Alright, big brother—you win this time. I'll attend your celebration. It seems I'll have to endure all those military aircraft circling overhead. But please, try not to make the program unbearably dull, will you?
High above Macross Island, an unusually rare aircraft descended along the flight path designated for Launch Day, gliding smoothly along the 5–7 landing route Lisa Hayes had assigned.
From this vantage, Rick Hunter finally saw the SDF-1 clearly, and he whistled. No news report nor written description had ever conveyed the true scale of this colossal giant. Two Thor-class supercarriers rested at the center of the harbor's fleet—immense vessels longer than a hundred-fifty-story tower blocks, yet still dwarfed by the titanic fortress that overshadowed them.
He spotted several of the most advanced fighters he had ever seen slicing through the sky—Robotech combat aircraft, as the newspapers called them. Whatever they were, Rick would never again mock Roy Fokker—after all, Roy had sacrificed the best years of his youth to this so-called Robotechnology.
After ten years of secrecy, the United Earth Government had finally agreed to reveal the miraculous breakthroughs on Macross Island. For Rick, it meant only that Roy no longer had to toil in silence; perhaps their old friendship could return to what it once was.
Rick guided his plane with effortless grace through the crowded sky. He needed no computer—his talent and instinct were more than enough to handle a landing approach. It was a matter of pride. He came from a bold, fearless family of aerial performers—daredevils who danced through the air in high-speed stunt planes.
He was only eighteen, yet ever since his voice had changed he had never once lost a competition.
His stunt plane—small, swift, and agile—was his own design. A single-seater with a spacious crimson cockpit, driven by a massive turbofan engine concealed in the rear. He called it the Mockingbird—a name perhaps a bit arrogant, yet perfectly suited to the troupe's undeniable rising star.
Brushing back the black hair from his forehead, he adjusted his amber visor and dove lightly toward the SDF-1 with afterburners roaring. The Robotech-built colossus was unforgettable… but the moment for pilots to greet the crowd had arrived; today the pilots were the stars, not this mountain of metal.
Far beyond, above lunar orbit, a shiver ran through space itself—a webbed tremor spanning an unimaginable distance. It was only the beginning. A vast, uncountable fleet crept toward Earth with deliberate intent, marking the day that would become a turning point in human history.
Below, Roy stood in the shadow of the SDF-1. He had no time to look up at the tiny stunt plane cutting across the air thousands of feet above the bow. Military staff were addressing the tens of thousands gathered, broadcasting through the public audio system.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, we present an extraordinary aerial demonstration showcasing the advanced, astonishing fighters derived from Robotechnology. Major Roy Fokker, commander of the Veritech Skull Squadron, will narrate the performance."
Roy was a well-known figure on Macross Island—widely admired. Dressed in uniform, his blond hair as thick as ever, he looked imposing and handsome. He stepped forward amid warm applause, saluted crisply, and began.
"Today, ladies and gentlemen, you will witness how we have transformed profound alien science into the keen spear and sturdy shield of our own defense."
Above him, six or seven Veritech fighters separated from the formation and began their maneuvers.
"Behold, the Two-Four Formation," Roy continued as the fighters entered their first sequence—engines roaring thunderously. "They are flying at five hundred miles per hour at an altitude of only fifty feet. They will pass each other head-on with mere yards between them. Robotechnology has made such feats possible."
He watched the crowd with satisfaction—their faces lifted skyward, enthralled.
But precision flying was nothing compared to the true marvels these fighters could achieve. Civilians had perhaps seen Veritechs transform into Guardian or Battloid modes, and Robotechnology had already been applied in restricted-area training and on the carriers Daedalus and Prometheus.
The people of Macross Island, Roy thought, deserved to be the first to witness the culmination of Project SDF-1 far more than any politician who spent others' money and never lifted a finger.
Today, rumor and speculation would be swept aside: the truth of Robotechnology surpassed imagination.
He grinned inwardly, anticipating the moment the fighters would streak overhead—the crowd would surely gasp in awe. Yet within seconds he realized something was wrong.
The people weren't gasping.
They were laughing.
Roy spun around. A gaudy little stunt plane—appearing from nowhere—had burst straight through the Veritech formation, scattering the elite fighters of Two-Four like startled birds.
An aerobatic toy!
"Oh no. No!"
He already knew who was piloting it. He himself had arranged the invitation—now he regretted it bitterly.
Snatching the microphone, he switched to the comm channel.
"Rick! Is that you, Hunter?"
The Mockingbird swept overhead, wagging its wings with smug delight. Rick's reply boomed through the PA system.
"Roy! Great to hear your voice again! They tell me you're a major now. Climbing that military ladder sure isn't easy, huh?"
Roy wasn't amused. "Are you out of your mind? Get that bucket of bolts out of here!"
He forgot that his mic was still linked to the PA—the entire crowd heard every furious word.
The laughter swelled. Roy stood on the platform shaking his fist at the tiny plane, the other hand gripping the microphone like Jupiter holding lightning. "Hunter, when I get my hands on you, I'll—"
Before he could finish, the microphone stand collapsed and struck his foot. Roy snatched it up with reflexes sharp as ever, though he couldn't for the life of him reattach the mic. Laughter rolled louder; some spectators were wiping tears from their eyes.
A young girl in the front row caught his attention—slim, lovely, with midnight-black hair and the blue eyes of a foreign star. She was laughing too, standing behind a smaller boy who might have been her brother.
On any other day Roy might have tried to catch her eye; now he could barely endure his humiliation.
At last he forced the microphone back into place. "Hey, Ed—put me back on the comm channel only, will you?"
A moment later the connection was fixed.
"You trying to make a fool of me, Rick?"
Rick laughed audibly. "There are no perfect fools in this world, Major."
Despite himself, Roy chuckled. The crowd, hearing only Rick's bold confidence, had already taken his side.
Roy struck back. "Still the same hotheaded brat, huh? But this isn't an amateur circus—my men are real pilots."
"Amateurs, hmm?" Rick drawled. Far above, the Veritechs climbed into a diamond formation to begin the next bursting maneuver. "Watch closely, Major. Let's see who's showing off."
"Cut it out, Rick—look out!"
The Mockingbird shot upward, grazing the platform so closely Roy had to duck to avoid losing his head. People screamed and dropped to the ground. Roy glanced at the girl again—she trembled, but with excitement, not fear.
He wheeled around. The Mockingbird was climbing, gaining speed. Its six auxiliary boosters flared open in a ring of fire, hurling the plane skyward like a rocket. The crowd roared.
Trailing fire, it surged into the Veritech formation, slipping flawlessly into its center. The fighters burst outward like a gigantic flower of flame.
The audience erupted; Roy shook his fist again—furious, yet undeniably proud.
Far beyond Earth, the vast fleet tightened its formation. Human sensors had not detected them. Soon, discovery would come—but far too late.
First contact between species had been made. The gulf between them remained immeasurable, and once again science was being twisted toward destruction.
The moment the Mockingbird touched down, Roy vaulted from the stage—forgetting he still held the microphone—and nearly tripped over the trailing cable as he sprinted toward Rick.
Rick raised the canopy, black hair fluttering as he pushed up his visor. "Hey, Roy."
Roy was in no mood. "Do you have any idea what you just did? Trying to get yourself killed?"
Rick hopped out, tossing his visor into the cockpit. "Relax!"
Roy hurled the microphone away in disgust. "Where'd you learn that stunt? Back when we were still in the troupe?"
Rick clasped Roy's much larger hand with a grin. "Just a basic power climb—you taught me that yourself when I was still a kid!"
"Ah." Memory flooded back. Roy grabbed Rick's arm as if to whirl him around the runway.
"Hey!" Rick protested, though he saw the old anger draining from Roy's face.
"I have to admit, your pilots are impressive," Rick said, straightening his silk scarf. "But not quite me—that much is obvious."
Roy made a face. "Save it. I know you won that 'amateur' contest last year."
"Not 'amateur'—civilian competition," Rick corrected instantly. "In fact, I've won eight years straight. And you—what have you been doing?"
"Fighting wars! Combat sorties, dogfights—I've spent most of my time killing enemy pilots. I've downed a hundred and eight aircraft. They even gave me a nickname—"
"And you're proud of being a killer?"
The old wound opened again.
Rick's father, Pop Hunter, had been a brilliant pilot but refused to serve in the Global Civil War. He had flown combat once, but never again—instilling his fierce pacifism in his son.
Roy stopped walking, fists tightening. Rick strode ahead.
"What did you say?"
Anyone else would have gotten a punch. But this was Rick—closer than family.
Roy swallowed his anger and caught up. "As a soldier, I have a duty in wartime."
They walked side by side—Roy in black and crimson Veritech gear, Rick in bright white and orange aerobatic colors.
They paused before a vending machine shaped unlike any Rick had seen—selling "Petticola." Rick bought two cans, handing one to Roy.
"You promised my father you'd return to the troupe when the war ended. So why stay in the military?"
Roy's voice grew distant. "After your father's crash… I felt responsible. And Robotechnology was too important to walk away from."
He cracked open the can and told Rick of his first mission on Macross Island—details still deeply classified, perhaps for decades to come. But he felt he owed Pop Hunter too great a debt.
"Maybe something in my blood changed," Roy said quietly. "I can't be sure."
Rick frowned, leaning against the vending machine. "Robotechnology… in the end, it's still just a more advanced killing tool."
A child's wailing interrupted him.
He lost balance—because the vending machine had moved.
The Petticola unit was rolling eagerly toward a tantrum-throwing boy of about seven.
"Cola! I want cola! You promised, Minmei! I want it now!"
The child wore a miniature Veritech uniform, which Rick found disturbing—war images forced onto children.
Roy scanned the scene. The young woman restraining the boy was the same girl from the front row.
Wearing a red skirt, she looked strikingly lovely. She held the boy back as the vending machine circled them like an overeager pet.
"Cousin Jason, stop it! I already bought you one—you can't have another!"
Jason refused, twisting away.
"Why not? I want cola—ah!"
To Rick's astonishment, the quarrel devolved into a bizarre tug-of-war—Minmei blocking Jason while the machine chased them in circles, almost alive.
Roy chuckled. "Robotechnology influences nearby mechanisms—sometimes even ones not built with it."
Rick muttered, "Robotechnology again."
"Jason! Behave yourself!"
"I don't care!"
"Maybe buying him a soda to lure him home would work better," Roy offered gently.
Minmei paused long enough to flash him a radiant smile—blue-eyed, though clearly of Chinese heritage. Roy, who disliked blue-eyed girls—and feared Claudia's jealousy—found himself nonetheless a little undone.
"Oh! You're the officer from the stage! You were absolutely hilarious!" she laughed before turning stern again to corral Jason.
"Come on—we're going home. Now, or I'll spank you!" She dragged him away as the vending machine, finally discouraged, rolled to a halt.
"Hey, Roy," Rick teased, "looks like our great ladies' man hasn't changed one bit."