"03 - Homecoming" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinney Jack)

Roy looked the pod over, trying a few external controls tentatively. Nothing happened. He moved closer still, examining the pressure seals that ran around the great hatch at the rear top of the pod's bulbous torso. Being this close to a pod's guns had him sweating under his VT helmet.
"Careful, Roy," Kramer said quietly.
He didn't want to use the torch for fear of fire or explosion. He decided to try simply pulling the pod's hatch open with the Battloid's huge, strong hands. He ran his ship's fingers along the seams, feeling for a place to grab hold...
The pod shook, rattled, and began to open.
Roy's Battloid leapt back, weapon aimed, as the hatch lifted up. Battloid forefingers tightened on triggers, but there was no occupant immediately to be seen.
However, the Battloids' external sound sensors relayed a remarkable exchange, muffled and a little resonant, coming from the pod.
"Well, finally! Thank goodness! When you start bragging to your fighter pilot buddies about this mission, boys, don't forget it took you just about forever to get a simple hatch open!"
That voice was womanly and very pleasant, if a little arch and teasing. Another, a young male's, sounding highly insulted, answered, "You weren't so hot at getting in touch with your precious bridge, I noticed!"
If this is some kind of trick, we're up against the zaniest enemies in the universe, Roy thought.
"I thought you both did very well," another male voice said calmly, humbly placatingly.
"Ah, look out, Max," the first male voice said. "And let's get outta here."
There was a certain amount of grunting and straining then, and at one point the female voice yelled, "Ben, if you don't get your big foot out of my face, I'm going to break it off!" A vociferous argument broke out.
"Everybody shut up!" the first male voice screamed. "Ben, Max: Gimme a boost up, here."
Moments later, two flight-gloved, human-size hands gripped the edge of the hatch. A dark mop of black hair rose into view.
Rick Hunter, standing on the head of the husky Ben Dixon, hauled himself up triumphantly.
"Hold your fire! We're back! Roy, we escaped from the Zentraedi-um..."
Three Battloids stood there looking at him, hands resting casually on the upturned muzzles of their grounded autocannon, heads cocked to one side or the other. Their attitude seemed to be one of resigned disgust.
"We escaped!" Rick repeated, thinking perhaps they hadn't heard him. "Man, have we got stories to tell! We were in an enemy ship! We met their leaders! We shot our way out in this pod! We...we...What's wrong?"
Roy couldn't tell Rick how overjoyed and relieved he was; it would have spoiled their friendship.
"We were hoping for a POW," he said. "Boy, is Captain Gloval gonna be sore at you for not being a Zentraedi."


CHAPTER TWO
The Zentraedi version of psychology could only be termed primitive, of course, except as it applied to such things as maintaining military discipline and motivating warriors. And even there, it was brutal and straightforward.
No surprise, then, that when those particular three Zentraedi were quick to accept their spying mission, Breetai scarcely thought twice about it.
But of course, he hadn't spent as much time watching transmissions of the swimsuit portion of the Miss Macross contest.
Zeitgeist, Alien Psychology

The SDF-1'S survival of the latest Zentraedi attack had buoyed morale all through the ship-at least in most cases; there were those whom the lessons of war had made too wary to quickly believe in good fortune. Even with Earth looming large before it and the long, dark billions of miles safely crossed, the battle fortress was dogged by the enemy-now more than ever. Continued vigilance was imperative.
One of those acutely aware of the continuing danger was Claudia Grant, who was acting as the vessel's First Officer in Lisa Hayes's absence. Though Claudia and Lisa were friends, Claudia had always felt a little put off by Lisa's single-minded devotion to duty, her severity. But now, elevated to the responsibilities of her new position-especially at this moment, with Gloval off the bridge-Claudia was seeing things in a different light.
The members of her usual watch, the female enlisted-rating techs, Sammie, Kim, and Vanessa, were off duty for a long-postponed pass into Macross City. Lisa, Claudia, and the other three had formed something very much like a family, with Gloval as patriarch; they had become a highly efficient team both under everyday stresses and demands and under fire.
The turmoil of the war had brought an assortment of other techs to the bridge on relief watches, and Claudia didn't trust any of them to really know what they were doing, just as Lisa hadn't. So even though she was almost out on her feet with fatigue, Claudia had refused to be relieved of her duties as long as Gloval was away.
There was no telling how long that would be. The glorious news of the rescue of Lisa and the others was tarnished by the fact that the SDF-1 was still surrounded by the enemy armada. Debriefings and command conferences might go on for a very long while.
Claudia looked up wearily from her instruments as she heard one of the relief-watch techs say wistfully, "Boy, is that beautiful! D' you think we'll ever set foot on Earth again?"
The tech had brought up a long-range image of their blue-white homeworld on the screen before her.
Claudia was a tall woman in her late twenties, with exotic good looks and glowing honey-brown skin. Her dark eyes twinkled and shone when she was happy, and flashed when she was angry. Right now, they were flashing like warning beacons.
"Why don't you go ask the commander of that Zentraedi fleet? Go ahead, take a look at them! Maybe they've gone away!"
The tech, a teenage girl who wore her auburn hair in a pageboy and still didn't look quite comfortable in uniform, swallowed and went a little pale. Claudia Grant's temper was well known, and she had the size and speed to back it up when she needed to.
The tech worked her controls obediently, bringing up a visual of the Zentraedi fleet. They were all around the battle fortress, standing out of range of the ship's secondary batteries and lesser weapons. They were like a seaful of predatory fish-cruisers and destroyers and smaller craft in swarms, blocking out the stars. And farther away, the instruments registered their flagship: nine miles of armor and heavy weapons.
The tech gasped, eyes big and round.
"Still there, huh?" Claudia nodded, knowing full well they were. "All right, then, let's not hear any more about wanting to go home; not until our job's done. Understood?"
The tech hastened to say, "Aye aye!" as did the rest of the watch.
Claudia eased off a bit, looking around at the watch members. "There are a lot of folks depending on us. And I guarantee you, you don't want to know what it feels like to let people down in a situation like this."

In a far-off compartment of the SDF-1, three strange beings skulked and crept around. They were not Zentraedi, at least not any longer; they were of human scale. But neither could they fairly be called human, though that was the appearance they gave; until a few hours before they had been members of the giant warrior race.
The devastatingly fast and ferocious enemy mecha that had wreaked such havoc among the VTs-the one the humans hadn't seen before-had put this threesome aboard. The one thing they could accurately be called was "spies."
They had hastily retreated from the metal canister in which they'd arrived. The mighty Quadrono Battalion mecha that had, in its lightning raid, torn open a section of the SDF-1's hull to toss them inside had also (understandably enough) attracted a certain amount of attention. If the canister was found before it quietly dissolved, it might set off a massive search.
The smallest of the three, Rico, said, "Okay, let's start spying!" He was dark-haired and wiry.
The sturdy Bron, a head taller, said sourly, "But we can't spy in these clothes; they'll know who we are!"
Even though the Zentraedi military had little experience in espionage-out-and-out battle was what the warrior race preferred-it was obvious that Bron was right. The Zentraedi fleet carried no wardrobe in human size, of course, and so the three wore improvised, shapeless knee-length robes of coarsely woven blue sackcloth. The sleeveless robes were gathered at the waist with a turn or two of Zentraedi string, more or less the thickness of clothesline. Not surprisingly, the spies were barefoot.