The Masters' Gambit, page 11
part #20 of Robotech Series
"Not only is it inevitable, it is essential to our future as God's Children. Tempted by a diabolical technology, we yielded to temptation and loosed a new evil in the world. An evil that cannot be coaxed back into its box, its lamp, its foul-smelling orifice, until we have rid ourselves of baseness and have become pure of mind and body."
Leonard stood and walked to the deck's wooden railing. "Reeling from the catastrophic events of ten years of global war, Russo, Lang, Hayes, and their deluded followers embraced the Visitor and Robotechnology as a panacea, and we've been paying for their shortsightedness ever since." He slammed a fist down on the top rail. "This is why the EDF must be purged of Robotechs once and for all. So that, united, the rest of us will be strong enough to survive the coming purification. That's what those heavenly aspects and configurations are telling me, Petrie. That we must be prepared to put aside all fears of reprisal and be prepared to act on our vision. Yes, of course, our actions will be misunderstood and condemned. But only God's judgment counts, and in His eyes we will have triumphed over evil."
Petrie tried not to let his amusement show. Fanaticism of any variety left him entertained, especially when it had a promoter of Leonard's caliber, with his charmingly antiquated spewings about God and purification, most of it lifted chapter and verse from the defunct, technophobic, fin de siècle
Faithful movement. Even so, the commander's ravings spoke to a practical consideration: the nettlesome RDF, and what was to be done with it.
"If only we would hear from the SDF-3," Leonard was saying. "If only God would grant me some sign that the time to act has arrived." He waved an arm at the sky. "Something more than a vague inkling. Something concrete."
Petrie didn't say anything for a long moment; he wanted his announcement to detonate in silence, and mushroom from there. "I've been waiting for an opportunity to share this with you," he began. "I mean, I know how you feel about Rolf Emerson, how you regard him as a man of integrity and all. But it seems that our Minister of Terrestrial Defense—and, need I add, former Zentraedi lover and Hunter crony—departed Fokker Aerospace at oh-twelve-hundred today, bound for the factory satellite."
"Go ahead," Miho Nagata said. "Order whatever you'd like. This one's on me."
Round-faced Census ran his eyes down the sim-wood table's inset display screen, his mouth already watering at the prospect of real food. "I guess I'll have the chicken and vegetable stir-fry."
Miho reacted with playful ridicule. "You can get that at any lunch stall on the street. How about kobe? When was the last time you sunk your teeth into a buttery-smooth steak?"
Uh, how about never, Census wanted to tell him. The restaurant was too glam to list the prices on the menu, but he figured that a steak had to cost more than his share of the apartment's monthly rent. Still, a steak! "You sure it's all right?"
Miho smiled, revealing gleaming, even teeth. "I said so, didn't I? Go ahead, digit it."
Census beamed back at him and entered his selection with the press of a forefinger against the screen. The restaurant had robot waiters, but they were only for delivering orders.
The place was called Tokonama, which was an old word for a seat
reserved for a special guest. Located six levels below Shinjuku Station, it overlooked the entire dome and the video plazas and cherry-tree-lined concourses far below. The tablecloths and napkins were linen, there were fresh flowers in enamel vases on every table, and the patrons were corporate types in expensive clothes. In silk jacket and trousers, Nagata himself fit right in—even though he was through-and-through yak.
Census felt underdressed, but otherwise pumped. Nagata had posted a message at the apartment's e-drop the previous day, inviting him to lunch. Which had to mean that the Family Nagata yakked for, the Shimadas, must have gotten something out of the info Hongo had pirated from Aoki Aquaculture.
Japan's leading hatchery, Aoki distributed its product to a total of seven wholesalers, one of which was owned by Shimada. Shimada in turn sold to hundreds of second-level wholesalers, called nakaoroshi, most of which specialized in a particular species of fish and were allotted spaces in Tokyo's New Tsukiji Fish Market. But in penetrating Aoki's computer system, Hongo had learned that the hatchery was planning to sell tuna directly to a nakaoroshi conglomerate run by a crime family, thus eliminating Shimada from the profit loop.
Hongo had ventured that Nagata's people might want to employ their services again, maybe for more than Nagata had paid for the first go-round. So things were definitely looking up. Plus, Discount had received his head clearance from the clinic and was due for release anytime.
Now if Census could only get Misa into turnaround. Not that he expected she'd actually find new roomies—not as yenless as she was. But at the same time he didn't want to see her have to come crawling back to him because she had nowhere else to go. He honestly wanted to win her back. And that could happen if Nagata were to become a steady client, or, better yet, a kind of patron, fronting whatever tech Hongo needed to execute deep- cyberspace intercepts.
"The reason I asked you here," Miho said, "was to tell you that your foreknowledge of events in the fish trade was much appreciated."
"We aim to please," Census said.
"It's always good to know what the competition is planning."
"Perhaps we could learn something more about future developments," Census suggested carefully.
Miho nodded. "Yes, I think that's a wise idea. Who can say? If things work out, there might be steady work in it for you."
"We would be most honored."
Miho laughed, leaned back in his chair, and withdrew a cigarette from a wooden case. "Tell me a bit about yourself. What do you like to do when you're not wedded to a telecomp?"
Census scratched his head and thought about it. "Sports?"
"Not really." "Movies?" "No money." "Hobbies?"
"I like browsing the Akihabara rubbish piles for discarded electronics." Miho's forehead wrinkled in what seemed to be mild concern. "Okay,"
he said tentatively. "And what about your living situation? Do you have a place?"
"Yeah. I—that is, we do. Myself and a couple of . . . business associates.
It's small, but it serves our needs. For now."
"Especially when you have all of cyberspace to wander around in, huh?"
"Exactly."
"You obviously have access to good tech." "Not the best, but we improvise."
"And you trust your . . . associates?" "All the way."
A waiter appeared with two beers and glided away on solid rubber wheels. "Kanpei," Miho said, lifting his bottle.
Census took a sip of beer, luxuriating in the slightly bitter taste. A
pretty ojingal sauntered past the table, making brief eye contact with Nagata. Her look and aroma made Census's eyes widen.
Miho caught the reaction and grinned. "I trust that there's at least one woman in your life. Can't skimp on that, you know."
"There is, yes." "What's she like?"
"From out of the communals, same as me." Census frowned. "But hard to please, sometimes. She doesn't mind not owning a lot of things, so gifts don't work too well on her."
"What's her name?"
"Misa. But we call her Miko—as a joke, you know." "I'm sure she's a beauty."
"Oh, yeah. Great eyes, great lips, great . . . And, uh, taller than me."
Miho's ringed right hand stroked his clean-shaven chin. "That wouldn't be the one I saw you with the day we met?"
Census froze with the beer bottle pressed to his lips. It was as if someone had just shot him full of ice water. If asked, he couldn't have said why; but there was suddenly something in Nagata's tone of voice that reeked of deliberate nonchalance. Why was he so interested in Census's personal life? And was what they'd sold him about Aoki really all that valuable?
Thoughts began to crowd into his mind. The day Nagata had seen Misa was the same day she'd purchased the disk from Tender/Search. The disk that featured only one ad, and that one from a woman Hongo was certain ran security for SPOOK.
And spooked was just how Census felt, though he concealed it behind a long swallow of beer, his eyes sweeping the neighboring tables for anything—anything—suspicious. All he saw were contented men and women engaged in seemingly delightful conversations. There was only one solo within view: a harmless-looking, obese little man with curly hair.
"No, no, that wasn't Misa," he finally got around to telling Nagata. "That was another friend."
"Ah, so there's more than one in your life." "When times are good."
"What's that one's name—the one I saw on the bench?"
"Her? Actually, you know, I don't even know her all that well. But I think they call her Haruke."
"Haruke." "Yeah. Haruke."
The steaks arrived. "Dig in."
Census stared at the massaged meat, mournfully aware that his appetite had fled.
CHAPTER NINE
The survivor of a ship that had crashed not far from Darwin, Ilan Tinari had found her way to Sydney with a dozen other aliens, most of whom later tied up with a Malcontent band known as the Claimers. Quite human in appearance—issued from the same clone queue that had given the Zentraedi Miriya Parino and Seloy Deparra, head of the Malcontent Scavengers— Tinari served as [Rolf Emerson's] bodyguard long before they became lovers. Rolf love for his wife notwithstanding, some of his happiest memories were of his and Tinari's time in the Argentine, a honeymoon of sorts, antedating the riots in the Southlands, the formation of the Army of the Southern Cross, and the destruction of Zagerstown, after which Tinari was moved to join the cause.
Soon afterward, Laura Shaze entered Rolf's life for a time, though Dana and Bowie eventually proved too much for their relationship. Then Tinari had returned, showing up on his doorstep without advance word, one of the few Zentraedi who hadn't gone upside free of charge on the shuttles Commander Leonard had set aside for the aliens' use. But once more it was Dana who tipped the scales. Rolf had never revealed Tinari's ancestry to Dana; but, for Tinari, the precocious young woman was a constant reminder of what might have been had the Humans been accepting of them. And so Tinari too went upside.
S. J. Fischer,
Legions of Light: A History of the Army of the Southern Cross
The shuttle docked in the factory satellite's three-o'clock pod, whose iris gate was now the sole operational portal in the entire facility. Rolf Emerson, his adjutant Captain Rochelle, and three of the five crewpersons debarked. The only other ships parked in the bay were two aged ARMD- series shuttles, neither of which was serviceable. The rest of the hold was blotched with pools of unidentifiable lubricants and strewn with refuse,
unopened crates of now-spoiled food, and the husks of off-gassing electronics. The stench was overpowering.
Rolf recalled a visit he had made years earlier, in the company of then Vice Admiral Rick Hunter, Brigadier General Gunther Reinhardt, and Captain Max Sterling. They had come to apprise Breetai of the enforced Micronizations that were being performed in the Arkansas Protectorate, transformed into an internment camp for Earth's remaining full-size aliens. Hunter had also wanted to announce the formation of the all-Zentraedi Twenty-third Veritech Squadron, which would go on to distinguish itself in the Southlands during the Malcontent Uprisings.
Rolf remembered the beehive bustle of the place, Earthers and aliens working shoulder-to-shoulder to ready Breetai's much-altered flagship for launch to Tirol. After Emerson's promotion to colonel and his permanent relocation to Monument City, official business typically carried him to Aluce, Liberty, or Base Gloval on Mars, in its final phase. When not shuttling from place to place to meet with base commanders, he had had Dana and Bowie to see to; their parents were aloft, helping Hunter, Hayes, and Emil Lang finalize contingencies for the Expeditionary mission. Rolf had attended the Hunters' send-off wedding, of course; but since 2020 he had only revisited the factory on three occasions, two of which had involved ministry matters. The third visit had been prompted by the deaths of Rico, Konda, and Bron— Dana's "godfathers"—who had died within weeks of one another, and were eulogized by Nigel Aldershot.
Since Lang's tech teams had never succeeded in rousing the factory's central computer—either to supervise systems maintenance or to mass- produce Battlepods, its specialty—the monstrous, radish-shaped facility had already begun to deteriorate by the time the SDF-3 launched. In addition, the REF had left the factory looking as trashed as the base camp of a mountain-climbing expedition. And for all the years the Zentraedi had lived among Earthers, they had never fully comprehended the necessity of orderliness and cleanliness. Repairs and routine maintenance had always been effected by the same machines that piloted their miles-long
battlewagons and provided food for personnel numbering in the tens of thousands.
Estimates of the current onboard population ranged from three to five hundred, most of them living in gender segregation in coffin-size compartments on level seven. All the full-size had shipped out with the REF, taking with them the only functioning resizing chamber. The enormous holds above and below level seven were sealed off, including the access tubes to five of the pods and to the null-g hollow where the SDF-3 had been constructed. The factory produced a synth food, rich in the ur-Protoculture chemicals essential for the health of their elastic bodies, but deaths by voluntary starvation were not uncommon. Widespread xenophobia was what had forced them offworld, and a profound sense of purposelessness hung like a pall over the colony.
Returning to the factory after so lengthy an absence brought to the surface all the anxiety Rolf had stowed away concerning the seeming disappearance of the SDF-3. Dana and Bowie had proved alarmingly resistant to concern for the safety of their parents, accepting on faith that they would reunite with them someday. Whenever Rolf would go into one of his solemn talks about possible futures, the kids would say that the mission had probably been delayed, or that hammering out an accord with the Masters was simply taking longer than expected. Rolf frequently wished that he had even an iota of their certitude and optimism. Instead, he had gone through a kind of grieving process the past few years, first denying all possibilities of tragedy; then growing angry with the Sterlings, the Grants, and the Hunters for abandoning Earth in parlous times; then spiraling into a black hole of sadness and depression; and finally, only lately, learning to accept that tragic consequences came with the territory, and that life rarely offered guarantees of any sort.
Nevertheless, there was something about standing in the miasmic docking bay of the factory's three-o'clock pod that was corrosive to Rolf's newfound acceptance. And the sight of Ilan Tinari didn't help any.
Dusky and supple, Ilan had big, dark eyes and a wild mane of black
hair. Even a hopelessly frayed jumpsuit couldn't mask her sultry handsomeness. Approaching her, however, Rolf could see that she was changed—the passion kindled by her years on the surface had gone out of her. She radiated all the warmth of a marble statue. So why was his heart breaking all over again?
"Thank you for coming, Rolf," she said when he was near enough. They didn't embrace or so much as shake hands. There was a time when they were ruled by mutual touch and the affection that fueled it, but Ilan had disowned those feelings. Even when she had turned up in Monument City after a six-year absence.
"Was it you who sent the message?" Rolf asked her. She nodded.
"What's this about, Ilan? Why have you people refused to respond to our hailings?"
Ilan held his gaze for a moment. "Come. We'll talk."
She spun on her heel and headed for the nearest hatchway. Rolf instructed Captain Rochelle to stay behind with the shuttle crew and hurried after her.
When the encrypted message had been received at Terrestrial Defense headquarters on Fokker Base, Rolf had assumed it had come from Ilan. That the "invitation" may have been a personal request was one of the justifications he had used for not informing Leonard or his command staff of his plans to go upside. Not that he was obliged to, in any case; and he certainly had no doubts that Leonard would learn of his departure in short order. But he reasoned that the commander would have prohibited the trip, thinking it part of Aldershot's plan to unseat him, and Rolf refused to give Leonard that pleasure.
Ilan led him past more refuse heaps, malodorous pools, and cannibalized electronics; past row after row of housing coffins and isolated groups of sullen Zentraedi. It was no wonder the UEG had rejected a documentarian's request for permission to shoot a video aboard the factory; their xenophobia notwithstanding, Earthers would only have added reason
for denouncing the REF for its self-serving tactics.
The short tour ended in a trashed compartment that had probably been someone's office during construction of the SDF-3. Ilan had Rolf sit down in the only intact chair.
"We want permission to leave," she told him evenly.
He showed her a perplexed look. "Leave the factory? Ilan, you know you don't need our permission to do that. You're here by your own choice."
Her head was shaking before he even finished. "That's not what I mean.
We want permission to leave stationary orbit."
Rolf was momentarily stunned. "Leave for where? This thing's incapable of fold. Where could you go?"
"Into a cometary orbit." She crossed the room to an outmoded comp and called up astrogational graphics on the device's CRT. "Lang wrote this program years before the SDF-3 launched. The factory's reflex drives will insert us into orbit; then the gravitation sinks of this system will do the rest."
Rolf was staring at her. "I don't understand—"
"Because the Masters are coming, Rolf. And it's likely we will be the first to feel their wrath."
"Ilan," Rolf interrupted. "When this station was fully operational its sensors could scan clear to Pluto. If you have some evidence that the Masters are en mute . . . If this is why you've been incommunicado—"
