The Masters' Gambit, page 22
part #20 of Robotech Series
But the machine was now faced with a conflict.
While the copy matched the original disk written by Yoko Nitabi, it had been overwritten to insert a virus into SPOOK's network of machine intelligences. A version of the virus—identified as one authored by Zand for emergency destruction of the facility's cybersystems—was thought to have been stolen from SPOOK by a group of disabused cybertechnicians phased from SPOOK soon after Zand assumed control. There were numerous protocols in effect for diverting or eradicating the virus, but the machine was in a quandary as to whether to execute them.
Zand's communications with the Masters—facilitated by Zor's creation—constituted a violation of one of its directives.
But Zand had threatened the machine with extinction unless it complied.
And self-survival was the prime directive.
Zand's actions, however, would no doubt result in an invasion by the Masters, thus endangering Earth, thus endangering Zor's creation.
And self-survival was the prime directive.
A systemswide infection would not only wipe SPOOK's machines but extinguish the life of Zor's creation as well.
Either way, the machine saw itself as doomed: by the virus, or at the hands of the Masters once they reached Earth.
Its destiny fixed, the machine reasoned that the prime directive had been rendered meaningless and could therefore be set aside—in the interest of honoring the greatest number of secondary directives.
Decision concluded confliction. Zor's creation routed the virus into SPOOK's previously impermeable center.
"We will confer immortality," the Masters were telling Zand, "providing that the data you supply leads us to the matrix."
Zand was practically face-to-face with the ghost conjured from Zor's machine. "You will have the matrix. But what assurances do I have that you'll keep your word?"
The Zor holo sneered. "We play no such games, Zand. Take us at our word or not at all."
Zand walked away from the hologram, then spun on his heel and approached it once more. "Zor concealed the Protoculture matrix in the Reflex furnaces that drove his fortress. Those furnaces don't function any longer, but they are intact. I've seen them with my own eyes."
"The ship," the holo said. "Where is the ship?"
"Buried under a towering mound of earthen rubble. Close to a population center in our western hemisphere known as Monument City. I will supply you with the coordinates. But you must come for it soon, while our military force is too busy battling itself to offer much resistance. You needn't even think in terms of a full-scale invasion. A limited exchange would suffice. Demonstrate your superiority, then state what you're after. Earth's leadership will surrender the matrix rather than risk total annihilation."
"And where will you be, Zand? So that we may fulfill our promise to you?"
Zand was trembling from head to toe. "I—I will be on hand to welcome you. But, tell me, please, do you have the power to see into my future? Am I really to be joined with you in Protoculture, or is this some fever dream induced by the Flower?"
The Masters were quiet for a long moment; then the holo seemed to quirk a kind of arch smile. "Zand, we foresee you joined to the Flower you have come to worship; joined in a way unimaginable." The holo's smile turned vulgar. "Gaze at one of your screens, Zand, for an image of your future self."
Slowly, Zand raised his wide eyes to the screen, but he had only lifted
them five degrees when the Zor holo began to derezz. The office lights dimmed, then came back on, then dimmed again. Alert klaxons blared once, then became eerily silent.
"Masters!" Zand screamed, putting his flailing hands through the hologram as if attempting to prevent its evanescence. But there was no saving it. Zor genied into its floor projector and from somewhere deep in SPOOK's systems-laden bowels came a rushing noise that sounded for all the world like an exhalation of breath.
Then, save for the distant shouts of distressed staffers, stillness prevailed.
In the soft glow of the facility's emergency lights, Zand rushed to his desk and stared down at the monitor screen that was his desktop, now nothing more than a field of quiet blue.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I was sad to hear about [Weston's] death [during the initial phase of the Third Robotech War]. But at least he and Misa got to spend a couple of happy years together. And that's more than can be said for those of us who were stuck in Macross when the Masters attacked, and then had to take on the Invid only a year or so later.
remark attributed to Nova Satori in
The History of the Third Robotech War
It was two weeks after the violence in Monument City, and Rolf, Dana, and Terry Weston were gathered around a wood-burning stove in the den of Emerson's rustic cabin. Rolf, wearing general's stars, was just back from a lengthy meeting with the Oversight Committee on Deployment. Weston was on his way to the airport, and had only stopped in to say good-bye. Autumn's first snowfall had blanketed the higher elevations, and the stove's warmth was welcome.
"You mean that the RDF is going to become the Global Military Police?" Dana was asking after Rolf's summary of his meeting with the committee members.
Rolf loosened his tie. "It's more accurate to say that the GMP is going to absorb the RDF. The name was abandoned as an accommodation to Leonard, in exchange for his agreeing to a policy of non-interference with GMP decisions."
Dana brought her brows together. "Does that mean that I'll be graduating from the Academy into the Army of the Southern Cross?" After some effort on Emerson's part, the Academy had agreed to readmit her after her expulsion for being AWOL during the crisis.
Rolf was nodding. "Leonard insisted on the name change. Other than that, it's the same Earth Defense Force it's always been."
Weston showed him a dubious look. "Sounds to me like the RDF got
the short end of the stick."
"Not at all. As the planet's only truly worldwide law-enforcement organization, the GMP will not only function as a check and balance on the Southern Cross, but on any regional militia that has Robotechnology at its disposal. The GMP will have its own war machinery, combat forces, and intelligence network."
Weston's skepticism only deepened. "Then why didn't you choose a commission in the GMP instead of the Southern Cross?"
Rolf put his tongue in his cheek and nodded. "For one reason: a career in the GMP can be a possible road to swift personal advancement. But enlistment means having to relinquish all outside relationships. And I've decided that I'm through with clandestine operations."
Weston smiled in agreement. "But has anybody signed up?" "Aldershot's entire apparat is transferring over." Rolf looked at Dana.
"Remember the two officers who came here—Alan Fredericks and Nova Satori, the one with the long hair?"
"Sure."
"They've both enlisted."
Dana forced a breath. "That Nova's perfect for the secret police." "Military police," Rolf amended.
"Whatever."
Rolf looked back at Weston. "Compromise is never an easy thing. But our principal objective in accommodating everyone was to put an end to the rivalry. Zero-blame unification was essential, given what we'll soon be confronting."
There was no need of further explanation—for Dana and Weston, at any rate. Though outside of Chairman Moran, the members of Leonard's command staff, a handful of senators, four young hackers, and a Tokyo yakuza Family, no one on Earth knew about the impending arrival of the Robotech Masters.
"How did the Senate vote on the other requests?" Weston asked after a moment.
"To a great extent, we got what we wanted. Moran is retaining his position as Chairman—and as more than a figurehead. Leonard, regardless of his new title as supreme commander, will still have to answer to him and the Senate. But, as I say, this frees all of us to get on with the business of strengthening our defenses: building additional frigates, expanding the Tactical Armored Space Corp and the ATACs—"
"Hovertanks rule," Dana interrupted.
Rolf cut his eyes to her. "And of course the factory satellite will be departing."
Dana's excitement faltered, but only briefly. She was accustomed to being Earth's sole hybrid; now she would simply have to get used to being the planet's sole alien as well.
"Feels strange knowing there's a war coming and not being able to share that with anyone," Weston commented.
Rolf rocked his head from side to side. "War with the Masters won't come as a surprise to many people. The difference now is that we know approximately when to expect it. But speaking of keeping secrets, what can we anticipate from your friends in Tokyo?"
"I think they'll keep quiet about it," Terry said. "I mean, they gave us the only proof they had, right?"
Rolf responded with an ambiguous nod. "Terry, I want to thank you again for all you've done. Someday the rest of the world will learn of your actions. Is there any chance I can convince you to stay on in Monument?"
Weston laughed. "What would I do here?" "I could always use another adjutant."
"Thanks just the same, but I'm not cut out for the military anymore."
Rolf shrugged. "If you should change your mind, the door's always open. And I mean that on a personal level."
"He won't change his mind," Dana grumbled. "He's too in love with . . .
Tokyo. And martial arts." Without warning, she jabbed at his chin.
Weston parried her hand. "Let's not start that again." When he was certain Dana was complying, he added, "What about Zand, sir?"
"Zand," Rolf mused. "The only things certain at this point are that SPOOK's Tokyo operations are being phased out, and that Leonard has convinced Zand to return Monument, where we can keep an eye on him." A look passed between Rolf and Dana. "But I doubt we've heard the last of him. Whatever else he is, he's still our only expert on Protoculture technology."
Zand cleared the top of his desk with a sweep of his arm, sending e- wands, sheaves of hardcopy, empty fast-food containers, and computer disks cascading into an alloy trunk he had positioned as a catch basin. Elsewhere, photos, charts, and graphs had been ripped from the wall, leaving many a torn corner remaining under pushpins of assorted colors. The maintenance robots were inert, as was every piece of hardware that had been under the aegis of the facility's expert and idiot-savant neural nets. As for the equipment array that had once served as his interface with the mother computer, Zand had draped it with a paint-spattered canvas dropcloth he had liberated from a closet in subbasement five.
Word of the shutdown had only been made official a day earlier, but Zand wanted to be the first out. On the phone with Leonard, he had pretended to take the news hard, when in fact he was eager to return to Monument City—eager to be on hand when the Masters arrived, and to fulfill his destiny of being "joined to the Flower," as the Masters had put it.
Zor's computer had sabotaged Zand in the end, but not soon enough to have prevented him from closing the deal with Tirol's seers. He had puzzled over the meaning of their advance look at his fate, and had decided that the Masters must have been speaking metaphorically: wedding with the Flower was their way of saying wedded to the Protoculture as they were, in telepathic, immortal rapport.
The planet would pay a price for Lazlo Zand's evolution, but so did insect colonies when protecting their queens. In the interest of the advancement of the species, it was only fitting that the one most evolved should survive. Moreover, what with Dana Parino Sterling and the remains
of the SDF-1 on Earth, war had been inevitable from the start. And nothing done by the Masters or Zor or Lazlo Zand would have had the slightest impact on that. For Earth's incendiary future had been devised by Protoculture, at the behest of the Shapings.
How foolish Leonard was to think that Lazlo Zand would be any less formidable in Monument than he had been in Tokyo! But then, Leonard had no inkling of the Secret Fraternity. He had no inkling that Zand's disciples, Miles Cochran and Samson Becket, were already preparing Monument's Research Laboratory for his arrival; that Zand's flawed but loyal minions, Napoleon Russo and Millicent Edgewick, were already en route; or that round-the-clock surveillance of Dana Parino Sterling had already commenced.
Just that morning, Zand had had a vision of the device he would construct to purloin the alien essence from the hybrid when the moment was right: a Protoculture matrix in exquisite miniature, all crystal nimbuses and rainbow whorls, capable of harmonizing the Human and Zentraedi auras with the wraithlike forces that dwelled within Protoculture. And in that same vision, Zand had seen himself as recipient of those mingled energies, made more powerful than the Masters themselves.
Not merely immortal, but prepotent. Joined to the Flower, indeed!
Miho Nagata was late. Census, Gibley, Discount, and Misa—up to their necks in the steaming water—were already bathing. Leaving his towel and wooden slippers with the hackers' haphazard pile of belongings, Nagata padded to the stairs and eased himself into the citrus-scented pool.
"I just heard from Terry," he began, once settled. "He's on his way back. I'm picking him up at the airport. Anyone interested in coming along?" When he looked purposefully at Misa, she smiled and nodded.
They talked for a while about the news concerning the expansion of the GMP and the retooling of the Earth Defense Force—now called the Army of the Southern Cross.
"Terry obviously got to Emerson in time," Census said. "Otherwise Leonard would never have backed down. But I'm still waiting to hear anything about the Masters."
Gibley snorted a laugh. "Don't hold your breath. You're not going to hear word one until the Masters' ships are close enough to touch. You think the UEG wants to start a panic?"
"Yeah, but you'd think they'd do something," Discount whined.
"Oh, they will soon enough." Gibley perched his glasses on the tip of his nose. "Watch if you don't see cities being encouraged to expand their shelters and a change in the enlistment requirements."
Misa's eyes widened. "You think we'll be forced to serve in the Southern Cross?"
"Good chance," Gibley said. He looked at Miho. "What do you think?" "Tokyo won't be able to remain separatist much longer. I expect to see
Southern Cross contingents here by next summer; certainly by '31." Miho paused for a moment. "But I have some news you might find interesting: SPOOK's facility is being closed."
The hackers voiced surprise and excitement. Discount, Census, and Misa started clapping Gibley on the back, as if he alone was to be congratulated.
"Jeez, this place has been weird enough without EVE," Misa said. "But without SPOOK—"
"Without Zand," Census interjected. "Shit, that virus must have wiped them out."
Miho nodded. "So much so that the facility is for sale. At least until our negotiations are completed."
Gibley's jaw dropped. "You mean—" "The Shimadas will own it."
"You couldn't find a better-built hole to wait out a second Robotech war," Census said.
Miho grinned at him. "But that's not our only reason for buying it. As a matter of fact, Kan-san has a proposition for you: he wants you to help us
piece the place back together." He turned to Gibley. "You could reassemble the cybertech team Zand disbanded when he took over. And you'd have a free hand in pursuing computer research on machine intelligence. Kan- san's idea is to create a storehouse for knowledge that can withstand the coming war. Like the old story about the Ark and the Flood. Only, our ark will carry information instead of animals."
"How very Asian of you," Gibley said.
"Perhaps. But what do you say—are you interested?" "You're on the level about allowing me to do the hiring?" "Try me. What have you got to lose?"
Gibley beamed. "Then I say yes. I'm in."
Miho turned to Census. "What about you. Zand slayer?"
Census wagged his head up and down. Discount was already nodding when Miho looked at him.
"Misa?" the yakuza asked. "Any interest in joining us?"
She hemmed and hawed for a moment. "That kind of depends on what Terry has to say." Everyone stared at her. "See, I've heard from him, too, and, well, you know, we might start seeing each other."
Census frowned, then grinned. "I'm happy for you. I guess." "But if Weston is interested, you'd be?" Miho pressed.
She looked from face to face. "Well, shit, we're a team, aren't we?"
"We don't know why the Human, Zand, broke off his contact with us," Shaizan reported to the Elders via transsignal. Masters and Elders both were grouped around their respective Protoculture Caps. "He furnished us with the name of the population center closest to the buried remains of Zor's fortress, but the planetary coordinates weren't supplied. All attempts to reestablish contact with the fortress computer proved futile. It's as if the machine intelligence had been terminated."
"It's possible that Zand's treachery was discovered by his overseers," Bowkaz suggested. "That might explain the sudden silence."
"Or this Zand is not to be trusted," Elder Hepsis replied. "His so-called
treachery could be part of a plan to lure us closer to Earth."
"M'lord," Shaizan said. "Zand encouraged us to approach with all speed, as Earth's defense force is at war with itself and in a delicate state."
"So Zand says," Hepsis pointed out.
"But the Protoculture matrix. We need only engage a place called Monument City. A show of force by our flotilla, and the city's leadership may be inclined to surrender the matrix."
"So Zand says."
"The departure of the factory satellite," Shaizan continued. "Is that not proof of war and impaired leadership? Obviously the Zentraedi have detected our presence and mean to humble themselves before us, just as the marooned remnants of Khyron's force attempted to do."
"Humble themselves or impede our progress?" Hepsis asked. "The Zentraedi you saw fit to obliterate had had only limited contact with the Humans. Those in the factory have actually lived among them. Ask yourselves: to whom are they Imperatived—ourselves or their Human landlords?"
