Disclaimer
I don’t own Macross. If I did, I would be far too rich to be bothered writing fan fiction.
The knock at the door was louder and more forceful than was normal; Miriya knew this was a bad sign. She sighed, slid the file she was working on into her desk, and called out, "Enter."
The door opened, and her aide walk in.
"Bad news, Watson?"
"I’m afraid so, ma’am. VELOCITY acted without forethought, and was countered by Ghost Lodge’s security officer. He was at least smart enough to claim Section Twelve, but they’re shipping him out rather quickly."
"Damn." Miriya scowled. "Did he at least get the information we were after?"
"No, ma’am."
"Well, the regulations are clear on this point." Regardless of success or failure, an agent who had completed his mission was never used for another; like a round of ammunition, he was spent, whether or not the target was hit.
"Understood, ma’am. His last paycheque has already been cut." The aide flipped open her folder. "STELLAR was also sent back from Ghost Lodge."
"Was his mission successful?"
"Yes, ma’am. Perfect success, possibly because of VELOCITY’s bungle."
"Good. And our third agent?"
"We’ve lost contact with VOLUME."
"All right." Miriya stood. "Leave the STELLAR file with me."
"Yes, ma’am."
After the aide had left, Miriya again sat down at her desk. Her eyes wandered across the broad chunk of maple; aside from a picture of her daughter, it was bare of personal effects. Only the STELLAR file and a small jar of pens - a Mason jar, not some piece of office paraphernalia - shared space with the photo. Miriya picked up the photo, a three-by-five print in a simple wooden frame, and gazed at it.
Mylene’s hair was starting to bleach out as she aged. Though a lovely shade of green at birth, much like her mother’s, it was beginning to turn the pale blonde that was her father’s natural colour. Max had always despised that shade of pale, and had dyed it several times, in several colours. Once he had even imitated her own green hair. But he usually came back to the bright blue that had become his trademark.
Every time she saw her daughter’s face, she felt an instant of panic, a gut feeling that something was horribly wrong. She had spent endless hours with children, playing with them, tending their injuries and grievances both real and imagined, and still could not shake that first momentary panic. Perhaps this was why she coddled her own daughter, even though she knew she should not.
It was something that she and Max had never seen eye-to-eye on. Take the incident near the beginning of the Malcontent Uprising. An emergency had arisen, one that she felt she could deal with, but would not be permitted to deal with if she attempted to go through official channels. So she had gone AWOL, flying to the Amazon Jungle on an illegal flight, telling nobody.
At least, that had been the plan. But so worried for her daughter she had been, that she not only told Mylene where she was going, but went so far as to leave a time-delayed message for her friend Jean, to come over and take care of Mylene. By the time Jean got the message, Miriya was already on the ground in Brazil.
Max had exploded; he accused her of leaving her daughter defenseless. As if the electronic defenses of their house were not sufficient to deter anyone who would harm the girl. As if any person would risk bringing the wrath of the two greatest aces of the Space War down on themselves by harming their daughter. As if Mylene herself, trained in hand-to-hand combat since the day she could walk, couldn’t handle most common thugs. And many uncommon ones. Nonetheless, the incident could have ended their relationship, and even to this day, the strain formed at that time had not dissipated.
Miriya sighed. Combat piloting seemed sedate and tension-free compared to trying to survive within a bureaucracy, not to mention a marriage. Sometimes she wondered how much more she could take.
* * * * *
"Lieutenant, I don’t know how much more of this we can take."
Borela looked up from the campfire. "You mean of the forced march?"
"Yeah." Sergeant Tesch sat down opposite his commanding officer. The multiple bruises he had suffered at Borela’s hands, during a "discipline session", had faded to an unpleasant yellow, and he could move without groaning in pain. This was a decided improvement over yesterday.
"The giant is the biggest problem. We simply have to keep at least one Destroid running all the time. Otherwise, he’s gonna head for the hills, and we won’t be able to stop him."
Borela shook his head. "You still do not understand my people, Sergeant. He will not attempt to escape. He will instead attempt to kill us all."
"That makes me feel so much better. Sir." Tesch scowled. "The other two we can keep penned up in the AAR-II, but you’ve gotta rest sometime, sir."
"I can perform adequately without sleep for up to three days."
Tesch shook his head. "But you still gotta sleep."
"Corporal Takemoto covers the prisoners while I sleep."
"You’re not getting me, sir. We’re undermanned for this. Webb is dead, MacDonald is dead--"
"I am aware of the casualties, Sergeant. It does not change the fact that--"
"You goddamn alien freak!" Tesch’s face darkened, and he stood up. "Doesn’t this team mean anything to you? Do you even have feelings? Or were they programmed out of you like everything else?"
Borela’s movement was sudden enough to be invisible; one moment he was crouched by the fire, the next, he had one huge hand wrapped around Tesch’s neck and was holding him a foot higher than Borela himself.
"You forget yourself, Sergeant. Remember that my creators felt it neccessary to leave us with some emotions. Such as anger. Do not press your luck any further. You are running out of it."
He tossed the Sergeant aside as though he were weightless, then sat down near the fire again. Tesch slowly sat up, rubbing his neck, and stared at the alien in shock.
* * * * *
"Lieutenant."
Borela’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up in the seat of the AAR-II. "I am awake, Takemoto."
Takemoto jerked a thumb back towards the rear of the APC. "The skinny one wants to talk to you."
"Does he now?"
"Yes, sir. Says he’s not a Zentraedi."
That got Borela’s attention. He swung the chair around and hopped to his feet. "Then I suppose I should talk to the man."
The man in question was duct-taped into his chair. Bands of the silvery tape had been placed around his wrists and ankles, preventing him from moving very far. Even for an Officer-Caste Zentran, such as himself, it was an effective means of immobilizing a prisoner.
Borela sat down opposite the man. "Well, Microne. It seems that you claim to be Human."
The man smirked. "And obviously, you believe me. With so little proof?"
"You’ve just offered one bit of evidence. No Zentran would consider himself Human, simply because he was referred to as a Microne."
"Here’s another." The man closed his eyes a moment, then began to speak rapidly. "You are Lieutenant Second Grade Borela, service number ZO-336575-56. Your genetic stock code is fourteen-PPF-four. Three times decorated for courage under fire, one Purple Heart, trained in operations of most Zentraedi mecha. Also officially trained in the operation of the AAR-II, the Viper Fan Jet, and the Sea Sergeant."
Borela nodded. "Not bad. Either you are a Human officer, or you have very well-placed spies."
"And you listen to Jazz music with Captain Roberts, the security officer at Ghost Lodge, every Thursday morning."
Borela nodded. "Very well-placed indeed. I don’t believe that the Malcontents could have a spy that well-placed in our firebase. Very well, my friend, you have my attention."
The man opened his eyes again. "I am a Section Twelve agent. I was sent in by the head of Intelligence to investigate reports of Malcontents manufacturing Variable Fighters. I managed to get my hands on some documents, and committed them to memory. I have a photographic memory; that’s why I was selected for this mission. It is imperative that I get in contact with Section Twelve as soon as possible."
"I see." Borela stood up. "I am afraid that I must deny your request."
The man gaped. "What?"
"I cannot allow you to contact anybody at this time."
"Lieutenant. I am a Captain in Intelligence. And by my section’s regulations, I need to report my findings immediately."
"I am sorry--"
"That’s a direct order, Lieutenant! Untie me and give me access to a long-range communications terminal! I demand--"
Borela clapped a large hand over the man’s mouth. "In the first place, you are in no position to demand anything. I am in command of this operation. In the second place, even if I were willing to allow you access to it, the communications link on Scutum 303 was destroyed. Long-range communications are impossible, and in this terrain, short-range communications are equally impossible." He removed his hand. "So you may give me any order you wish. It will not avail you."
The man scowled at the Zentran. "You will at least untie me?"
"No." Borela shook his head. "We have no reliable means of testing whether or not you truly are human. I cannot risk it."
"But my orders--"
Borela picked up the roll of duct tape. "I cannot hold my hand over your mouth forever."
The Captain shut his mouth with an audible clack.
* * * * *
"Traitor."
The Zentraedi, at forty-five feet tall, was slightly taller than the two Destroids escorting him, though considerably less broad. Borela discovered that rather than being bothered by the fact that this person towered over him, was rather amused. So much larger, and still Borela was the victor.
Though he was also slightly irritated; to make himself heard to the giant, he had to use a bullhorn.
"What is your name?"
"Tivaz."
Borela raised an eyebrow. "I know your gene-stock, Tivaz. You and your brothers are known for clear thinking. Why do you remain on the losing side of this war, five years after the war ended?"
"The war never ended, traitor. Not until the Supreme Commander says its over."
Borela sighed, then clicked the bullhorn back on. "The Supreme Commander is dead, Tivaz. Exedore and Breetai now command the Zentraedi people."
Tivaz shook his head. "Until my commander says the war is over, it is not over."
"You are a very stubborn man, Tivaz. Who is your commander?"
The Zentran flexed suddenly, and his wrist-binders snapped. Borela’s eyes widened; he hadn’t thought that the binders could be so easily broken. Tivaz pivoted and kicked backwards, knocking the GU-12 gun pod out of the hands of Naxos 206.
"Sergeant!"
Tivas launched another kick, throwing Naxos 206 down onto its back, then turned and ran. Directly towards Borela.
Lucern 104 took a single step forward, and fired both of its arm-mounted charged-particle cannons directly into Tivaz’ chest. The blue beams ionized the giant’s chest, causing the various molecules to simultaneously repulse each other with great force. The result: The man’s chest literally exploded, throwing him back, a look of surprise and pain permanently etched on his face.
Borela winced; it was an ugly way to go, even for a Zentran. He turned to face Tesch’s mecha, and clicked on his radio.
"Excellent reaction time, Sergeant. Could you not have used the autocannons, rather than the P-beams?"
Tesch clicked his mike. "Sorry, Lieutenant. But autocannon shells are limited. Reaction mass for the particle cannons isn’t."
* * * * *
"Third Lance is never gonna be the same."
Borela shook his head sadly. "I am sorry for that, Corporal."
"It’s not your fault, sir."
"I was in command."
"Look, can we forget rank for a second, sir?"
Borela nodded. "Very well, Kaori."
She smiled. "Thanks...Borela. Look, you did your best, okay? More than any of us mere Humans could do. Without you in command, we probably would’ve been history. So please...stop blaming yourself." She tilted her head. "Besides, even by that warped sense of Zentraedi honour, you completed your mission, so it’s all glory, right?"
"Kaori...I wish you could understand that I am trying to be better than Zentraedi." He waved a hand, out towards the jungle. "If it were not for my desire to improve myself, to rise above what I was made...I would be no better than the Malcontents."
"Well...just to remember rank again, sir. I’ve gotta go check on the prisoners again." She stood up, stretched, and grabbed her carbine. "Wish there was a coffee maker in this thing."
"You and I both."
She grinned again, then stepped into the back of the APC. And came running forward again. "Sir! The maybe-human is gone!"
"What?" Borela jumped to his feet, and ran back into the rear of the APC. The Zentran was still there - unlike the other, this one was obviously alien, with a dark green skin-tone - but the other chair was empty. Borela pulled a bit of tape off the arm of the chair.
"Cut somehow. This is a clean cut. Takemoto, check your knife."
She drew it. "Still here, Looie, and clean."
"He must have found something he could use to cut himself loose, but I can’t think how. Find him!"
* * * * *
"This is VOLUME to SEA Command. Respond, please."
The Tomahawk had been standing open, its powerplant turned off. With the death of the full-sized Zentran, there was no need to keep it running. Luckily, the communications rig worked off the batteries.
"Volume to SEA Command. Dammit, where the hell are you?"
"The local terrain blocks communications. Have I not told you this?"
The Intelligence officer twisted in his seat, to find Borela standing at the Destroid’s hatch. The tall Alien had a look of smug satisfaction on his face. VOLUME dropped the microphone and sighed. "Guess you were right."
"Of course I was. You should be pleased I do not allow Sergeant Tesch to discipline you for entering his Destroid. He takes it rather poorly when one does this."
"Oh, really?" VOLUME leaped forward, striking Borela in the solar plexus. Borela whuffed, the breath knocked out of him, and staggered backwards, falling twenty meters to the ground below. VOLUME swung out of the cockpit, clambered down the ladder, and turned to run.
And promptly fell face-first into the dirt. Trying to run while a three-hundred pound alien has a hand wrapped around an ankle will do that to a person.
"Excuse me, but I believe I also told you that you would be accompanying us to Ghost Lodge."
The man twisted, trying to kick Borela. The Lieutenant simply increased the pressure on the man’s ankle, until he screamed in pain.
"You are not co-operating, and that leaves me unlikely to show you any clemency. How did you break your bonds?"
"How the hell did you survive that fall? You shoulda had at least some broken bones."
Borela smiled. "Our creators built us to last." He picked up the man and searched him roughly. "A razor blade. I shall not ask where you had this concealed. You would not tell me anyway." He tossed the blade into the darkness. "Now then, my friend. Back to your chair."
* * * * *
"Sir? Lieutenant Borela’s patrol has entered radio range."
"Good." Major Sutton leaned over the tech’s shoulder. "Please put me through to the gentleman."
"Yes, sir."
The screen cleared, and Borela’s impassive face came into view. "Sir, we are within twelve kilometers of base, and have an update for you."
"Very well."
"The full-sized Zentran was slain while attempting to attack me, sir. One of the Micronized Zentran turned out to be Human, and an Intelligence Officer. He has attempted to escape, attempted to take command of this patrol, and attempted to use communications to contact Southeast Asia Command."
"Really?"
"Yes. I have him currently restrained in the back of this vehicle. We should arrive back at base in fourteen minutes."
"Any sign of Variable Fighters?"
Borela shook his head. "Only our own, sir."
"Noted. Report to me the very instant you get back to base."
"Understood, sir."
Sutton straightened, and sighed. "Well, well. Another spook."
"It would make sense, sir," noted the tech. "Intel can’t help but be interested in this rogue fighter."
"True." He sipped his coffee before continuing. "But they seem to have this funny idea that they’re in charge, and we’re here only for their convenience."