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Micronian in the black slippers and belted robe had executed some truly
amazing maneuvers, albeit primitive, and now here he was soaring through space
unleashing bolts of brilliant orange lightning from his fingertips. The
recipient of these, a curiously uniformed hairless mutant wearing some sort of
power-collar, was paralyzed and felled a moment later by the Micronian's
follow-up leap and kick.
"Did you see what he just did? What was that?!" Breetai was aghast;
reflexively he had unfolded his arms and adopted a defensive stance.
Exedore's pinpoint-pupiled eyes were wide.
"Perhaps it is that legendary force the Micronians are said to possess."
"It's a death ray! Our soldiers cannot win against such an incredible
force!"
"It seems beyond the power of Protoculture or Robotechnology."
Breetai straightened up decisively. "We must report this information
immediately to Commander in Chief Dolza."
Elsewhere in the flagship Little White Dragon had a second audience, the
dozen or so members of the growing Minmei cult. They were gathered around a
monitor screen, jaws slack in amazement. Rico, Bron, and Konda had recognized
Minmei in spite of the Zu-li over-the-shoulder braid.
"She doesn't look the way I thought she would," said one of the group.
"Yeah, what happened to your beautiful female?"
"Bubbleheads," Bron said calmly. "This is just a monitor. She's much
better looking in person."
"That's right," Rico added knowingly. "You have to see her in real life.
We were hanging out with the girl all the time."
This drew astonished looks from the cultists; they turned now to Konda,
who added nonchalantly:
"In fact, the three of us all became her close personal friends for a
while."
On the screen, Kyle was going through his F/X routines, dispatching
giants left and right and hurling lightning bolts.
Rico recognized him. "These recordings must have been made before the
Micronian began to think about putting an end to warfare."
"An end to warfare?" said one of the confused cultists.
"`Peace' is the Micronian word for it," Bron explained.
But what grabbed the attention of this captive audience was the kiss
Lynn-Kyle planted on Minmei's lips after effecting her rescue. Cooing sounds
surfaced through the speakers.
"How strange," said someone in the audience. "I've never seen anything
like that before."
"It's weird...Why do they do that?"
"They seem to be enjoying it."
"Yeah," Bron explained. "Something makes them do that all the time. It's
required."
"They make their people press their lips together?"
"Yeah, it happened every day," Rico answered, ringleader and gifted
liar. He had his chair tipped way back, hands behind his head.
One of the heavy-banged clones took his nose from the screen. "That's
fantastic! I wouldn't have thought you could stand it. Did they force you to
do such a thing with this girl?"
"Yep, they sure did," said Rico.
"Often," from Konda.
Shocked faces, some gray, some yellow, some pure white, swung to catch
each spoken word, each nuance.
Then Bron picked up and carried for a while: "My lips got sore from
always being pressed."
It has been said that there comes a point in the growth of every
powerful cult or movement when something is needed to carry it over the top,
to open it up to those who are aware and prepared but who have been afraid to
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act alone. Little White Dragon served this purpose for the Minmei cult. But it
had less to do with the "death ray" Breetai saw than with the need to protect
the film's leading lady. Singing had reawakened long-lost emotions and
impulses; music had reopened a long-locked pathway to the heart.
There was scarcely a soldier in the Imperial Fleet who hadn't heard of
the singing doll by now. The film had instilled the rumors with a new
momentum; sensational tales of the wonders onboard the SDF-1 were talked about
in every corridor and discussed at every watch. The password spread. Micronian
words were spoken and memorized. Posts were abandoned, duties left undone.
Fights broke out over whose turn it was to carry around the life-size color
poster of Minmei. Shock troopers and sentries began to rap on the clubhouse
door and beg admittance, their armed and armored presence lending a new
element to the gathering of green-uniformed cultists-an element that would
soon spell peril for the Zentraedi high command...
The little two-song dot-eyed doll continued to work its tabletop magic,
melting hearts hardened by conditioning and countless military campaigns and
conquests. Rico's roomful of former galactic warriors came to sound more like
a maternity ward visited by a host of proud fathers.
"So this is what they call `singing,' huh?" said one soldier as he
watched the doll go through its motions. "I think I like it."
"Singing is a way the Micronians make each other feel good," Konda
explained.
"Makes me feel kinda funny..."
"Makes me feel great!"
"Is it true," asked another, "that we could hear the real singer if we
became spies and lived among the Micronians?"
"It's the truth," said Bron.
Rico folded his arms across his chest. "You'd like the real thing a lot
more than you like this doll."
"Yes, but it's unlikely that we'll ever get the chance to see for
ourselves, Rico. You three are surveillance operatives; we are soldiers."
A grin spread across Rico's face, and he leaned forward
conspiratorially, arms on the table. "This is something we should discuss..."
he told them.
It is also said that "loose lips sink ships."
Khyron's second in command, Grel, reported to his commander that there
was trouble afoot. Khyron had been brooding about his defeat and near death at
the hands of the Micronians during the shield explosion and as a consequence
ingesting powerful amounts of the dried Flower of Life leaves, so Grel braced
himself for the worst.
"You say there's chaos aboard Breetai's flagship?" said the Backstabber
disinterestedly.
"That's right, m'lord. Exedore's spies-Konda, Rico, and Bron-returned
from their infiltration mission aboard the Robotech ship with a singing doll
that is wreaking havoc."
"A `singing doll'? What are you talking about, Grel?"
"A...device, Lord Khyron. It emits sounds that have affected the
thoughts of the crew. Discipline has become a problem."
Khyron wore a look of distaste. "And you have seen this...device?"
"No, m'lord, but-"
Khyron turned his back to Grel. "I don't think we need to concern
ourselves with rumors."
But Grel persisted. "It's a lot worse than that, sir. There is talk
among many of our own soldiers about defecting to the Robotech ship to lead
the Micronian way of life!"
Khyron spun around, fists clenched. "Defecting?!"
"M'lord!" snapped Grel. "That what I heard. And not just a few-"
"Enough!" shouted Khyron. "Is anyone in the higher command aware of
this?"
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"No, m'lord."
"As I thought." Khyron sneered. "Everyone is losing their minds over
what's happening on the battle fortress..." He raised his fist. "Well, let
them! Let them perish through their own stupidity! Khyron will survive and
prevail! Khyron will live to see that ship destroyed! Khyron alone will rule
the Fourth Quadrant of the universe! And woe to anyone who stands in his way!"
It was true that neither Breetai nor Dolza had received word of the
incipient desertions, but the commander in chief had reasons of his own for
wanting the Micronians annihilated. Breetai had dispatched a ship to the
command center with trans-vids of the "death-ray" sequences he and Exedore had
viewed. There, Dolza had come as close to fear as his Zentraedi conditioning
allowed.
A trans-vid of his response was quickly returned to Breetai. The fleet
commander and his adviser screened this on a rectangular monitor that had been
installed behind the remains of the spherical one Max Sterling's VT had
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