Survival Tactics
AN: The aftermath of my favorite episode.
For DW. Thanks again.
"Let's get on with it!!" howled Roy Fokker, putting a final burst into
a damaged Quadrono mecha and sending another Zentraedi flier to the great
beyond. The skull-and-crossbones VT banked and dove, looking for new quarry
in a sky crowded with missile tracks, alien beams and annihilation discs,
gatling tracers and explosions.
The enemy leader and Max were still battling it out for the championship,
but Roy and the other VT pilots weren't about to let the rest of the invaders
hang around like wallflowers. The RDF fliers were ready and willing to fill
their dance card.
The Quadronos didn't hesitate either. And so: the dance of death.
--from "Robotech #3: Homecoming" by Jack McKinney
Gloval keyed open the door to his quarters, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Every
day he sat in the command chair of the SDF-1 was a challenge, but today's
firefight with the alien horde had nearly overpowered them all. The aliens
had been getting bolder, and today that bravado exploded into a no-holds-barred
duel between Max Sterling and an ace Zentraedi pilot in the streets of Macross
City. Sterling had driven the alien from the ship, but the incident had rattled
the civilians. Before, the enemy had always been out there. Now the enemy
had tromped through their streets, had run roughshod over their lives. The
enemy was real now.
From pilots to deck crew, from the pinpoint barrier ops to those on the bridge--during
the battle, Gloval had felt their determination, their fear, and their anguish
as if it was his own. It was as if the metal of the ship itself cried out
to him, transmitting the emotions of the microcosm that was Macross City.
Help us, Captain! The voices rang in his ears, a warped, cacophonous shriek.
Save us!
He brushed the cap from his head, the room's climate-controlled air cool
against his sweaty scalp. He ran his long fingers through his hair, trying
to restore some sort of order to the shaggy dark-brown strands. Gloval gave
a rueful snort; it was only recently that military men had to worry about
getting hat-head. In days of not-so-long-ago, pilots could be spotted by
their strict regulation haircuts. Now the heirs of those crew-cut aviators
had bucked tradition, letting their hair grow into wild, rakish manes.
The faces of those shaggy-haired young bucks passed through Gloval's mind.
Under their unconventional haircuts, their jaws were set, their bright eyes
telegraphing a silent message: We will do it. We will defend them. We will
not back down.
A wave of emotion threatened to wash Gloval away in that moment, and it was
all he could do to keep from going to his knees right in the middle of the
room. That afternoon, many of those young men had followed through with their
promise, young men whose bunks would be empty tonight--and every night thereafter.
This is war, Gloval reminded himself, making his legs move him into the small
sleeping area, his hands mechanically unfastening his uniform jacket. People
die in wars. There's nothing to be done about it--except fight on in their
memory. He heaved a sigh, shaking his head.
Will I see a day when young men and women aren't sent out to die?
"I do not think so," he told the uniform in his hands.
He hung the jacket on its hanger, his hand lingering to smooth out the wrinkles
at the elbow. His fingertips strayed to the massive square of ribbons and
decorations fastened above the left breast, the colors bright and too-cheerful
against the deep azure of the wool. Once, he'd believed those ribbons were
important, had even been impressed by those who had more than he did. Long
ago, he had learned the truth--badges of courage came in only one color:
red.
His mind supplied the names of the ribbons as he touched them, these tangible
markers of success in his career, battles won and goals attained. Marksmanship,
courage under fire, leadership, European theatre, Pacific tour, Third Battalion,
Special Forces, Defender of Earth…
It was this last ribbon, a rectangle of ocean blue marked with stripes of
green and white, with just a thread's-breadth of tawny brown between the
colors, that held his gaze at the moment. The colors of Earth.
The ribbon had come in handy just about the time they'd discovered they'd
jumped not to the dark side of the moon, but to Pluto. It'd served its purpose
a hundred times over when Lang told them the fold generator had disappeared
into thin air.
Defender of Earth? He remembered thinking in the moments after Lang's announcement.
Well. Now I have to find a way to get back there to defend it.
The UN Spacy had created the award after the SDF-1, then only going by the
ominous nomiker of The Visitor, landed on tiny, unsuspecting Macross Island.
Gloval had been on the Siberian front when the Global Civil War was halted
by reports of the mysterious alien spaceship. He had been one of the first
to be called to Macross Island to explore the behemoth. He and Dr. Emil Lang
had led a team of ten young men deep into the belly of the beast; a cavernous
space filled with horrifying wonders that surpassed any high-budget sci-fi
movie he'd ever seen.
Twelve of them had gone in; eight of them had come back. Four young marines
had been lost in their initial foray into the unknown. Gloval could still
see their faces, still remembered their names. He knew he always would.
Out of those twelve, himself, Roy Fokker, T.R. Edwards, and four of the eight
marines he'd taken in had made it out unscathed. Then there was Lang, who
was unhurt, but changed, altered forever by the awesome alien power that
resided in the ship's ancient systems. Lang's eyes--all pupil, no iris or
white visible after his contact with the alien energy--still unsettled Gloval.
Those were eyes that no one could look into for long; else they ran the risk
of seeing their own nightmares reflected in those deep pools of space-black
shadow. Those eyes had seen the secrets of Robotechnology, and so far, Lang
couldn't--or wouldn't--reveal what he had seen.
Gloval stepped into the head, turning on the faucet and splashing water on
his face. The water ran in rivulets down his dark mustache, dripping off
his chin, and he leaned heavily on his hands over the sink. He flicked his
blue eyes upward, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was startled
to note how much he looked like his father, with graying hair and deeply
traced frown lines.
It's this damned war, he mused, snatching a snowy towel from the rack and
pressing it against his face. His five o'clock shadow prickled against the
pile of the fabric. War ages all of us before our time--unless you're a Zentraedi.
Then you thrive on it.
He folded the towel and slipped it back on the rack, thoughts of his bridge
crew wandering through his mind as he shut off the lights and walked into
the main room. He wondered what Commander Hayes would look like as a mature
woman, her butterscotch hair threaded with silver. He wasn't given to lecherous
fantasies about his crew, but any man with decent visual acuity could see
that Commander Hayes was an attractive young lady. Gloval could easily picture
her aging gracefully; Lisa was just that kind of woman. He hoped when she
was his age, she wouldn't look in the mirror and see the ravages of war.
Gloval sat down heavily in his favorite chair. Forget Lisa having gray hair,
he thought bitterly, I just hope she makes it to her next birthday.
He lay his head back against the chair, his eyes closing of their own accord.
He fought the urge to call up to the bridge, remembering Claudia's admonition
to get some rest before his shift. Gloval sighed, knowing that when he stopped
wanting to be at his post, that was the real time to start worrying.
An insistent knock on his door made him open his eyes with a start. He didn't
remember falling asleep, but a glance at the ship's-wheel clock on the wall
told him that he'd been out for nearly half an hour. The knocking stopped,
then began again before he could even get to his feet.
"Yes, I'm coming," he ground out, his accent thick with fatigue. He crossed
the room to the door, keying it open with a tap of his finger against the
sensor. Mild surprise at seeing Commander Lisa Hayes standing on the other
side turned to concern when he took a second glance at his young First Officer.
Lisa's eyes were dark sapphires under the honey-colored bangs, her cheeks
pale, her lips colorless.
"Commander, what is it?"
Lisa glanced down at the paper she clutched in her fingers. "I'm sorry for
disturbing you, Captain," she began, her voice as steady and clear as if
she were on the bridge, "but I thought I should give this directly into your
hands." She extended the sheet of paper to him.
Gloval took the paper, accidentally brushing against her fingers as he did
so. They were like ice! He glanced at her again before reading the paper,
his brow furrowing even further as he noticed there were tears in her eyes.
He'd never seen her cry, and it startled him.
Lisa, you're always so strong, he wanted to reassure her. You think I'm so
strong, but it's really me who's in awe of you. He lowered his gaze to the
paper.
Dr. M. Hassan
53rdAerospace Medical Flight
SDF-1
-Communique-
Lt Cmdr Roy Fokker sustained major injuries in dogfight with alien forces
13 July 2010
Whereabouts not known for several hours after receiving initial treatment
at Macross Naval Air Hospital
Found by EMTs dispatched to home of Lt Claudia Grant on 911 call
Regret to inform you Lt Cmdr Roy Fokker pronounced dead at 2301 hrs 13 July
2010
-End communique-
Gloval's mind began to project a montage of memories onto the white paper,
like a film reel projecting a crazily edited movie onto a silver screen.
Somewhere far away, he heard Lisa sniff abruptly, and he knew she'd finally
allowed her tears to fall.
A tall, lanky kid with a pile of blond hair, laughing with his fellow soldiers,
trying to diffuse the tension of the unknown. An indignant young man in a
flight suit, snarling epithets into a microphone, much to the amusement of
a Launch Day crowd, a circus plane roaring overhead. A blip on a radar screen,
other blips in its path winking out of existence. A battered yellow and black
trimmed Veritech waggling its wingtips in salute as it streaked past the
bridge. A picture pinned to Claudia's workstation of a handsome pilot, helmet
under one arm, making the victory sign at the camera. A proud young man ruffling
the hair of a slight, dark-haired teen in a brand-new UN Spacy uniform.
My God. The images looped in Gloval's head, and he blinked them away to focus
on the black words written on the white page before him. Images. Memories.
That’s all Roy Fokker is, now.
Gloval cleared his throat gruffly, and Lisa wiped her tears away quickly,
as if she were ashamed of them.
"Thank you, Commander," he said evenly, folding the paper in half, then in
quarters. "Has Lieutenant Hunter been informed?"
Gloval hadn't thought it possible, but Lisa blanched even whiter. "Captain,
I…I thought it best that this wait until morning." She glanced at her watch.
"He's still recovering from his injuries. If you want me to go now, sir,
I--"
"No, you're right," Gloval interjected. "Let him sleep. He's got the rest
of his life to mourn Commander Fokker." Gloval felt the fatigue come rushing
back, and he rubbed his eyes again. He glanced at Lisa, who, beyond a nod
of consensus, had remained silent. "Go home, Lisa," he said gently. "Try
and get some rest."
"Yes, sir," Lisa choked out. She turned on her heel and walked away, her
head held high, a credit to her military upbringing and her post on the SDF-1.
Gloval watched until she was out of sight. He didn't envy her the task she
would undertake in the morning.
Maybe I should be the one to tell Hunter, Gloval mused, keying the door shut.
He sighed, shaking his head. This was something Lisa had to do. She and Hunter
would comfort each other, mourn Fokker as a friend as well as a fellow officer,
and move on with their lives.
His heart ached all the more when he thought of Claudia. She was a strong
woman too, as strong as Lisa was, and maybe more, in certain ways--but he
shuddered to think what she was going through right at this moment. He sent
up a wordless prayer for his Bridge Officer, that Fokker's memory would carry
her through the hard days ahead.
Gloval sat down in his chair again, not retrieving the communiqué
when it fluttered to the carpet. He reached up and snapped off the light,
plunging the room into complete darkness. Burying his face in his hands,
Gloval let the tears come, let himself mourn for Roy Fokker-- so then he,
too, could move on with his life.
There is no other way to survive this, he anguished. There is simply no other
way.
~End~
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Robotech; Harmony Gold does. I do, however,
own this original story.
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