Herr Engles. Those are prototypes, and we have none with our group." "Surely you-" "I'm sorry sir, but those were reserved to the main Relief and Venus groups. As for the mecha request, we simply cannot surrender-" "Then our business here is concluded." "Herr Engles, I would respectfully submit that we have enough food to supply your people for years. We're more than willing to share in any case." "Probably. However, food is not a problem. It is weapons we desire," Engles smiled wryly. If I cannot coerce you, commander, then maybe your band will listen to reason. "Very well then, garvalang," Hamilton signalled his men that they were leaving. "We've outlined our position and our request. We ask forgiveness for wasting the council's time." "I'm grieved, Hamilton. I was hoping we could have made some sort of pact." With that, Wembeurg personally escorted the men outside of the tent to their tents of sojourn. * * * Wembeurg had given them warm tents for the night, and Hamilton had convinced Homeplate that it was a good idea, even over Foley's incessent grumbling that they should head back for camp. Rice was thinking. The location of this camp was several hundred miles south-west of a valley, whose nearby forests had become a refugee camp for those who survived the Zentraedi holocaust, most noted for Passau. Prior to the Invid invasion, the EBSIS had saturated the area with tactical nuclear weapons. Some of the area had survived intact, but Rice had moved his group through quickly. After nine years, the danger for radiation contamination was very real. Northward was Salzburg, now Salzachkrater- the direct target of a reflex cannon beam thirty-eight years ago. When they passed through the valley near Passau, they had observed a few Scavenger groups, not nearly as tight-knit as this group. However, it seemed unusual that all of them were migrating towards France, and even farther west. Some of his people were even of the opinion that they'd somehow end up in the Northlands in due time. Remembering the generally healthy look of the minority group compared to "normal" refugees had given Hamilton a cold chill down his spine, even today. Rice shook off the feeling. "Commander," Rice turned in his sleeping bag. "Yeah, private?" "Well, sir. I was just wondering if I could ask you about Herr Engles, sir." "Make it quick, we have to get some sleep." "I know you don't trust him, but what would a few particle guns mean? Afterall, we have more than enough, and we can scavenge them easily from the abandoned ATAC bases up north." "Son," Hamilton breathed in. "We're an REF outfit, whether you know it or not. We don't make friends by selling them weapons." "But why don't we just tell them-" "Where one of the bases is?" Hamilton completed. "Private. We're here to fight Invid and their sympathizers. Something about Engles is giving me chills down my spine. Did you get a look at Wembeurg's face?" "No, sir," the private shook his head. "He's not to confident in his garvalang, or whatever they call him." "Sir?" "If you noticed, Engles seemed to be more of a..." "Dictator?" the private interject. Hamilton nodded. "Overbearing at best. He knew what he wanted, and now I wondered if he expected our response." "If we'd say no, why would he even bother dealing with us then?" "I don't know," Hamilton admitted. "Maybe he thinks he can coerce us out of our position...or..." "Sir?" "I think he's sure we wouldn't take it by force. Wembeurg knew our outfit, and he must know by now we're not bandits." "So? He is their goon, commander." "Yes, private. In a sense," Hamilton allowed. "Why?" "Why wouldn't he just take us prisoner and hold us hostage? I mean, even with our guns, we don't have the stopping power to fight them all." Hamilton thought on it a second. "I don't think so, son." "Sir?" "There's no profit in it, and I think both of them- Engles and Wembeurg -would prefer to avoid a confrontation." "But we're not going to give them what the wanted. I don't think they'll particularly go for that," the private had a point, but it was something Hamilton and Foley had already wrestled with. "Private, we radioed headquarters and gave them a full lowdown on our situation. Do you know what Code-Bravo-Romeo- Longbow means? "I'm afraid I don't sir." "It something we fixed up when we were last in Britannia. If we are captured, the team will ignore us and move on. Either Engles will let us go, or less likely kill us." "Why wouldn't he kill us, sir?" the private's voice was starting to show anxiety. Hamilton had deliberately kept this between Foley and himself. "Private, this is between you and me," the commander said firmly. "I have a feeling the man will leave us be, but I'm not particularly sure. There's no doubt he's interested in taking hostages to get what he wants. However, he wants to keep what he has as well." "I don't understand." "Private, you got a lot to learn about reading people. That's why I looked around at the council and Wembeurg when I was talking to Herr Engles. The council may be a farce, but the elections are real enough, or so I think. Engles isn't going to sacrifice his `thrown' for a few measely weapons. He'll wait for a less stringent band to pass by. However, he's probably still considering holding us hostage." "Seriously? Er...sir?" "That's what I think. Now go to bed." "Yes, sir," the private rolled back onto his side, facing away from the commander. Hamilton sighed heavily and turned the opposite way. Immediately, his own doubts set in. * * * Morning broke only three minutes after Foley closed his eyes, or so it seemed. He manuevered his way groggily through the tent to the back, where their hosts had set up a small wash bucket for their use. Thoroughly dousing his face in the refreshing and cool fresh-water sink, he used his uniform jacket as sort of a towel. It had been awhile since he last had a decent bath, almost three days since they put camp up to a hot spring outside of old-deserted Nitzles, an Italian coast village with a Swiss-German history following the Zentraedi war. Several other members of the band were waking up to the new day, some rested while others complained of backaches. Hamilton also arose early; he didn't dare step in on his senior team advisor's repute by waking up excessively early, though. Gully finally woke up with a bear-sized yawn. Foley had taken a liking to the young half-breed. The master sergeant had known the Zentraedi since he was a child. He was raised in the "safe-zone" of the New York sector at the time of the Rain. The Zentraedi concentration had hit southern Washington D.C., Pittsburg, and several other coastal cities. However, many had survived thanks to the alien fleet's concentration over the Northwest coast of Canada and Europe. When New York's inner-city populations began to suffer from starvation, migratory routes "upstate" immediately commenced. Farmers were still in vogue in the wide regions of the Andirondacks and in the center of the old state of the former US. "Alright, boys and girls. Up `n' at `em!" he shouted with the bear-like ferocity of a drill sergeant. "Its a bright new day, and we've got a lotta walkin' to do before we hit our cyclones. The seven others besides Gully and Foley that Hamilton had brought along were no more than kids, their first real junket of the area since the Invid storm. Foley made sure that Wembeurg lived up to his word the night before- their weapons were returned, including his AR-21 and prized 5.56x45mm-NATO H&K53 submachine gun, a relic compared to the 9mm M-36 Badgers most of his underlies were packing; but no less effective. He had fitted an extended stock, juryrigging one from his private collection of Heinkler-&- Koch submachine guns- this specific one from an MP-5. Lacking the integral silencing mechanism of the latter, the 53 made up for it in reliability and servicability- as easy to break down, clean, and put back together as her MP-5 cousin. "Will you stop playing with your gun long enough to help us pack up the bags, sergeant?" Hamilton feigned irritation. Foley set the 53 on safety and placed it next to the receptcle. A military-fashion "assembly-line" quickly formed as each man assisted tying another's bag to their pack. Policing the area, they made sure they had a full compliment of clips for their projectile weapons- four-point- four-five millimeters for the Wolverines, nine millimeter for the Wolffs and Badgers, and 5.56 NATO-standard rounds for the European relics a few carried. Next, they checked each Riley's clip compliment most of all, considering the important squad energy weapon, a FAL-2, was in his possession. They had only partially told the truth. The Relief Group had brought along several loads of the prototype H-90 Particle Beam Guns- the "Gallants." However, he didn't stock any with him today. Particle beam guns were protoculture celled power- nuclear devices with a high detectability particularly when used with the rifle clip extension. The FAL-2 in the wrong hands could not only be dangerous, but could attract Invid attention to the area- something Hamilton refused to be responsible for when he could avoid it. They were finished with their policing duties when the tent hoods suddenly were removed, and the tarps pulled away. Immediately, the Badgers and Wolverines were brought up, and Riley and his assault laser ducked behind the rest of the group, ready to provide cover. Nothing happened. Riley stood up immediately, and found that fifty or sixty of the Scavengers had collapsed the tent, and were bearing down dangerous-looking Southern Cross stockpile weaponry, largely 5.56 carbines. Hamilton did not feel like going out like the Spartans against the Persians two thousand of years ago. Slowly, he bade his men to let down their weapons. From behind the Scavenger gunmen, all dressed in the same colloquial grey cloaks and cloth, Wembeurg broke a path through for Herr Engles. He called my bluff. * * * The main encampment tent was not the council room afterall, or even the "palace" erected for the use of Engles. Instead, the garvalang moved all seven men, with the fifty Scavengers still leveling their carbines on them, into the eating hall. Makeshift collapsable tables had been setup, apparently recovered from the Tenacious wreckage. In fact, they were being pushed towards the choppy beaching waves underneath the Tristar-class cruiser's wreckage, like lemmings to their doom. "Well, Hamilton," Engles was smiling. Wembeurg's face was blank. "I've called trimula. Zentraedi, tell them what it means." "Sir," Gully responded by turning to his commander. "That's one-hundred percent T'sientra. The bastard's refering to an insult-reciprocity procedure used by my father's people during the Disciples' of Zor war. Its one of the few memories they retained." "Reciprocity? Procedure?" Foley scoffed. "Sounds like a damn sacrifice ritual to me. What will they do? Cut off our heads?" "Actually, sergeant," Gully said with severe gravity in his voice, "that's not too far from the truth." "Just great," the sergeant muttered. "Commander?" "Keep your heads cool, men," he said simply. "Yeah, right," Foley grumbled. "Cool and wet and portable as soon as these bastards are done with us." "Relax, sergeant," Hamilton emphasized the rank with genuine irritation. "We're not done for yet." The guards had taken their packs and weapons, almost reluctantly. However, Engles held some power here, and whether it was Shaping or intimidation, Hamilton wasn't about to let it touch him. "Why are you doing this, garvalang?!" he shouted over the grey morning's ocean waves. "Hamilton!" Engles sneered, shouting over the distance. "You came to our camp in the attempt to lay claim to what we've established as ours. There were plenty of laser rifles and projectile weapons to last you for months. All we asked for is a few particle gun prototypes, and you failed to meet our satisfaction." "I am not readily displeased, Rice Hamilton!" He said I, it was starting to make sense to him. "We have not what you require, Herr Engles! This is a blatant display of hostility! I warn you, my men will come down her with Blowsperior Cyclones and VTs if they have too, and they won't be so inviting." "Maybe, Hamilton. But for some reason, I don't think so." "What the hell is he talking about," Foley questioned, but Hamilton gave him the shut-up sign. "Garvalang. My men are far better trained and armed than you are, and they don't need me as a leader. You only loose if you do this. If we don't check in high and dry, then your ass is pretty much toast, if you'll pardon me." "Granted," Engles feigned consideration. "However, we have your radio. We will inform them that you tried to take our claim forcibly, and we were forced to shoot out with you. Your packs will be thrown with your corpses, and we'll burn a few tents to give the illusion of a battle." A few murmurs stirred up in the crowd, just as Hamilton had suspected. Foley tapped on his shoulders, but the command simply ignored him. "Engles, you're a criminal, and an intimidator. I don't know what you think you're doing with these people, but you aren't truly one of them, are you?" "It will not matter, Saxon-legend. You'll be dead, and we'll be absolved of responsibility. Sure, your squad will make accusations, but we'll approach them peacefully, explain what you have done. Maybe they will deal with-" Suddenly, Wembeurg spoke up. "They will not." Engles stopped midsentenced and faced his warhaft. "Say again?" "If we kill the hostages, they will not deal with us. They may leave us alone, but they won't give us our weapons." Hamilton could feel the schism widening. It was all as he suspected. Engles was no better than a mob-boss- a hustler who manipulated a band of Scavengers into his own little dictatorship. Today, many were starting to wake up to that. He had met better than this, the survivors of the Starchildren were largely Scavengers in the Southlands, the Russian group two years ago, and the Bushmen who still resided in Southern Africa. Engles had made this group different somehow- corrupted some here and there. But the normal person, the lower caste in a supposedly casteless system, still retained that basic feeling- that basic motivation -that had joined him or her to the cause in the first place. he could almost here the shift of a great many people standing behind Wembeurg. The commander glanced toward the ridge, as if expecting something that remained hidden from the thoughts of his own group and the camp's population as well. Three guards and two councilmen flocked to Engles' side. "I believe the Warhaft has something to interject?" "That this approach is irrational, garvalang. We don't really need the weapons, and we do, we have the energy weapons in this ship." "Yes, my boy. But only a limited number, and very few have functional power units. You know that." "I do know. I was the one who assessed virtually all of them. However, we weren't formed for the use of violence." "We require protection..." As the little debate continued, just out of everyone's earshot, Foley finally tried again. "Rice, what the hell did you do now?" "I think I've just started a small civil war, sergeant." "What? Really, what's going on?" "The people are finally wising up," Hamilton explained simply. "They're waking up to the smell of rotten peaches." Meanwhile, the conversation had heated into a full debate. Engles was constantly refering to Wembeurg as warhaft, in the tone that its was a subserviant yet powerful position under himself- as he was the garvalang. "Warhaft? Simply because I was a soldier, you think I am some sort of general for you to order around? Watch this, Herr Engles. Goedinger, Marcus. Release the prisoners and return their packs. Tell them they will have limited salvage rights to the Tristar for weapon and ammunition supplies only. The food is ours alone." "You supercede your position, Warhaft." "You've exceeded yours. You're polluting our society with weapons. Let me tell you something about Gallants. They operate on protoculture. Sometime ago, the Invid started affixing sensors onto their mecha to detect protoculture at a long range. We'll be killed if we used them." He really was a soldier. Goedinger and Marcus, both having no belaying orders, did as the Warhaft had said. The fifty or so guards pointed their weapons downward, but did let them down. Slowly, each member of Hamilton's team armed themselves, Riley charging the FAL-2 to maximum power; just in case. "How dare you, Warhaft." "Herr Wembeurg," the ex-Warhaft corrected. "I resign my commission. I'm not following you for another day, sir." "The impundence of-" "Sir, I am sick of hearing you go on about what you want and don't want. You've driven this rav long enough through mire and mud to find weapons we don't even need, and when you find a stockpile, you take prisoners to get even more. I'm not going to be a part of this, and Marcus and Goedinger will have to decide whose side they'll be on." Both debrandished their guns and set them on safety. Out of good-faith, Hamilton made sure his men remained put, to wait out the standoff. Several of the camp had moved over to the former-Warhaft's side, an unconscious but stark- clear indication of the divisions in the camps. Engles own men and those communals still loyal to him rallied behind him. Several of the guards were raising weapons. "Enough of this. Sales, Goedinger! If you value your position in this rav, execute three of the prisoners immediately. Do not have me repeat-" "Belay that order," Wembeurg's shout quickly drowned out Engles' orders. The garvalang faced the ex-Warhaft with a look that could kill. "You're no longer in charge of these men, Herr Wembeurg, nor are you a member of this rav. Leave immediately, and we will let you live." "What gives you the right to decide our comings and goings. We're supposed to be peaceful group of free people. We're not yours to command, and you are to enforce our laws, not create them or bend them to suit your will." More rava shifted to Wembeurg's side. Three of the seven underlies in Hamilton's scout group brought up their weapons, ready for anything. "To hell with you, Wembeurg. Kill them now!" Marcus Sales and Goedinger glanced at each other. And then dropped their weapons. Hamilton didn't move a single inch. "Ungrateful wretch!" Engles drew out his sidearm, a gas powered .44 Magnum, and attempted to shoot Wembeurg. But the Warhaft's soldierly training kicked in, and he quickly butted the hand away. Engles kept a firm grip on the butt of his gun as they wrestled each other for possession. Suddenly, as if God himself intervened, a low roar caught the attention of several of the camp's population. Gully's keen ears picked it up first, and he gave a quick shout as he pointed to the cliffline of the ridge. Within moments, three Bartley's armed with EP-10 particle cannons burst over the cliff's edge. They didn't fire, and Hamilton hoped to god their guns were on stun level. Most of the crowd dispersed, fearful of relataliation from the guardian angels of the hostages they had taken. Foley immediately waived down on of the Cyclones and ordered his men to rush inland, taking cover amongst the tents closest to the Tristar. Hamilton, however, was out of Foley's sight. Before he could turn around, he heard Gully shout out. "There he goes!" he waved towards the scuffle between Wembeurg and Engles. Despite the calvary's arrival, the two were still engaged in a deadly match of strength. The latter had succeeded in landing a quick side-kick at his former-Warhaft's groin, collapsing the relative giant to the ground. Engles maliciously brough the pistol up to aim. "Rot in hell, you-" the garvalang was about to utter a contemptful concluding epithet when he suddenly felt a nearly crippling blow to the side. As Wembeurg struggled to his feet, he suddenly saw Engles entangled with Hamilton, who was more his size. Wembeurg slinked over in the sand, praying for the REF commander's victory. Engles managed to throw a handful of sand into Rice's eyes. He fell off of him as Engles struggled to his feet. In a wild but lucky grasp, Hamilton was able to push away Engle's aiming arm and come up with a fist to the gut. Engles responded with a crushing blow to the neck. Hamilton nearly went down, but forced himself painfully forward into the garvalang's midsection. A palm-strike caught the younger man's chin, and both rolled down the beach in a tight embrace. Gully and Foley were rushing to intercede when suddenly. Gunfire. A single shot rang out, and as Foley and Gully looked wanly at the struggling foes, they saw Engles push Hamilton from off top of him. The resistence commander felt his body grow numb, and within a few moments, his dark-blue blurred- view of the world faded into darkness. The last thing he heard were two distant voices calling his name... ____________________________________________________________