Chapter 2

The main levels are on fire, Bron thought to himself as he slipped through the puddles of water that were pooling on the tiled floors. President Abhram's arm felt thin under the sleeve of his dark suit, and Bron kept a tight grip to prevent the much older man from losing his footing. Mary was just on the other side of the President, keeping hold of his elbow, but Bron couldn't speak to either of them, or any of the other fleeing city officials and employees, over the scream of the fire alarm bells. Every few seconds, the Municipal Building was shaken by the apocalyptic battle in the streets above, and he kept a hand against the wall, peering through the dim, red lit hallway and the blinding spray of the sprinkler systems.

Bron would have been lost without the guidance of the local staff who stood at corners and stairways, waving them all along with flashlights. There weren't enough vehicles on hand to evacuate the building by motorcade, and it wouldn't have been safe to try if there had. Instead, the group fled, gasping for breath, up a few flights of stairs, slammed the crash bar of a heavy metal service door, and found themselves on the platform of the Chambers Street Subway Station. It was dry here, but no less imperiled. The platform shuddered under another series of blasts, and Bron grabbed a blue painted steel support column to avoid falling, pulling Abhram in close as the crowd of evacuees cried out in alarm.

"Come aboard quickly!" a maintenance worker wearing coveralls called from the doors of the waiting subway train. "The train is ready to leave. Spread out! Don't overcrowd the doorways!"

Abhram was bent double, panting. Bron could see Mary, shorter, and pale as a ghost, past his shoulder, and their eyes met. He could see fear, fear like his own, but she was in control. He leaned in close to Abhram's ear.

"We need to keep going, Mister President. Just a little further."

Abhram looked up. He was exhausted, but there was still a core of steely endurance in his gaze. "Yes… Thank you…" he managed to gasp. Together, they crossed the yellow painted line at the edge of the platform and squeezed through the open doors of the train, which immediately slid shut behind them.

As the train lurched into motion, Bron just managed to take hold of a pole and steady them. When the train's acceleration smoothed out, he and Mary eased Abhram onto a bench. Their passenger car entered the main tunnel, and they could see only dimly visible brickwork speeding by through the windows. Mary was starting to catch her breath, clutching the next pole.

"We're- we're safe now!"

The darkness surrounding them, the reassuring solidity and purposeful motion of the train were all comforting, but Bron knew they were not safe- not when artillery and heavy beam blasts were being tossed around above their heads. The train could lose power at any second, ending their flight, or the tunnel could collapse, ending it far more permanently, but there was nothing to gain by pointing that out. He smiled reassuringly back at Mary.

"Right. Where's the new command post?" he asked.

"Fifty-Third Street," Abhram rasped. "The power control center… for the Metro Transit Authority…"

"It's a sturdy, unmarked building," the police sergeant who was handling liaison duties added. Nearly all of the higher city officials were either in shelters or already out in the field overseeing critical tasks. "We don't think York is aware of its importance. It's already staffed, and it's still of some benefit to be able to monitor and control the city transit system. We had extra monitors and feeds to the traffic cameras installed yesterday. We're just, ah, going to have to cross three blocks to get there after we leave the 50th Street Station."

"Three blocks?" Mary shuddered.

"We will be arriving in a few minutes!" an MTA employee announced. "There will be a Metro bus waiting outside the station where the steps go up to street level. On arrival, those of you going to the new command post, please exit in a rapid and orderly manner and board the bus, and we will get you safely to your destination." She paused. "Thank you for choosing the MTA."

Bron wondered if the last words were an attempt to lighten the mood, or if the woman was as terrified as everyone else. He leaned toward the police sergeant. The man was older than Bron, fit, with just a hint of gray at his temples.

"How long have you been with the force, Sergeant…"

"Will Eckert," he finished. "Fifteen years."

"Then you were around before-" Bron stopped, not wanting to name the Rain of Death.

"Most of us are, actually," Eckert said, his eyes becoming distant as he remembered that terrible day. "Lots of us were manning check-points, directing traffic toward the bridges, managing crowds in the subway stations, helping get disabled folks out of apartments and hospitals. I guess I actually had a better chance as a first responder than a lot of people did." He shook his head. "Never thought the world would go on after something that horrible, but, policing is still policing. Course, I never had to bring in a two hundred ton drunk before."

"How did you-?"

Eckert smiled wryly. "Ha! Well, I suppose I do have help from some of our new, rather larger, volunteers. Most of them are out on the battlefield right now." He sighed gloomily.

"Bron?" Mary asked quietly. "If York's troops have made it as far south as the Municipal Building, hasn't the city technically already fallen? I mean, 50th Street is a good ways north. Aren't we heading into enemy held territory?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that. I couldn't get messages through to all of them before we evacuated, but there are still a lot of scattered defenders and strongpoints around the city. The enemy isn't really holding all of that ground, they just blew past the main lines of resistance to come after us. A bunch of battlepods and hover tanks plowing through the city is scary, but it's going to take infantry to hold all of that ground, and they won't have as easy a time."

"But it's still going to be dangerous when we go back up to the street?"

Bron glanced over at the President. Some color had returned to the man's face. He was talking quietly with Sergeant Eckert, and shaking the officer's hand. There was little else any of them could do during the trip, completely cut off from the world above. Bron turned back to Mary and nodded. "Very. Our best chance is to avoid being noticed."

"Now arriving, Fiftieth Street Station!" the announcement came, and everyone shuffled toward the doors as the train rolled to a stop.

A rush of air as the doors opened brought in dust, floating ash, and the acrid smell and taste of smoke. Bron tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He and Mary again hustled President Abhram onward, while Eckert went ahead, his service pistol drawn, for all the good it might do. Only a skeleton crew exited with them to go to the new command post, and the rest stayed on the train to be taken to a designated shelter area.

They made their way up the steps, and the bus was waiting by the curb as promised, its diesel engine idling. Plastered across the side of the bus were the ironic words 'Get Outta Town!" and an idyllic image of an upstate nature area. Looking up, he saw the sky was overcast, and smudged with black smoke. None of the nearby buildings, a mix of restaurants, a bank, and a parking garage, were on fire, but the street had been cratered fifty meters behind the bus, and there was broken glass everywhere. Near constant explosions thumped in his ears, and, more alarmingly, he heard automatic weapons fire that seemed far too close. The bus door opened with a hiss as they approached, and the driver beckoned to them from his seat.

"C'mon, c'mon, let's move! I've got a schedule to keep, y'know!"

Bron wondered again at the bravado of these defenseless people who were helping him and the others. The driver stomped the accelerator as soon as the last passenger had gotten both feet on the steps, and they took off down the street. Bron stood in the seat behind the driver, bracing his arms as everyone jostled and swayed.

"Left, here," Bron told the driver as they reached the first intersection, drawing on his knowledge of the last locations of the defense.

"Why?"

"The direct route is too open. The west side of 9th Avenue is barricaded, and there were some soldiers monitoring them. If you take the long way around, our flank will be covered if anything approaches from that direction.

"You got it."

The Bron held on as the heavy vehicle laboriously turned on to 51st Street. He anxiously watched skies raw and bruised by streaks of smoke and the trails of missiles.

"They're not here yet. Why aren't they here?"

"Who?" Mary asked from the seat behind him.

"The rest of the Fifteenth Air Force Wing," Bron answered. "It's been more than half an hour since Edwards's last transmission. We're running without coms right now, but five dozen veritechs - we should see or hear something."

"Maybe they got delayed," Mary suggested, but her brow furrowed with concern. They all swayed again as the driver brought them around the corner to 53rd Street, and the unmarked brick building that was their destination came into view. Bron craned his neck, searching the sky one more time, and then looked back at her.

"That's why I'm worried. What does York still have that could stop them?"

"My God," President Abhram murmured. "We are going to die."

The control room for all of Manhattan's subway transit lines, bus services, and stop lights looked dated even from Bron's limited experience. Two parallel, immensely long seafoam green walls were covered in an intricate, interlocking network of yellow, orange, red, white, and blue lines, with tiny inset status lights, and black placards denoting the connections between stations and routes. Archaic hand phone sets hung every few feet, along with a few more recently installed LED displays. In front of the walls were ranks of cheap imitation wood desks from which the entire apparatus, looking like a magnification of a primitive circuit board, could be monitored.

Squeezed in between, Bron and the others watched the racks of screens that had been set up and connected to the city's remaining traffic cameras and military observation posts. There were far fewer of these now, but there were enough to show them the scope of the newest disaster.

"I can't believe York has this many battlepods," Mary said in amazement as they all stared at the monitors. "If they really had this many, why have they been holding them back this long?"

Bron didn't answer right away, still stunned. The destruction of Task Force Persephone had been a masterstroke, but this was the final sledgehammer blow to smash all resistance to York's ambitions. The urban ruins from Jersey City all the way north to Union City and Lincoln Harbor were crawling with refitted battlepods, their hulls black like the bodies of spiny insects. They approached in their hundreds with great grasshopper leaps, a plague over the land. Bron remembered a Bible passage Konda had read aloud when he was studying various holy books.

And out of the smoke, locusts came down upon the earth, and were given power like that of scorpions of the earth.

The Rain of Death had only signaled the beginning of humanity's torment. Today, Bron saw the completion of it.

"Bron?" Mary asked again.

He shook his head, struggling to gather his thoughts, to make sense of this new attack. "We just… we must have thrown off York's plans, making them worry about the Zentraedi fleet, and pushing the Assembly to act. They weren't holding back, they decided to attack early, before they had their main force in position."

"But they couldn't move that many battlepods in secret! Not even by night! Our satellites would spot them!"

"They-" Bron put a hand to his face, concentrating. "They could only sneak through if the satellites were malfunctioning."

"Or were sabotaged," Mary said, and Bron dropped his hand to look back at her in horror.

Betrayal. Aria warned them two days ago about defectors to Manhattan that might prove to actually be infiltrators from York. But that danger would be even greater for the United Earth Forces. Control of the handful of new satellites was handed over to the Factory Satellite last year, after the Global Operations Center in New Macross was destroyed. How many traitors would it really take to pull off the misdirection needed? Streight's coup proved that there were sympathizers to York's beliefs in the ranks. The UN Army had been purged, but what about the UN Spacy?

"There are really soldiers in the Earth Forces that hate us that much?" Bron asked hoarsely. "So much that they would bring this whole city to ruin, and sacrifice the lives of their fellow soldiers?"

"I'm afraid it's the only explanation that makes sense," Mary answered flatly, suppressing her anger to focus on the situation at hand. "The question is what do we do about it?"

"There's very little we can do from here," Abhram said. "We can't get through the jamming. All landlines outside the city are down, and most of the landlines inside too. We just have these few video feeds left."

"We have to figure out something to tilt the scales, even if only a tiny bit," Mary insisted. She pointed up at one of the screens. "The cavalry have been stopped in their tracks."

Unlike the position at Inswood Hill, the tiny listening post at Riverside Park had somehow weathered both York's bombardment and the passage of their first armored thrust, and was providing a clear view across the river. Ghost Wing, comprising five veteran Valkyrie squadrons, was locked in a titanic battle with York's hordes. A heavy blocking force of battlepods positioned in what used to be town of Secaucus, west of the waterfront districts, kept the Ghosts at bay while the rest gathered to cross the river and occupy Manhattan island. Battlepods were not purpose built for anti-aircraft work, but their beam weaponry was a deadly threat to a veritech, as were the missile carrying variants. In spite of their size, the urban ruins provided excellent cover to the ground based mecha, and they could reposition effortlessly in a few powerful leaps. The Ghosts circled, firing missiles and carrying out dangerous strafing runs, but could not penetrate the ring of besiegers without suffering catastrophic losses. After seeing several veritechs shot down, the Ghosts abandoned their attempt to relieve the island by air and descended, switching to battloid configuration and employing small unit infantry tactics to counter the massed firepower and numbers of the foe.

"Even if those fighters do eventually get through, the city will be a burned out husk by the time the fighting ends," Abhram said, sadly. "We tried. Our people have sacrificed more than anyone could reasonably expect. But continuing the destruction will be worse than surrender, and we have to consider the lives of the remaining people. It is time to end this. I'll order the evacuation, and send a messenger to request terms."

"Mister President, let me try one more time," Bron implored. "York has caught us by surprise every time. We need to shake them up, put them off balance."

"What do you think you can do?"

"Contact the docks. The boats are ready and waiting. I think we can still throw a wrench in York's battle plan."

"Our landline with the docks has been knocked out."

"Then I'll go myself."

Mary gasped, but Abhram looked at Bron, his gaze hard. The president was not broken, he had simply run out of options to preserve the people and city he had pledged to lead and defend.

"Go, then. You have very little time."

"I'll go with you, watch your back," Sergeant Eckert said, stepping forward. "There has to be something useful for me to do."

Bron nodded his thanks and turned to Mary. "Please stay here. We still need someone to observe for the UEG."

She reached out and hugged him tightly. "Be safe, Bron," she whispered in his ear, her voice thick. "I have no idea what I'd tell Vanessa, Rico, and Konda if something were to happen to you."

"I'll try. Mary, you take care too."

She stepped back, wiping tears from her eyes, and her half-smirk returned to her face.

"Inspector General," she said with a nod.

"Thank you, Miss Brenan," he said, returning her gesture with respect.

Bron and Eckert reached the simple glass and metal push bar door that was the building's main entrance, and the sergeant stopped him, shouldering the police issued shotgun he had picked up along the way.

"It's complete chaos out there, sir." He drew his service pistol from its holster, and offered it to Bron. Bron hesitated. He looked at the weapon cast in cold black steel. How long had it been since he wielded any weapon? It had to have been before his first visit to the SDF-1. Before he met Vanessa. He realized with a shock that he didn't want to take the gun.

"You know how to use it, right?" Eckert prompted. "I mean, you're a 'Zentraedi Warrior,' and all of that?"

Bron sucked in a breath.

They were all enjoying a late meal one hot July evening, on the terrace of Adoclas Center. Mary had a few beers in her, like most of them did, and was going into her 'Professor' mode, as Rico jokingly liked to call it.

"No, no!' the rosy-cheeked woman admonished, shaking a forefinger for emphasis. "That's what I'm trying to explain. Vanessa's not a 'warrior,' she's a soldier!"

Bron, Rico, and Konda all blinked, almost in unison.

"I do not understand," Konda said, shaking his head muzzily. "Are they not the same thing?"

"I can't say I've ever felt much like either one," Vanessa interjected, smiling. "General Maistroff once asked me if I joined up for the education benefits."

They all chuckled, and Mary nodded emphatically. "But that's- that's what I'm talking about! It's a question of identity. A 'warrior' is who you are. A 'soldier' is an occupation you take up, and can set down again."

"I don't get it," Bron admitted, his brow furrowed.

"Ok, let me think." Mary took another long pull from her pint glass and set it back down on the table with a heavy thunk. "So, you could say a warrior is someone who was born to be a warrior. On Earth we had knights, samurai, janissaries, norsemen, numerous Native American societies, and a bunch of other cultures that taught skills at weaponry and war from a young age, or else, it was that the skills you needed for survival overlapped with those needed for war, like the horse-mounted archers of the Asian steppes. Being ready to go to war was a societal expectation."

"You didn't mention the Spartans," Konda interrupted. "I have read their name many times among those counted as great warrior societies."

"I knew somebody was going to bring up that pack of sociopaths!" Mary groaned. "They were terrible. And overrated. Don't get me started on them or we'll be here all night," she added, pointing an accusatory finger at Konda. "What I was tryingto say is that for a warrior society, when a war ended, when the army was disbanded, you were still a warrior. It was who you were, your core identity. Understand?"

"Ok." Bron looked over at Vanessa, who was listening to Mary with attentive interest. For his own part, he was beginning to feel an undertone of discomfort that was clashing with the general good feelings of an evening shared among close friends. He found himself thinking of his earliest memories. Of the chill, misty air on his wet, naked skin as he stepped from the cloning tube. Of his powerful giant's hands, hands that already knew how to hold and fire a weapon. The commands and skills and proscriptions that had buzzed constantly in his newly formed mind.

"So then, what's a soldier?" Mary went on, oblivious. "That word goes back hundreds of years, it can be understood to mean 'one having pay.' A civilian volunteers or is compelled to military service. They are an adult, they come from a non-military background, they are trained to a specific task, and when the war, or an agreed term of service ends, they become a civilian again. A soldier who leaves the army, for whatever reason, stops being a soldier. They go back to civilian life, their old job, or a new one."

"Well we chose to leave the fleet," Rico pointed out. "Haven't we stopped being warriors?"

"Technically, no. That's the point. It's at the center of who you are. It's why so many Zentraedi have struggled to adapt to civilian life, and to life on Earth."

"But I have read about the aftermath of past wars in your history books," Konda said. "There are many accounts of those you would call soldiers who suffer from the effects of the wars they fought in long after they ended. Injuries. Grief. Illnesses of the mind."

Vanessa squeezed Bron's hand, and he started. She was watching his face.

'You ok?' she mouthed silently, concern visible in her eye.

Bron forced a smile, and squeezed her hand back, squeezed her artificial fingers. 'Yeah, fine,' he murmured.

Mary nodded to Konda. "That's all true. Wars always leave a mark. Which is why many societies had mechanisms in place- ideologies and art, bonds of fellowship, rewards, and rituals - designed to cushion the traumatic effects of war for the participants, and help the transition from wartime to peacetime. Unfortunately, we're not as well-equipped for that now. The UEG can provide training, resettlement, and jobs, but most Zentraedi are going to have to find their own way forward."

"Well, Professor, my way forward involves another round of drinks!" Rico loudly proclaimed, raising his empty glass, and everyone laughed. Everyone but Bron.

Bron stared at the pistol Sergeant Eckert held out to him, then looked him in the eye. 'Zentraedi Warrior,' Eckert had said. The words echoed in his mind, though he knew there was no ill intent behind them. He gently but firmly pushed the pistol away.

"I think it's best if you hold onto that, Sergeant. Let's go."

I reject that identity, he thought. I amZentraedi, but I'll not be a warrior or a soldier. You were right, Vee. My path is not yours.

"Now."

The command reverberated in every corridor and compartment of the vast warship.

"Our enemy's main strength is at last revealed to us. Begin the operation."

After the long hours standing by on high alert, the bridge of the Sal-Dezir exploded with activity. Vanessa did not sag with relief at Captain Gotta's words, if anything the tension she felt wound even tighter in her body until she thought something might snap within her. Bron was down there, somewhere in that churning maelstrom of war, perhaps dead or injured already, and they were all about to plunge straight into it themselves.

"…. Do not be mistaken in thinking we, who were offered up as a sacrifice upon the altar of war by the tyrants who created us, do not understand the terrible gravity of this moment. It is only to put an end to this mad act of conquest, this suffering and bloodshed not seen since the end of the Robotech War, that we choose to darken Earth's skies with the shadow of a Zentraedi warship again. One ship. The last ship. From this day forward, the Zentraedi fleet will be no more. It is time for this legacy of death and empire to end. The future lies ahead of us, for a reunited humanity. I call upon the leaders of York to withdraw their armies and surrender their mad dreams. I call upon the United Earth Government and all non-aligned governments to work alongside me, to bring about Earth's rebirth…"

As pre-occupied as Vanessa was, she barely noticed Breetai's pre-recorded broadcast. Exedore had written it during the trip back to the Sal-Dezir, and she and Straza had vetted it and offered their revisions during the hours of waiting. It was a good speech. Exedore was a gifted writer, and matched his words well to Breetai's incredible presence. She had no doubt that his words would put all the major factions on the back foot. The UEG would be forced to come to terms with granting the Zentraedi a real role in the new order and the Pioneer Mission. The independent city-states would have most of the justifications for their paranoia and oppression toward the Zentraedi cut right out from under them. And York… York would now face its reckoning.

Gotta turned to Straza, who was refreshed, re-bandaged, and back in a clean flight suit and battle armor.

"Ready your cohorts, Group Leader. The assault landing is yours."

"Aye, Captain," she answered, saluting in UN Spacy fashion. A reminder, perhaps, of her true allegiance. Was that a flicker of distrust in both their eyes, as they looked at each other? She turned to Vanessa's tiny station in the command bubble before she left for the launch bays.

"Good luck, Straza!" Vanessa called.

"You as well, my Commander. May this battle be ended soon, and all of us reunited with those we care for."

"I, too, shall be departing now, Lieutenant Commander Leeds," Exedore said. "With the planning complete, and the operation under way, I expect my Lord Breetai will be receiving a great number of urgent communications from Earth government and armed forces officials."

"Thank you for your help, Minister Exedore," Vanessa said, shaking his offered hand.

"And thank you for your efforts on our behalf. I leave the rest to you." His face was grave as he spoke.

Vanessa frowned. The operation was in motion, the Zentraedi forces minutes from deploying. She could already feel the ship beginning its long awaited descent from orbit. Much as it pained her, wouldn't she be little more than a passenger until the battle was over?

"I don't understand."

"I believe your leadership will be needed before this day ends," he said quietly. "Farewell, Commander."

She was stunned for a moment. "But Exedore, I-"

It was too late. The gap between them widened. A giant crewman was already wheeling away the cart Exedore stood on, to convey him to the shuttle bay. She watched him go. She didn't want to consider what he might be suggesting. Finally, she turned to May, who was monitoring the station next to hers, crisp and efficient in the last clean uniform she had brought with her aboard the ship.

"Lieutenant."

"Yes, Commander?"

"Where is Lieutenant Reyes?"

"Already waiting in the launch bay, ma'am. I believe he's checking over the Valkyries with our support crew. They're removing the FAST packs to be ready for atmospheric operations."

"Contact him," Vanessa ordered. "I want the Gold Sabers on ready standby. When the Sal-Dezir's flight group launches, the squadron is to take up a reserve position ten kilometers to the stern, and await further orders."

May's eyebrows met. "He's not to engage alongside the rest of the relief force? He won't be happy about that."

"You have your orders."

"But-"

"May!" she snapped.

Allison blinked in surprise, and swallowed her protests. "Aye, aye!" she sang out, and bent to her task.

Vanessa felt a presence, and looked over her shoulder. Amid the controlled chaos of shouted reports and commands, overlapping projec-beams, and bustling officers and aides, Captain Gotta stared down at her, his eyes unreadable green pools.

Next chapter… combat drop, devastation, and fire from the sky…