"You recognize this?"
Lang nodded. "But this is a…a creature that never truly existed. It's only a fairy tale."
Bela was nodding impatiently. "Yes, yes, that's been explained to me! But we Praxians have such creatures in our legendry, too. Or at least, near enough. They are icons of tremendous power, and their appearance signifies a time when every Praxian must do her utmost, a time of decision, and ultimate sacrifice."
Bela carefully closed the book, then looked at Lang. She wasn't sure what to think of this fey Earther, with his eyes that were all pupil, and the reek of Protoculture Shaping steaming off him. The image of the winged horse had taken hold of her, though.
"You and your teams have the power to shape new mecha. I've seen your SDF-3 production machines work wonders. Can they make me such a mecha, such a winged mecha? On Praxis, this creature would be worth a thousand rousing speeches, a million brave words!"
Lang pretended to be considering the proposal, but deep inside he had already been swayed.
The Tokyo Center's teams had studied Robotech adaptations to quadruped models in great detail, and surely the equine data was in the SDF-3's memory banks. But winged horses weren't the optimal mecha for going up against Invid terror weapons and Enforcer skirmish ships. Especially sky-steeds ridden by wild women brandishing swords and lances.
However, if a Robotech Pegasus would have the kind of motivational impact Bela was claiming, it would be well worth the effort. Besides, the idea intrigued him, and he was pretty sure there were still some horse behavioral en-grams lying around somewhere in the memory banks.
"Very well. Come back in, oh, say, forty-eight hours, and I'll have it ready for you."
Her eyes went very wide, but Bela had been told that Lang promised nothing that he couldn't deliver. She set her winged-owl helm down on the book, clapped her right hand to the sword on her left hip, and took Lang's right hand with her left, holding it to her heart.
"By the Eternal She and the Glory of Haydon, your enemies are mine, your debts are mine, your praise is mine to sing, and my life is yours."
Lang, so used to hearing false words from the council, and from most of the ship's aspiring politicians, heard the unaccustomed bell tone of truth then. It was like some half-forgotten song.
He was trying to get hold of himself, trying to pull his hand away from its sublime resting place without seeming to. He mumbled something about having to hold onto her helm for a day or two for the installation of control receptors.
The mind-boost of his long-ago exposure to raw Protoculture hadn't changed him from a man that much, and he was feeling certain inhibitions start to drop away.
Then Bela had let go of him. Lang's automatic, ironclad control reasserted itself-but for a moment he didn't know whether to be happy about that, or sad.
In one of the largest compartments of the SDF-3, a much-repaired and refurbished monolith of Zentraedi technology glowed and sent out deep, almost subsonic tones.
Exedore looked up at it worriedly. The Protoculture sizing chamber was perhaps the last that could still function, certainly the only one the Expeditionary Force had. Constructed for the Zentraedi fleet back when the miracles of Zor were commonplace, it was, like the Protoculture matrices, one of the few pieces of technology that combined Human-Zentraedi efforts could not duplicate.
Exedore held his breath. Monitoring indicators were already reading in the danger zone, but it was too late to stop the transformation now.
Returning Micronized Zentraedi to full, giant size, so that they could mine the monopole ore of Fantoma, had been a tricky business. The sizing chamber had already been pressed far beyond its rated limits. Without exception, the Zentraedi on the SDF-3 mission had volunteered-practically demanded-to be part of the mining operation. All were badly needed down on the giant world-all except one.
The rest had gone before, naturally; it was a commander's prerogative and honor to take on the greatest risk. And so Exedore, the one Zentraedi who must remain Micronized, waited and worried while the giant among giants underwent the trial of the sizing chamber.
Readings were all at maximum and some were beyond, yet the sizing chamber somehow held together. Then the semicylindrical door opened in an outrushing cloud of icy gas and billowing Protoculture brimstone.
Great Breetai stepped forth.
He was naked, of course, but turned to accept the clothing and skullpiece an aide brought to him. Exedore tried not to stare at the destroyed portion of the right side of his lord's face.
Sixty feet tall, Breetai squared his gargantuan shoulders and breathed so deeply that it seemed to lower the pressure of the compartment. He glanced around him as he fitted on the skullpiece. "So, Exedore! It worked!" He stretched, and his titanic muscles creaked like mill wheels; his joints cracked like cannon shots; the muscles of his back rose and spread like some bird of prey spreading its wings.
Breetai threw his head back and let forth a laugh that made the bulkheads quake. "Now we go back to where it all began, eh? Back to Fantoma! And Zarkopolis!"
Exedore nodded measuredly. "You do, my lord."
Breetai nodded, suddenly solemn. "But don't fear, my friend: when there's no more need for you on the SDF-3, you'll rejoin us at your true size!"
Exedore's first impulse was to shake his head and tell his friend and master the truth. The sizing chamber had given up the ghost, as the Humans would say. That's all she wrote! Why did human soldiers use that wording? Exedore had never investigated the matter. What's that other phrase? "The last hurrah!"
Hurrah?
But Breetai was in high spirits, and no amount of agonizing could change what Exedore read from his instruments. The sizing chamber would never work again.
The Zentraedi miners, Breetai, and Exedore would remain as they were forever.
Exedore, looking away from his lord to the huge panorama of Fantoma hanging there in the sky, hid his despair. He would never stand by his lord's shoulder again; he was forever Micronized, an insect by Zentraedi standards.
Exedore braced himself, smiled up at his lord, as brave as any samurai. "One or two things to attend to, my lord." He grinned. "And then, I shall be my true size."
Rick had just left the bridge and was signing off on an intel update when someone passing by in the other direction pressed a packet into the forearm-toad of stuff Rick was holding, saying only, "Unit patches, sir."
It took him a few minutes before he could turn his attention to what he was holding. From the square red courier packet, he pulled a dozen insignia, holding them fanned out like a bridge hand.
They were all the same: rampant eagles face-to-face, with the legend SENTINELS at the bottom, and a crowned medieval jousting helmet at the top. The main part was a skull alongside a tip-uppermost sword that had a viper twined around it.
It didn't look at all like anything the Military Heraldry Institute would come up with. It looked more like the logo of some old time rock band. "Hey, who the hell approved…"
But he realized he was talking to himself; the companionway was empty. Everyone had gone off on their errands, and the mysterious patch deliverer was long gone.
Rick considered the patch again, giving particular attention to the skull. And the serpent.
What does all this mean?
Behind him, a hatch opened as a marine announced, "The admiral is off the bridge." Then there was the swift securing of the gas-tight hatch; Rick Hunter and Lisa Hayes Hunter were standing there looking at each other in the unflattering light of companionway glowtubes.
Lisa looked tired, looked old, it occurred to Rick-the same way he had looked after leading Skull Team in sustained combat.
"May I see?" she asked after a moment. He couldn't figure out what she meant for a second, until he realized that he was clutching the Sentinels' insignia. "I think they're sorta unofficial," he said, fumbling a bit, shifting burdens, then extending one toward her.