"07 - Southern Cross" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinney Jack)

The disembodied words floated in the chilly metallic passageways. /We are in place, Elders-behind the moon of our objective, the third planet. All monitoring and surveillance systems are fully operational. You will begin receiving our primary transignal immediately./
The technical apparatus of the ships pulsed and flowed with light, and the power of Protoculture. Some parts suggested blood vessels or the maze of a highway system, where pure radiance of shifting colors traveled; others resembled upside-down pagodas, suspended in the air, made of blazing materials like nothing that had ever appeared in the Solar System before.
The enigmatic energies opened a way across the lightyears, to a sphere like a blue sapphire fifteen feet across. It threw forth brilliance, the glare splashing off the axkeen, hawk-nosed faces of the three Elders who sat, enthroned in a circle, staring up at it. From far across the galaxy the Elders reached out with their minds to survey the Robotech Masters' situation.
The Elders were of a type, fey and gaunt, dressed in regal robes but looking more like executioners. All three had bald or shaven pates, their straight, fine hair falling below their shoulders. Under their sharp cheekbones were scarlike creases of skin, suggestive of tribal marks, that emphasized the severity of those laser-eyed faces.
They studied the images and data sent to them by their servants, the Robotech Masters.
One of them, Nimuul, whose blue hair was stirred by the air currents, mindspoke. His disembodied voice was thick as syrup. /The first transignal is of the area where the highest readings of Protoactivity have been recorded. Preliminary inspection indicates that it is unguarded./
That pleased the other Elders, but none of them evinced any emotion; they were above that, purged of it long ago.
Hepsis, of the silver locks, cheek resting on his thin, long-fingered fist, forearm so slender that it appeared atrophied, watched the transignal images balefully. /Hmm. You mean those mounds of soil and rock?/ His voice was little different from Nimuul's.
/Yes./
The three were looking at the transignal scene of the massive artificial buttes that stood in the center of what had once been the rebuilt Macross City. Although they didn't know the history of that long climactic battle of the Robotech War, and didn't realize what they were studying; the transignal was showing them the final resting places of the SDF-1, the SDF-2, and the flagship of Khyron the Backstabber.
All three ships had been destroyed in those few minutes of Khyron's last, suicidal attack; all had been quickly buried and the city covered over and abandoned due to the intense radiation, the last place ever to bear the name Macross.
Nimuul explained, /Zor's ship is probably-Wait!/
But he didn't have to draw their attention to it; Hepsis and Fallagar, the third Elder, could see it for themselves. For the first time in a very long time, the Elders of the Robotech Master race felt a misgiving that chilled even their polar nerves.
Three night-black figures wavered in the enormous transignal globe, defying the best efforts of the Masters' flagship's equipment to bring them into focus. The entities on the screen looked like tall, sinister wraiths, caped and cloaked, high collars shadowing their faces-all dark save for the light that beamed from their slitted eyes.
Three, of course-as all things of the Protoculture were triad.
/The area is guarded by a form of inorganic sentry,/ Nimuul observed. /Or it could be an Invid trap of some kind./
Fallagar, his hair an ice-blue somewhere between his comrades' shades, gave mental voice to their misgivings. /Or it might be something else,/ he pointed out. /Something to do with the thrice-damned Zor./
The images of the wraiths faded, then came back a bit against a background of static as the transignal systemry struggled to maintain it. It seemed that the ghostly figures knew they were under observation-were toying with the Masters. The lamp-bright eyes seemed to be staring straight at the Elders.
Then the image was gone, and nothing the Scientist Triad or Clonemasters could do would bring the Protoculture specters back into view. White combers of light washed through the blue globe of the transignal imager again, showing nothing of use.
By a commonality of mind, the Elders did not mention-refused to recognize-this resistance to their will and their instrumentality. The guardian wraiths would be discussed and dealt with at the appropriate time.
/What do you wish to view next, Elders?/ asked a deferential Clonemaster.
Nimuul was suddenly even more imperious, eager to shake off the daunting effects of the long-distance encounter with the wraiths. /Show us the life forms that protected this planet from our Zentraedi warriors and now hold sway over the Protoculture Matrix./
/Yes, Elder,/ the Clonemaster answered meekly.
Hepsis told the other two, /The Humans who obliterated our Zentraedi are no longer present, according to my surveillance readings, my Brothers. But their fellows seem ready to protect their planet with a similar degree of cunning and skill./
The transignal was showing them quick images of the UEG forces: Cosmic Unit orbital forts and Civil Defense mecha, ATAC fighting machines, and the rest.
One intercepted TV transmission was a slow pan past the members of the 15th squad, monitored from a Southern Cross public information broadcast. The Elders saw Humans with a hard-trained, competent look to them, and something else...something to which the Elders hadn't given thought in a long, long time.
It was youth. The camera showed them face after face-the smirking impertinence of Corporal Louie Nichols; the massive strength of Sergeant Angelo Dante; the flamboyance of their leader, the swashbuckling ladies' man, Lieutenant Sean Phillips.
The Elders looked at their enemies, and felt a certain misgiving even more unsettling than that of the wraiths' image.
The three rulers of the Robotech Masters, privy to many of the secrets of Protoculture, were long-lived-would be Eternal, if their plans came to fruition. And as a result of that, they feared death, feared it more than anything. The fear was controlled, suppressed, but it was greater than any child's fear of his worst nightmares, more than any dread that any mortal harbored.
But the young faces in the camera pan didn't show that fear, not as the Elders knew it. The young understand death far better than their elders will usually acknowledge, especially young people in the military who know their number could come up any time, any day. The faces of the 15th, though, told that its members were willing to accept that risk-that they had found values that made it worthwhile.
That was disturbing to the Elders. They had clones and others who would certainly die for them, but none who would do so of their own volition; such a concept had long since been ground mercilessly from their race.
There was once more that unspoken avoidance of unpleasant topics among the Elders. Nimuul tried to sound indifferent. /It is hard for me to believe that these life forms could offer any resistance to us. They are so young and lack combat experience./
He and his fellows were purposely ignoring an unpleasant part of the equation. If, in war, you're not willing to die for your cause but your enemy is willing to die for his, a terrible weight has been set on one side of the scales.
The Elders shuddered, each within himself, revealing nothing to one another. /I've seen enough of this,/ Fallagar said, gathering his cloak like a falcon preparing to take wing, letting impatience show.
/What images would you view now, Elders?/ asked the unseen Clonemaster tentatively.
Fallagar's silent voice resounded through the viewing chamber. /I think we have enough information on these life forms, so transmit whatever else you have on line. No matter how interesting these abstractions may be, the time has come for us to deal with the problems at hand!/
The globe swirled with cinnamon-red, came back to blue, and showed the headquarters of the Army of the Southern Cross.
It was a soaring white megacomplex in the midst of Monument City. The countryside was marked with the corroded, crumpled miles-long remains of Zentraedi battlecruisers. They were rammed bow-first into the terrain, remnants of the last, long-ago battle.
The headquarters' central tower cluster had been built to suggest the white gonfalons, or ensigns, of a holy crusade hanging from high crosspieces. The towers were crowned with crenels and merlons, like a medieval battlement.
It all looked as if some army of giants had been marshaled. The architecture was meant to do just that-announce to the planet and the world the ideals and esprit of the Army of the Southern Cross.
The name "Southern Cross" was a heritage of those first days after the terrible Zentraedi holocaust that had all but eliminated Human life on Earth. Less damage had been done in the southern hemisphere than in the northern; many refugees and survivors were relocated there. A cohesive fighting force was quickly organized, its member city-states all lying within view of the namesake constellation.
/Yes; we are through studying this planet for now,/ Fallagar declared. /Now establish contact with our Robotech Masters./ It was time for decisions to be passed down, from Elder to Robotech Master, and so on down the line at last to the Bioroid pilots who would once more carry death and fire to Earth in their war mecha.
Signals sprang among the six ships' communications spars, which looked for all the world like huge, segmented insect legs.
/What you have shown us has pleased us,/ Fallagar said with no hint of pleasure in his tone. /But now we must communicate with the inhabitants of this planet directly./
While the Robotech Masters were being alerted to hear their overlords' word, blue-haired Nimuul said to his fellows, /I would make a point: these invisible entities who guard the Protoculture masses within the mounds on Earth may require special and unprecedented-/
Another voice came as the globe showed the gathered Robotech Masters. /Elders! We hear and serve you, and acknowledge your leadership and wisdom!/
Younger and at an earlier stage of their Protoculture-generated personal evolution, the Robotech Masters looked in every way like slightly less aged versions of the Elders. The Masters had the gleaming pates, the chevronlike skin seams under each cheekbone, the fine, straight hair that reached far down their backs and down their cheeks in long, wide sideburns. Their mental voices had been given that eerie vibrato by direct exposure to Protoculture. They wore monkish robes with sash belts, their collars in the shape of a blooming Invid Flower of Life.
Like virtually everyone in their culture, the Robotech Masters were a triumvirate. The slight differentiations among members of a triad, even differences of gender, served only to emphasize their oneness.
The Masters stood each upon a small platform, in a circle around their control monitor, an apparatus resembling a mottled technological mushroom five feet across, floating some five yards above the deck. It was the Protoculture cap, source of their power.
Nimuul held his perpetual scowl. /Your transignal images were sufficiently informative, and you have reported that your war mecha are prepared. But now we must know if you are ready for us to join you./