The Masters' Gambit, page 20
part #20 of Robotech Series
Zentraedis' request to launch. It's Leonard's aim to declare himself head of state before the balloting is completed. He's convinced that the Zentraedi plan to usher the Masters to Earthspace, and he's not about to allow them to leave."
Aldershot blew out his breath. "Then this is it, Rolf. We fight the good fight and hope for the best."
"It's suicide, General. Leonard's troops have the Senate trapped, they have Moran's office surrounded, they've even carried the battle to Liberty. How do you expect to muster a counteroffensive with all your forces pinned down?"
"What would you have us do, Rolf? Give in to him?"
"In the interest of Earth's fate, yes, give in to him. It can't be long before the Masters arrive—a few years, a few months, for all anyone knows. And when they come, it won't mean a goddamn thing whether we're calling ourselves the Earth Defense Force, the Robotech Defense Force, or the Army of the Southern Cross. Can't you understand that?"
Aldershot had his mouth open to respond when the screen went blue.
It had been Weston's idea to bait Zand's operatives into a confrontation. He had drawn on a lesson he had learned as a student of kyudo archery, when training had involved little more than mastering the use of the gomuyumi—a section of bamboo outfitted with a long rubber band—and sitting on the tatami, with eyes fixed not on the targets but on the archers, standing treelike with their strung and waxed bows, and the slow-motion ritual of their firing.
And so the combined forces of Onuma-sensei's dojo and the Shimada Family had watched Zand's agents—the shooters—while those agents were occupied watching Hongo and the other hackers—their targets. Even when that had come down to making it easy for SPOOK to eavesdrop on Miho Nagata's plan to have Weston bring the hackers to the pachinko parlor, and allowing Zand's agents to take over the Shimada-operated painting shop where cash payments were doled out to winning players—a takeover in
which four of the crime family's employees had been injured, though none seriously. Notwithstanding the fact that he needn't have involved himself in Weston's giri—his duty—Onuma-sensei had insisted on donning the mandarin gown and the broad-brimmed, basket-weave hat, and accompanying him to the Old Sendagi Center.
Joseph Petrie had been the evening's first surprise. The cybertech hadn't been identified by the yakuzas, and Weston's astonishment at seeing him at the painting shop was genuine. As for the satisfaction of planting a foot into Petrie's solar plexus, Weston was still undecided. The death of Henry Giles, the collapse of his academy, and the clearing of Amy's name had provided closure enough for Weston. Enough, at any rate, to have prevented thoughts of Petrie from gnawing at his insides. The mental and physical disciplines he had learned since had helped to quiet his desire for revenge. But all of that had gone out the window when Petrie had stood before him in that upstairs room, gloating, itching to exact his own revenge on the man who had helped undermine Giles.
An awful lot had gone into the right foot he had sent into Petrie's midsection; enough, Weston feared, to have killed him.
Weston was still grappling with it when he and Onuma-sensei arrived at the dojo. Though both of them had emerged unscathed from their brief contest with SPOOK's quartet, Weston couldn't control the trembling in his limbs or his mind's apparent need to replay the incident over and over.
Miho Nagata and a couple of his yakuza confederates were waiting in Onuma's upstairs office. Hongo and the three kids were there as well. Misa had thrown her arms around Weston as soon as he'd come through the door, pressing her long body against him in a way that had almost made him forget what had gone down only minutes earlier in the painting shop.
By then, the much-sought-after disk had been fully deciphered, using the same key Yoko Nitabi had used to encrypt the information. The few details Gibley had managed to decipher had been verified: Zand was in contact with the Robotech Masters, and it was Zand's speculation that the SDF-3 was either hopelessly marooned or destroyed.
That yakuza soldiers could be shocked by anything had been the evening's second surprise, but, in fact, Nagata and the rest were visibly nonplussed.
"Zand estimates that the Masters are relatively close to the Solar system," Miho told Weston. "He doesn't say how far, or anything about plans for an invasion, but keep in mind that Yoko dispatched this information following Zand's initial contact with them. Who knows what has happened since? Zand could be in league with them."
"If he is," Gibley said, "that could have some bearing on what's going on in Monument."
Weston questioned him with a look.
"An attempted coup by RDF forces," Gibley explained. "If the media reports can be believed. Launched yesterday morning by a guy named Aldershot."
"Major General Aldershot," Weston said, nodding.
"There's fighting in Monument and at the Fokker Aerospace facility, and possibly on Space Station Liberty."
"A coup, or Leonard and Zand in collusion?" Weston asked. He cut his eyes to Miho. "You could be right about Zand's striking some sort of deal with the Masters. Leonard's wanted to rid the Earth Defense Force of the RDF since the SDF-3 folded. Maybe the Masters have promised to back him up."
Gibley's spectacled eyes moved from Nagata to Weston. "Minister Emerson needs to know, Terry."
Weston glanced at Miho, who nodded and handed him the encrypted, mislabeled disk and a second one. "Yoko Nitabi's information is on the other disk." Gibley said "But it's probably better if you deliver the original along with it. Emerson's people will want to corroborate the encryption process and deciphering."
Weston stared at the disks. "There's the little matter of buying a seat on a hypersonic."
"No need," Miho said. "Kan-san Shimada is placing his personal jet at
your disposal. It's not as fast as a Veritech, but if you leave within the hour you can be in Monument by three o'clock in the afternoon today— Northwest time."
Weston regarded him for a moment. "This information could be priceless to the Family. What does Kansan stand to gain from my handing it over to Emerson?"
The yakuza grinned. "Perhaps it is a question of what the planet stands to gain."
Weston nodded. "But what about Zand? By now he knows that you have the disk—" He looked at Misa and the others. "—and the disk's temporary owners. He's not going to take this sitting down."
Nagata held Weston's gaze. "Zand will be dealt with in due time."
The room was quiet for a moment. Then Census said, "I know just the way."
The clone, Zor Prime, had been altered by his contact with the machine intelligence, which an Earther named Zand had programmed to speak in the voice of the donor himself. The Masters had literally channeled the recent computer-to-computer link directly through the mind of the clone, in the hope that Zor Prime might be sparked on some genetic level into a sudden awareness of his ancestry. And though it was too soon to tell if that had in fact occurred, the clone was suddenly obedient and calculating where before it had been argumentative and outwardly directed. As a result, the Masters had decided that further contact with the fortress computer was warranted.
The graceful and long-haired Zor Prime was with the Masters now, in the command center of the flagship. Also present, in addition to members of the various triumvirates that served the Masters, was the Earthbound computer—in voice, at any rate.
"Question the machine," Shaizan ordered Zor Prime. "Demonstrate to us that you have learned something about strategy."
The clone bowed his head, then addressed the machine. "Now that you have been given access to our databanks, are you prepared to speculate on
the outcome of a war between us and the Earth Defense Force?"
"I am not," Zor's computer told them evasively. "A new variable has been introduced."
Do I detect reluctance? Shaizan sent, his fingertips pressed to the Protoculture Cap.
It's stalling for time, Bowkaz returned. It labors under the impression that it tricked us into revealing our weaknesses. Listen closely: it will no doubt request additional data regarding our invasion strategy.
Shaizan and Dag acknowledged Bowkaz telepathically; then Shaizan commanded Zor Prime to continue with the inquisition.
"Address this new variable," the clone told the machine.
Again, the computer hesitated. "Discord has weakened the integrity of the Earth Defense Force," it replied at last. "Two factions are struggling for supremacy, and the outcome is in question. Since that result will figure strongly in the outcome of a war fought between yourselves and Earth, any assessment rendered at this point would be speculative, and of limited objective worth."
Sendings of a startled nature infiltrated Shaizan's mind. The Master bade Zor Prime to go on.
"This discord should favor us, no matter the outcome." "In the short term, yes," the computer told the clone. "Clarify."
"Your goal is the Protoculture matrix, not planetary conquest." "Consider both as our goals," Bowkaz bawled impatiently. "Have you
determined the whereabouts of the matrix?"
"I have not. But there is one who has—my Human operator, Zand."
Misgiving silenced the Masters for a moment. Then Dag asked, "Would this Zand be willing to confer with us?"
A moment passed before the machine responded. "He seeks conference at this time. He has spent many years investigating the complexities of Protoculture. He considers himself to be closer to you than to his fellow Humans."
Such insolence! Bowkaz sent.
Shaizan glanced at him. Nevertheless, we will hear what this Zand has to say.
Bowkaz disregarded it. "What does your operator ask in return?"
"To know his destiny," Zor's machine told him. "In exchange, he will furnish you with the location of the matrix."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I once asked [Terry Weston] about what happened in that room above the Japanese painting shop. "I killed Joseph Petrie," he told me with a withering look. And the others? I pressed. Russo, Edgewick, the third SPOOK operative? "They were down on the floor before my foot even made contact with Petrie's gut," he said. Such was Onuma-sensei's speed.
Shi Ling,
Sometimes Even a Yakuza Needs a Place to Hide
The Macross Overlook occupied an acre of high ground that was the terminus of the sole road leading north-northeast from Monument City. Occupying the centerpoint of a waist-high stone wall that fenced the eastern perimeter of the gravel viewing area was an inscribed plaque that read: Here lie the Super Dimensional Fortresses 1 and 2, along with the battle cruiser that destroyed them, and the remains of the once grand city that grew up around them—Macross, thrice-born, never forgotten.
Given Humankind's natural inclination toward xenophobia, Dana had always wondered how the memorial's designers had managed to keep the term Zentraedi from appearing on the plaque or elsewhere.
Opposite the plaque ran a two-hundred-yard-long zigzag of black marble, into which were etched the names of the thousands who had died as a result of Khyron Kravshera's suicidal attack in 2015. The memorial had been patterned on one that had stood in the city of Washington when all the land between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans had been known as the United States of America. The three tellurian buttes that had been raised over the ships themselves stood some ten miles distant, across a barren, eroded landscape.
Rolf, on his first visit to the Overlook with Dana and Bowie, had said that the view reminded him of one in Mexico, where a volcano sprouting from a cornfield had buried a small town. Only there were no binoculars for
rent here, and no fast-talking kids in cowboy boots offering to take you out to the buttes on horseback. Macross wasn't some blackened landscape of lava flows and sharp-edged pumice; in fact, until a few years back it had been dangerously radioactive.
Dana had the lookout to herself that afternoon, having ridden from Monument on a gasoline-fueled 1000-cc bike she hoped one day to exchange for a hovercycle. In the wake of General Aldershot's attempted coup and Commander Leonard's rapid response, anyone with an ounce of sense was barricaded indoors. Earlier reports of Aldershot's death had proven false. The temporary ceasefire in effect was more in the way of a countdown: Aldershot and his coconspirators on the surface and in orbit had until midnight to either surrender or raise the ante. The latter would mean civil war. Members of the UEG were meeting in emergency session. As it was, a six o'clock curfew had been posted for the city, whose downtown streets were teeming with Civil Defense Destroids. Just to reach the Overlook, Dana had had to skirt a roadblock manned by members of the Fifteenth ATAC, of all units.
By rights, she shouldn't have been off Academy grounds—as Bowie had been quick to point out when he learned of her plans to leave. It had taken a coup to commute her brig sentence. Many of the instructors had abandoned their teaching duties to join up with their former RDF or Army of the Southern Cross squadrons. Though her parents had been staunch RDFers, Dana had never comprehended the rivalry. What difference did a name make when the military was the military? Her mother had switched armies, for crying out loud. Even so, Dana might have stayed put in the Academy barracks if Terry Weston hadn't contacted her out of the blue. Out of the blue yonder, as it were, from some private jet he was piloting across the Pacific. It was typical Weston, his surprising her after all these years, suggesting that they rendezvous at the Overlook. Then adding—Oh, by the way—that he had come into certain information that could affect the resolution of the current military crisis.
Up until then, Dana thought he had chosen the Overlook for old times'
sake, or perhaps because he wanted to avoid Rolf, who wasn't especially fond of him for what Rolf interpreted as Terry's having taken unfair advantage of her. If only Rolf knew, Dana frequently told herself—knew that she was the one who had urged Terry to introduce her to sex.
They had grown to be close friends as a result of the Giles incident, and, the way Dana figured it, who better to lose her virginity to than someone she cared for, respected, trusted? More, who was experienced and wouldn't be likely to complicate things by making a big deal of their coupling. Surprisingly, though, Terry had been very resistant to the idea; there was Amy Pollard, of course, who had died only a year earlier, and there was Dana's age—she wasn't even fifteen. But he hadn't counted on the persistence of her raging hormones. Besides, it had been important for her to learn if she was capable of deriving any pleasure from sex. Over the years she had heard so many stories about Zentraedi females, half of them saying how thousands of Zentraedi had turned to prostitution and casual sex after their defeat, the other half claiming that the Zentraedi were cold-as-ice lovers. And there Dana was, caught in the middle, as usual. Though after Terry . . . Well, she still didn't know for sure about Zentraedi females selling their bodies. But as for their not being able to accept and return pleasure . . . She and Terry had done the deed at the Overlook, in plain view of the buttes, maybe a month before he had left Monument for parts unknown. The place had been her choice as well. The buttes affected her in a strange way: they seemed to summon a feeling of fright commingled with awe, almost as if she was in psychic contact with some presence that haunted the
area.
Though today she wasn't feeling either; more like rage, horror, confusion—all of it emanating in a jumble from what she identified as her Zentraedi side.
She heard Terry long before she saw him, roaring through the switchbacks that led up to the Overlook on a bike he must have managed to rent at the airport.
In baggy trousers and a heavyweight quilted-cotton jacket he was
overdressed for a Northwest September. But he looked as good as ever: lean and long-haired, rough-and-tumble. She hugged him while he was still seated on the bike, burying her face in his blond hair.
"What's it been—two years?" he asked. "Two years and one month," she told him.
He backed out of her embrace, set the bike on its stand, and climbed off, taking hold of her hands and appraising her with those hazel eyes. "You look terrific."
She smiled lightly. "Thanks for not noticing how I feel." "What do you mean?"
"Like I'm running in different directions." She shrugged. "I can't explain it. But it's great to see you, Terry. Are you still living in Tokyo?"
"I love it there."
"And still practicing martial arts?" Without warning, she tested him with fists and feet, almost getting one past him, then keeping it up for far too long, so he had to tell her to cut it out. More out-of-control behavior, she scolded herself. "You love Tokyo but you just had to see me again, right?" she asked quickly, in an effort to lighten the mood.
He grinned at her. "Not a day passes that I don't think about you, Dana."
"Charmer." She snickered. "So what's this important information you came into?"
He reached into his jacket and showed her two disks. When Dana's eyes went to the Minmei label on one of them, he shook his head. "It's not what you think. I need to get them to Rolf ASAP."
"Why, what's on them?"
Terry hesitated for a moment. "Recordings of a top-secret meeting that took place at SPOOK a couple of weeks back."
"Zand?" Dana asked, shuddering as was ever the case when the Protoculturist's name was mentioned.
"He's in contact with the Masters, Dana. Their fleet is approaching Earth."
Dana stared at the disks. "Is there anything about the SDF-3? About my parents—"
Terry shook his head.
Dana bit her lower lip. Could her anger and confusion have been stirred by the increasing proximity of the Robotech Masters?
"We have to get these to Rolf," Terry repeated.
Dana surfaced from her sudden apprehension. "It's not going to be easy. It looks like he'll be mediating between Commander Leonard and Aldershot. And I don't know if I can help you. I'm already AWOL from the Academy, and there's a six P.M. curfew in effect throughout the city."
