"We have no evidence of the sort you're talking about. But consider how a human infant knows when its birth mother is nearby even before its eyes can see her. It is no different between the Zentraedi and the Masters. We can sense when our creators are close by. The reason we've stopped responding to your hailings is because the Masters will be scanning for signals transmitted by any of the facilities they designed for use by the Zentraedi." She cut her eyes to him. "We're running silent for your sake."

  Rolf thought about Dana's recent bouts with unprovoked anger and agitation. Was she feeling what the factory Zentraedi were? "And this plan to leave Earthspace?" he asked. "This is also for our sake?"

  "In part. On defold in this system, the fortresses of the Masters' fleet will immediately seize on our position. We will become the target of their initial hunt. But they will not destroy us without first communicating their intentions. We will tell them that the Protoculture matrix left Earth aboard the SDF-3—to be returned to them, if that is what you wish us to say. They won't believe us. But the subsequent destruction of this factory will alert you to the fact that the Masters are present and that attack is imminent."

  Rolf nodded gravely. Early on in Reconstruction, long before Khyron leveled Macross Three, a plan had been formulated to use the in- construction SDF-2 as just such a decoy. Or so Rolf had heard. "You said, 'in part.'"

  Ilan turned away from him. "We don't want the Masters to discover us like this—defeated, pathetic, huddled together in filth . . . We can at least make a pretense of having retained our pride."

  Rolf stood up and went to her. "I believe you that you can sense their approach. What I need to know is if there is a way for you to gauge the strength of your feelings. Just how close are they, Ilan? There are things that need to be done."

  The muscles in her jaw bulged. "Rolf, I risked making contact with you to ask a favor. If you're going to turn this into a deal—"

  "I'm not. But if you people are willing to help us by offering yourselves to the Masters as a target of opportunity, why won't you tell

  me all you know?"

  She folded her arms across her chest. "How many years did we share?" "I don't know—five, six?"

  "And have you already forgotten the conditioning that we must overcome merely to coexist with you in Earthspace? In place of fashioning weapons to rain death on your world as we were tasked to do by Dolza?"

  Rolf shook his head. "I haven't forgotten about the Imperative. And I'm sorry if I made this sound like a swap. Of course I'll do whatever you ask of me—without obligation."

  Some of the hardness left her face. "Thank you, Rolf."

  And for one moment it was like old times between them.

  "Then you will convey to the proper authorities our request to embark?" she asked.

  "I will." Rolf paused. "Is there a chance I could convince you to remain in Earthspace, Ilan?"

  She nearly smiled. "How are the children?"

  Rolf forced a breath. "Hardly children anymore. They've both entered the Earth Defense Force Academy."

  "Miriya Parino would have been proud of her daughter. And grateful to you for the sacrifices you've made."

  Rolf studied her. "Ilan, will there be a way to contact the factory should the SDF-3 return? Is it possible you'll return if and when the fortress does?" Ilan was noncommittal. "Most of us will be dead before long. Many onboard have stopped ingesting the drugs Lang developed to retard our

  deterioration."

  "Why?"

  "Because we are the doomed. There is no place for us in the galaxy. We would rather expire as we were meant to than live on without purpose. However horrific, the Imperative was the Zentraedi equivalent of faith—our reason to be. Living among you—though infinitely preferable to our former lives as warriors—has corrupted that faith. The Zentraedi are an anachronism." Ilan gazed at Rolf for a long moment. "Can I count on you, Rolf Emerson?"

  "Always," he said, biting back his grief.

  Centered in a commo sphere in the command nexus of the Masters' flagship stood Sliat Rnan, Zentraedi commander of a Thuveral Salan destroyer assigned to the Seventh Mechanized Division of the Botoru Battalion. The battlewagon was thrust at an acute angle into the impact- cratered surface of a small moon millions of miles removed from its ringed captor.

  Sliat was barrel-chested, dark haired, and prognathous. He held one

  arm across his chest not as a sign of obeisance but to keep his tattered command cloak from slipping off his shoulder. The uniform itself was torn in several places, revealing patches of Sliat's bluish-white skin, and the Zentraedi sigil—the Cizion—affixed to the yoke was dangling by a corner.

  "Under Dolza's lead, we took the battle to the Micronian homeworld," he was telling the Masters. "Annihilation bolts unleashed by the ships of the Grand Fleet pierced the atmosphere, obliterating thousands of cities, killing hundreds of millions of inhabitants. But the hostiles answered us with unprecedented frenzy, employing an array of weapons never before encountered—a Voice that confounded the brave pilots of our cruisers and scout ships, a subsurface cannon that belched nuclear fire into our midst. Even so, victory seemed assured. Until the suicidal Micronians drove Zor's vessel into the heart of Commander-in-Chief Dolza's fortress and targeted the sum of its might against the reflex furnaces. It wasn't an act of warfare, my lords. It was an act of madness, bred of desperation. If it hadn't been for the barrier shield, the Micronian usurpers of Zor's ship would have been immolated."

  Sliat, hellishly backlit by the bridge's emergency illumination, coughed and sniffled. The backs of his hands were covered with sores. Behind him in the dimly lighted command bubble were half a dozen full-size crewpersons, helmeted and slouched into acceleration couches. Bioscanners aboard the Masters' ship indicated that most of those seated were long dead.

  Shaizan communicated his thoughts to Dag and Bowkaz before directing words to the commo sphere. "Tell us of the aftermath of the battle."

  Sliat cleared his throat repeatedly. "M'lords, with the destruction of Dolza's fortress, the ships of the Grand Fleet were like limbs of a decapitated beast—flailing uselessly and uncontrollably. The vast majority were engulfed and atomized by the burgeoning explosive cloud, whose epicenter was the still-intact vessel Zor designed. What ships remained oriented of their own accord on the Micronian homeworld, and into its superheated atmosphere they plunged. Like spears they fell, like flaming

  arrows dispatched from some circumferential battlement. Down and down they plummeted, many of them incinerating on entry, while others struck and stuck into the yielding surface like pins. Including, m'lords, the Quiltra Queleual commanded by Khyron Kravshera."

  The Masters exchanged thoughts, and, once more, Shaizan voiced the outcome of their telepathic conference. "Did you attempt to establish contact with your fellow survivors on Earth?"

  Sliat bowed his head. "We have tried. When the factory satellite defolded in Earthspace, we reached out for it, but to no avail. But we have continued in our efforts, all these miserable years that have found us disabled on this moon. Unfamiliarity with the Micronians' language has prevented us from deciphering the content of their incessant noise, but we do know that Commander Khyron died during an attack which destroyed Zor's grounded fortress once and for all. Long live the memory of Khyron!"

  In saluting, Slait lost hold of his command cloak and it slid off his shoulder to the deck.

  "Indeed," a narrow-eyed Dag responded. "Long live the memory of Khyron. But, tell us, Sliat Rnan, how it is that your destroyer neither succumbed to Dolza's funerary fireball nor plummeted to Earth?"

  "My lords, the ship was depleted of Protoculture."

  "That much is not in question," Shaizan said. "But how did you come to crash so far removed from the battle itself?"

  Sliat swallowed hard. "We're not certain, my lords. For some reason, the ship elected to deliver us here."

  Shaizan nodded his bald head. "I see. Well, then, Sliat Rnan, it might interest you to know that yours wasn't the only ship of the Grand Fleet to escape destruction or capture by the Earth. The other ship managed to execute a fold that delivered it to the factory satellite's former space-time location. There, the crew related the details of the battle in Earthspace to Commander Reno, who, in turn, relayed them to us. And know, Sliat Rnan, that the two reports are very much in agreement: the firing of a planet- based weapon, the confounding Voice, the insidious defiling of Dolza's

  deepspace fortress, the ensuing destruction, the fall to Earth . . ."

  "Thus it was, my lords," a transparently relieved Sliat said. "But the last of the Botoru are prepared to take up the fight once more, in service to Tirol and in vengeance for the Zentraedi!"

  The Masters were silent for a long moment. It was Bowkaz who finally spoke. "An inspiring speech, Commander. But I'm afraid you didn't allow Master Shaizan to complete his thought. The two accounts of the battle were in agreement, save on one matter: that of Khyron's cowardice and treachery."

  Sliat was wordless.

  "Will you deny that Khyron ordered the ships of the Botoru Battalion to disengage before the destruction of the command fortress?" Shaizan asked. "And that it was only a shortage of Protoculture that thwarted his plan to fold from Earthspace?"

  Sliat lowered his head. "I cannot deny it, my lords."

  "So it seems that you were not so much blessed by fate as you were

  purposely removed from its reach," Dag said.

  The Zentraedi stooped to retrieve his cloak and flung it over his shoulder. "My lords, we were only following Commander Khyron's orders."

  "Khyron's orders? Even when those orders were in conflict with Dolza's?

  Even when they contradicted the Imperative?"

  Sliat stiffened. "My lords, it's true that Khyron was disloyal to Dolza.

  But only out of unwavering loyalty to you!" Shaizan glowered. "Explain yourself."

  "Khyron knew that Dolza had secret designs on Zor's fortress and on the Protoculture matrix it concealed. Khyron had already observed Breetai's defection. Now he saw Dolza defecting. His aim in ordering a fold was to return the Botoru to Tirol and apprise you of the developments." Sliat stood tall. "I repeat: We are in your service. Rescue and enable us to do your bidding."

  The Masters conferred. Then Bowkaz altered the position of his fingertips on the hovering Protoculture Cap.

  "We have no further need of your services. In their bowels, our ships carry an army of warrior clones who know the meaning of obedience. The Zentraedi had an opportunity to honor themselves and they failed. You say Khyron was acting in our benefit, when it was Khyron whose wounded pride compelled him to attack Zor's fortress instead of returning to Tirol. You, Commander Sliat Rnan, failed by siding with someone who, by destroying the Protoculture matrix, may have undermined the survivability of Tirol itself."

  Sliat coughed and cleared his throat. "My lords, I ask that you not leave us here to rot."

  Shaizan made a dismissive gesture. "Don't concern yourself with the future, Commander. Your exile is over." He depressed a spot on the Cap. "Your ship has been targeted for destruction. Go happily to your graves."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Born in 1991, [Miho Nagata] grew up in Tokyo and on Macross Island, after his father, a Shimada employee, was sent there to take control of the Family's gambling and prostitution interests. Interestingly, the elder Nagata had several run-ins with a young Anatole Leonard in 2006, when, as a member of Conrad Wilbur's Faithful, Leonard was brought on-island to organize protest demonstrations aimed at closing the very Shimada concerns Nagata was supervising.

  footnote in Bruce Mirrorshades,

  Machine Mind and Arthurian Legend

  "Why do you want to have another look at the disk?" Misa asked as she was kicking off her sandals. She glanced at Census, who was nearest the slider. "Don't tell me: You're thinking about moving into Yoko Nitabi's place after you make your big run."

  Census didn't so much as grin. Nor did Gibley, already stationed at the telecomp, which was surrounded on all sides by stuff Misa had never seen before—adjuncts, turbochargers, peripherals, slaves. Nor, for that matter, did Discount, though maybe his excuse was medication prescribed by the clinic that had seen him through the Zand attack.

  Misa aimed a frown at each of them. "What's with you guys, someone season your sushi with soporifics?"

  "Did you bring the disk?" Census asked.

  Misa forced a tight-lipped smile. "Your Kawaii-chan messenger made sure I did. Who is she, anyway, your new lover? Not that I blame you. But I am surprised—I thought you didn't like women with blond hair."

  "She's my friend," Gibley explained.

  Misa glanced at him, then back at Census. "Sorry. How did you know where to find me?"

  He shrugged. "We put out the word. Some guy told Discount he'd seen

  you sleeping in Ueno Park, so we started there."

  "Yeah, well, lucky for you Gibley's cutie-pie friend found me when she did. I was practically on my way to Tender/Search to ask for my money back."

  Census nodded impatiently and held out his hand. "Could I have it?"

  She exhaled peevishly and handed him the disk. Census passed it along to Gibley, who immediately slotted the thing in the player. At the same time, Census and Discount centered themselves in front of monitor screens right and left of the telecomp.

  "Ready?" Gibley asked them, his fingers poised over the player's remote control.

  "Launch it," Discount told him.

  The ad began to run—without comments from any of them this go- round. Once more, Yoko Nitabi's alluring face filled the screen, followed by views of her apartment and views from it, overlooking the plazas and pedestrian malls of the Bunkyo-ku Station geo-grid.

  "Anything?" Gibley asked, eyes glued to the screen.

  His partners shook their heads. The ad continued, on into scenes of Nitabi's Minmei-soundtracked night on the town—

  "Freeze it!" Census said.

  Gibley did, and swung to him. "What have you got?"

  "I'm not sure. Might be nothing more than noise corruption." "Did it coincide with the beginning of the music?"

  "Yeah."

  Gibley looked at Discount. "You have any Minmei on disk?" Discount managed a short laugh. "What, are you kidding me?" "Is there someplace local we can get some?"

  Discount shrugged. "Some of her tunes might be available in the vending machines on the corner."

  "Check it out. Look for a compilation that includes "Stage Fright." And make sure it's digital and not remastered from analog."

  Discount hurried through the doorway barefooted.

  Misa watched him go and turned to Gibley and Census. "All right, let's hear it."

  They traded looks. Then Census said, "Remember how surprised we were to find only one ad on the disk?"

  "Of course I do. That's why I was going to demand a refund."

  Census nodded. "Obviously there was a mistake. But we're thinking it was an important mistake." He reminded Misa of their argument on the day he had rendezvoused with the gangster, then took her forward to the previous day's lunch with the same yak, and the seemingly innocent questions Miho Nagata had asked regarding Misa. "When I remembered what Hongo said about Nitabi working for SPOOK, and I put that together with your getting the disk right where Nagata and I were meeting . . ." He let his words trail off. "Why are you staring at me?"

  Misa scowled. "Because I can't believe I ever allowed myself to fall for someone so completely braindead!"

  "Huh?"

  She shook her head in angry bewilderment. "Why in the world would gangsters be interested in an ad for a share in an apartment? Don't you figure they'd have enough NuYen to get places of their own?"

  "It's not the ad," Gibley said quietly. "It's something written into it." "In code?"

  "That's what we're trying to find out."

  Regarding him, Misa began to shake her head again. "You're out of your heads, both of you. You've got a woman from SPOOK placing an encrypted ad and a yakuza panting to get his hands on it, but instead of just letting me return it to Tender/Search you want to decipher the thing? You think this is some kind of turn-of-the-century jidai thriller?"

  Census compressed his lips briefly. "No, but—"

  "But nothing! We have the thing, there's nothing we can do about that. But we're not dangerous to anyone unless we know something. So don't read it. Let me take it back."

  Discount suddenly reappeared in the doorway with a smile on his face

  and a disk of Minmei's greatest hits in hand. Not daring to make eye contact with Misa, Census tore the disk from its packaging and inserted it into one of the ancillary players. He and Gibley spent a moment getting the song in the ad in synch with its track on the disk. Then Gibley ran the ad back to where the music began.

  "This is beyond stupid," Misa complained, pacing. "Exactly what I'd expect from the three of you—"

  "Got it," Census said, loud enough to be heard over her angry ruminations. "The sixteenth bit is carrying information."

  "Encrypted." "Affirmative."

  Gibley rubbed his hands together and reached for his interface goggles. "Dump the sixteenth data into a new file. I'm going to buy a timeshare on the public library's neural net and task it to go work on the code."

  A certain exhilaration notwithstanding, Misa took a seat on the mats and worried. She didn't like the notion of people asking questions about her. Which wouldn't be the case if Census hadn't tried to "kill two birds with one stone" in his initial meet with Miho Nagata. But then again, she wouldn't have the disk if she hadn't stopped at the Tender/Search booth looking for new roommates. Which, in itself, wouldn't have been necessary if her old roommates had been worth sticking with . . .

  "I'm getting something," Gibley was saying. "Looks like the neural net has identified one of the keys used in the encryption process. It's trying to match the key to the encoded fragments." Suddenly his eyes widened. "Jeezus."

  "What?" Census demanded. "What is it?"

 

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