The tremors beneath the earth had subsided, and the sky stretched clear and cloudless above them. The violent shudder of the variable fighter faded, and Rick at last reclaimed the breath that had deserted him. His lungs told him the air was hotter than usual—searing, almost metallic—yet the situation was not nearly as disastrous as he had feared.
He turned back and asked, half in awe, half in surrender, "Wow… what's with the over-the-top fireworks?"
Fireworks.
Roy hardly saw it that way. "I don't know," he replied, "but I'd better go find out. Stay here."
He set aside his flight helmet—that "thinking cap," as Rick liked to call it—and climbed out of the cockpit. What troubled Roy most at that moment was determining where Rick would be safest. He hoped the boy could be as secure here as he had been outside Macross Island, and he understood, more deeply than ever, why humanity had been willing to sacrifice everything in preparation for war.
"The spatial monitors just forwarded their report," Sammie called out. "It shows our main cannon hit the target."
"I've already received it, Sammie," Lisa cut in, her gaze fixed on her display. "Two large objects—possibly spacecraft, origin unknown. They're closing in on Earth. Distance: two hundred miles."
Gloval nodded unconsciously. The altitude of the battleship must have shifted, meaning the beam had aimed at—what? The blast had veered off by several degrees. But the SDF-1 hadn't moved; it had simply lifted slightly on the keel plate embedded beneath it since the day it crashed. The cannon's firing arc, too, traced an impossible trajectory—one far beyond its known range. Yet this mysterious discharge, along with the chain of events now unfolding, could be a warning, an instinctive reaction, or perhaps something everyone had overlooked: that in some inscrutable way, the builders of the fortress possessed an uncanny grasp of timing, as if they could foresee what was to come. But could they have foreseen this moment?
"Both objects have been destroyed. The beam struck them and shattered them completely," Claudia reported. "Earth-orbital defense units are deploying. Shall we dispatch Armored-1 and Armored-10, Captain Gloval?"
Suddenly Gloval burst into laughter—loud, abrupt, his shoulders trembling. Sammie, Vanessa, and Kim exchanged bewildered glances. Claudia and Lisa, too, looked at each other, realizing they were thinking the same thing: if Captain Gloval—usually their pillar of strength—could not hold himself together, everything might already be lost.
"Captain, are you all right?" Lisa ventured. "What's so funny?"
The laughter ceased. Gloval slammed a fist against the raised edge of the observation panel. "It's obvious! We should have realized it sooner. This is a trap!"
"A trap, sir?" Claudia and Lisa echoed.
"Yes—a tactic as old as warfare itself! When an army retreats, it often leaves hidden explosives or other lures to draw the enemy out of position."
He bit down on his extinguished pipe, eyes blazing. "The main cannon firing on its own means the enemy is dangerously close—close enough to pose a direct threat." He tugged a small tobacco pouch from his breast pocket.
"Captain Gloval!" Sammie rose abruptly from her seat. All eyes snapped toward her, bracing for another alert.
"No smoking on the bridge, sir! Please follow regulations!"
Claudia groaned softly and pressed her hand to her forehead, while Lisa realized Sammie would enforce that rule against anyone, even now.
"I'm only holding it, not lighting it," Gloval muttered defensively.
And just like that, the tension in the bridge dissolved. The familial warmth of the command center, for all its drawbacks, had its moments of saving grace.
Now the doubt was gone.
"All fighters, scramble!" Gloval roared. "Alert all barracks—this is a full red alert!"
Below the battleship, crowds fled in confusion. Helicopters and aircraft turned sharply back toward their combat stations. In moments, pilots were sprinting toward their fighters, launching one after another. Catapults aboard the carriers operated without pause, and the SDF-1's internal runways fed a steady stream of machines into the sky. A living shield ascended above the fortress.
Beyond the massive warship itself, a host of aircraft—born from the principles of Robotechnology—took to the air. Interceptors, attack craft, and every available unit streaked from their bays toward the front lines.
Moments earlier, Earth's defense systems had only glimpsed the first hints of the enemy's advance. Now, long-range sensors confirmed what had been feared: an alien armada approached, while the Zentradi remained unaware of just how much they had already revealed.
A Scorpion-type interceptor pilot radioed through the TAC network: "Enemy ship approaching from zero-nine-zero—contact imminent—opening fire!"
Swarms of Scorpions, Tigersharks, and other fighters converged upon the colossal Zentradi warship, diving into the teeth of its vanguard formation.
Missiles—cone-types, pile-driver-types, mongoose-types—launched in brilliant arcs, vanishing into the distance. Their exhaust trails burned bright, followed by the eerie, spherical blossoms of explosions unique to zero gravity—bursts flickering like dandelion seeds drifting across a cosmic field.
The Zentradi vanguard pressed forward through the barrage. Their losses were negligible; whatever gaps the explosions carved were sealed in seconds. Their formations shifted, opening like the jaws of a predator. The real battle began.
The Armored-class warships soon exhausted their missiles, lasers, and kinetic weaponry—chain guns, auto-cannons, and every conventional human armament. The Zentradi, with ships vastly larger and armed with superior technology, pressed their overwhelming advantage. Even with limited Robotechnology integrated into Earth's ships, the difference was insurmountable.
Earth's defenders fought with reckless courage, but technology made the outcome inevitable.
Aboard the flagship, Breetai studied the image of the beam striking his cruiser, along with the accompanying data feeds. He heard the analysts explaining the situation, but his attention wandered—caught between frustration and disbelief.
"Remarkably stubborn resistance, sir," Exedore observed.
"Indeed," Breetai replied. "But why rely on such primitive weapons? Our vanguard has already pierced their defenses, yet they continue to throw themselves into the fire. Absurd—unless they're planning something."
Exedore hesitated. "It is… perplexing, to say the least."
Breetai turned sharply. "Perplexing? Even you find it so?"
"There must be a reason—one I cannot yet discern. Naturally, the Robotech Masters—"
He was interrupted by the crisis-forecast operator. "Commander Breetai! Two cruiser-class enemy warships are approaching rapidly—likely the ones that fired the beam."
Breetai's single eye flashed coldly. "Eliminate them."
The specialized main cannons and auxiliary weapons—directed particle beams and molecular disruptors, instruments of pure devastation—opened fire. Armored-2 was hit immediately, engulfed in a storm of sapphire spears. Armor plates peeled away like paper; escort fighters disintegrated into dust.
Breetai braced himself for Earth's counterstrike—but none came. Perhaps they hesitated to deploy their reflective weapon; but allowing their forces to be butchered made no sense.
Unbelievably, the battle was unfolding far more easily than he had anticipated.
"These fools," Breetai snarled. "They wield weapons like children. Volley fire—full ship!"
Again the Zentradi cannons swept the defense line. Armored-2 was skewered hundreds of times; its hull ruptured. Air fled into space in great torrents, flinging bodies and debris outward like weightless toys. The orbital command center suffered the same fate—shattered, gutted, consumed in a burst of catastrophic energy.
Lisa's face was paler than ever, but her voice remained steady. "Armored-2 destroyed; Armored-10 heavily damaged. Sir, all units are taking severe losses. Orbital defenses can no longer hold. The alien fleet is advancing toward Earth."
Gloval sank into his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin. "I prayed this day would never come. The SDF-1 saved Earth from tearing itself apart—we forged global peace. And now it brings us a new threat. A threat beyond measure."
His mind returned to the day he first examined the wreckage. Miracles always demanded a price. And this time, the price would be staggering.
Claudia, Lisa, and the others exchanged troubled glances.
"I wish this war were nothing but history," Gloval murmured. "But we must face it—whether we wish to or not."
He rose, shoulders squared, his presence swelling like an ancient oak thrown against a storm.
"Very well. Issue the order. We depart."
"Yes, sir." Lisa relayed the command crisply: "All personnel, initiate Condition Cerberus defensive deployment."
Her voice carried across the island. More variable fighters launched from the ground. It was as if the sky were singing its final hymn. "We are under attack in Sector Four-One-Two. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill!"
Roy Fokker scrambled into his fighter, sealing his helmet. Breath rasping, he fought to steady himself. Preparing Skull Squadron for launch had drained him, and now another crisis loomed.
Then he realized—with a jolt—that he had forgotten Rick completely.
He recovered his composure. Rick's fighter was only a demonstration unit; no furious pilot would drag him out of the cockpit. He should be as safe there as anywhere.
Lisa's voice echoed across the base; Roy pretended not to care, though part of him secretly hoped it had been Claudia speaking.
He secured the helmet's neural links and activated the tactical network. Affecting a bored, almost yawning drawl, he spoke—because a fighter pilot might die, but never without dignity.
"All right, boys—you heard the lady. This one's for real."
The sky swarmed with ascending fighters, each racing toward its assigned sector. Carriers sealed off the seas, and wave after wave of aircraft launched from deck and island alike. With the fighters circling overhead, Earth's surface no longer appeared so helpless.
"Wolf Squadron airborne. Skull Squadron, prepare to launch," Lisa announced.
"Skull Squadron, ready." Roy knew every pilot could hear him through the TAC network, and all eyes were on him. He raised a thumb. "Showtime, boys."
More fighters roared down the flight deck, engines shrieking as catapults hurled them skyward. Beneath them loomed the hurricane-shaped bow of the great fortress.
"We're up," Roy said lazily. The Robotech engines screamed.
"What chaos!" Breetai barked, observing Macross City through long-range sensors—soldiers and civilians crammed together in impossible density. "These people know nothing of space warfare!"
The image shifted as the analysis computer refined its focus. Breetai leaned closer.
"What is this? The space fortress—yet it's… altered?"
Exedore replied, "It appears fully reconstructed—likely by this planet's inhabitants."
"With such primitive technology? Impossible. How could they capture a Robotech vessel?"
Exedore's massive eyes narrowed. "Perhaps it crashed here… and they refurbished it."
"And the current crew? Zol's renegades would never allow themselves to be displaced!"
"Perhaps they perished—either in battle with the Invid… or in the crash."
It was plausible—alarmingly so. Breetai fell silent. He was grateful, he realized, to have Exedore at his side.
"Even so…" He paced. These primitive beings unsettled him; the thought gnawed at his composure. "The ship must have been catastrophically damaged. Primitive hands cannot restore such technology."
Our arrogance will destroy us someday, Exedore thought. And when it does, we will have earned the consequences.
"I agree, Commander. But no other theory fits. This is a Robotech vessel—and they clearly possess…"
"Reflective weaponry."
"Indeed. That makes them exceedingly dangerous. We must proceed with extreme caution."
Breetai turned from the screen, releasing a guttural roar that made his mask and equipment tremble.
The comm system chimed. "Micro-scale targets detected, sir. Our fighters have launched."
Breetai and Exedore gazed at the image of the Macross, neither speaking, both weighed down by the enormity of what was to come.