The primary cause lies in the unforeseen disturbances that have afflicted our target world—an anomaly that has, for the moment, arrested our advance. Some insist that my own negligence bears part of the blame; others claim that my warnings were not delivered with sufficient force. In truth, no one can hope to oppose the august Britai with mere words. You know as well as I that such a thing is impossible—at least until catastrophe reveals its full and terrible shape.
The faint radiance cast by the myriad stars shimmered above, quivering ever so slightly, as though trembling with fear. If stars possessed consciousness, they would surely know terror.
The fleet that emerged from the fold of space arrived in utter disarray, the result of violent fluctuations in a massive energy field. Spatial distortions and twisted coordinates would continue to plague them a little longer. Now, however, they had materialized at the carefully calculated rendezvous point along the Moon's orbit—like the primal fireball that ignited the birth of the universe.
Brilliant cosmic dust, blazing newborn stars, and countless streams of astral matter erupted from the rift in space-time, like sparks hurled from an incomparable celestial cannon. The incandescent torrents sped toward their destination with the swiftness of light itself, only to wink out of existence the moment they brushed against three-dimensional space.
A colossal mass, an alien aberration, careened through the blinding radiance like a raging comet consumed by flame. What followed was an unprecedented explosion—a hellish discharge of energy tearing the universe's fabric wide open. A furnace-hot, violent surge burst forth from the rift, growing in shape and power, swelling with menace. The Zentraedi fleet had arrived.
The flagship emerged first. Ranks of ravenous beams flared from its stern, illuminating its silhouette—nine full miles of armored dread, crowned by a jutting, irregular cylinder.
This warship dwarfed even the mightiest space fortresses. Fighter bays, mountains of armor plating, and near-unimaginable firepower rendered it a boundless engine of war. Proud and imperious, the Zentraedi armada fanned across the solar system, quickly locating their quarry—prey lying in wait.
Forged for war and nothing else, the ship existed solely to conquer, to struggle, to destroy; and the beings who guided it embraced that same singular creed as the purpose of their existence.
The flagship resembled Leviathan, that malevolent sea-beast of scripture—a nightmare given form. Its superstructure formed gills and bulging eyes; its detection systems, a spined vertebra; its secondary cannons, jagged fangs; the illuminated observation ports hundreds of yards away, a monstrous compound eye.
Behind it, the greatest fleet in Zentraedi history assembled. They had crossed countless light-years, leaping through distorted space to reach this place—like an armored horde of deep-sea creatures, so numerous their ranks could have filled an ocean. Scaled armor plates, painted in sinister greens, browns, and blacks, covered their hulls; only the weaker underbellies showed a sickly blue-gray.
They outnumbered the naked stars in the sky. Though advancing with meticulous caution, they were unmistakably the mightiest force the Zentraedi had ever fielded. Led by the flagship, they pressed on, wary despite encountering no foe capable of challenging them. Even a ravenous wolf, after all, may perish in a tiger's jaws.
And so, to hunt a wounded tiger, hundreds of thousands of warships pierced time and space and gathered behind the flagship. In his command vessel, the towering yet agile Britai stood before the dome-like observation window, surveying his command. Even among the imposing Zentraedi, Britai was a titan. Like all his battle-hardened kin, he possessed formidable strength and the prowess of a seasoned warrior. Evolution had marked the Zentraedi with their characteristic purple-red skin, the color of clay.
A beam cast a floating, three-dimensional projection of their target: a small, insignificant orb of blue and white—hardly worth a warrior's gaze. The sight filled him with disappointment.
Britai pressed his hand against his cold mask of crystal and metal, which covered most of his head. Memories of Zor's death surfaced—of the day the space fortress vanished. Even now, he felt the sting of defeat. Fatalist by nature, as all Zentraedi warriors were, he still believed destiny would one day place victory into his grasp.
"We have locked the search-beam onto the planet," he rumbled, his voice resonant enough to make the bulkheads vibrate. "But are you certain this is the source?"
His advisor, Exedore, gave a small, deferential bow, even though Britai was not looking at him. "Yes, Excellency. I am certain."
Britai pursed his lips. "They may attempt another fold jump to escape." The thought of losing his prize again was intolerable—but he did not show it.
"Impossible, Excellency," Exedore replied swiftly. "There is no sign of another hyperspace fold."
Savage, Britai thought, recalling the traitors of his race and their desperate flight. "The situation has changed drastically. They were forced to land, to repair the ship." He glanced at Exedore. "A reasonable explanation."
Exedore nodded humbly. "I concur, Excellency."
Britai often relied on instinct and deduction, and once again, he and Exedore—the sharpest mind among the Zentraedi—were aligned. He felt with certainty that he was correct.
He studied Exedore. The small, frail, almost grotesque scholar stood in stark contrast to the Zentraedi ideal: pale, gaunt, with protruding, lidless eyes and rust-colored hair. Yet this peculiar being embodied their laws and traditions—and on the battlefield, he possessed a worth rivaling that of any commander. Above all, his loyalty belonged wholly to Britai.
"Very well," Britai ordered. "Send a reconnaissance team to assess the planet's primitive conditions."
Efficiency ranked only behind loyalty and courage in the Zentraedi code. Britai seldom used the word, but already, two heavy cruisers broke formation and sped toward the unsuspecting world.
At the celebration, Rick stood in the shadow of the SDF-1. For the first time since the unveiling of the Veritech fighters, he could study one up close. Thanks to Roy's company, Rick slipped past the barriers and was even permitted to handle the machine himself.
"Wow! What a beauty—magnificent!" he breathed, unable to hide his admiration. Though he had no desire for military duty, nothing could quench his yearning to sit in that cockpit and take to the sky.
He ran a hand along the fuselage. "Looks incredible. How does it fly?"
Roy thought for a moment. "Well… why don't you climb up and take a real look?"
"You're not joking?"
"Nope—just remember I'll be in the back seat."
A special demonstration flight for VIPs would be held later, but for now, they were bending more than a few rules. Still, showing Rick the Veritech's capabilities might change his view of military life—and the military certainly needed pilots like Rick Hunter.
Rick climbed the ladder, studying the instrument panel with wide eyes. "This looks complicated."
"I'll teach you," Roy assured him.
Rick grinned down at him. "As long as you can fly it, I've got nothing to worry about."
"Don't get cocky," Roy snorted.
Once they settled into the cockpit, Roy handed Rick a red flight helmet crafted with Robotech technology.
Rick turned it over, examining the inside. "What is this thing? And what are all these weird parts?"
"Sensors. They pick up the electromagnetic activity in your brain. Think of it as a kind of neural reader."
The soft, pliable sensors wouldn't harm him, but the thought of hooking his head into them didn't thrill him. "And what does it do?"
"It helps you fly the Veritech, kid. Sure, you can operate it manually, but these systems let the machine do the heavy lifting."
Rick leaned back to look at Roy. "I saw your pilots perform earlier. But why do they need these… 'thought caps'? What's so special about them?"
Roy sighed. "The secret's still classified—unless the brass unravels their nonsense briefing. What I can tell you is this: you're sitting in a machine unlike anything humanity has ever built. Comparing this to a Lancer is like comparing a Lancer to a shoe."
"Because you're not just flying a Robotech plane—you're pouring your life into it."
—
High above the crowd, Senator Russo stood on the podium delivering his triumphant speech. Amplified a hundredfold, his words rolled across the sea of spectators. Banners snapped in the wind, carrying the exhilaration of completion through the air.
"Today marks a decade of anticipation fulfilled! The Robotech Program has become the economic heart of Macross City—and it exists for the benefit of all humanity!"
Captain Gloval stood beside him, surrounded by dignitaries, trying his best not to yawn or wave away his disgust. He knew all too well that Russo and his allies were here solely to seize credit and bolster their political ambitions.
Gloval glanced at the sky and muttered his reluctant approval. He had no patience left—every branch of the military had already taken their positions in space, awaiting the SDF-1's launch. But the politicians, hungry for every second of spotlight, had derailed the meticulously timed schedule.
As Russo droned on, a liaison officer approached Gloval. "Sir, urgent report from Spacewatch. They've detected a strange flash and explosion. Radiation readings suggest massive energy linked to anomalies in the solar gravity field."
Despite the heat, Gloval felt a chill. "The same thing happened ten years ago. You remember what arrived that day."
The officer nodded, masking his fear. "The alien ship."
Gloval steadied himself. "Confirm at once. Come with me."
Just as Russo prepared to introduce Captain Henry J. Gloval, the honored commander of the SDF-1, Gloval strode off the stage.
"Come back! You still need to speak!" Russo cried.
Gloval didn't even glance back.
—
On the SDF-1's bridge, chaos reigned. The women at their stations fought desperately to make sense of the sudden disruption.
"What's happening?" Claudia demanded, trying every method she knew to regain control.
"Give me the readings!" Lisa Hayes ordered. Alarms wailed, lights flashed, systems overloaded.
"All systems are activating—on their own!" Claudia cried.
The sealed, forbidden engines—the ship's super-dimensional power core—were awakening. Alien devices throughout the fortress surged to life, issuing indecipherable commands. The crew could only watch helplessly.
"The defense system is powering up the main gun!" Claudia screamed.
Deep within the colossal bow, titanic motors groaned as the twin arms locked into place like some monstrous tuning fork. The barrel pointed skyward—toward the vast waters beyond Macross Island.
Lisa's mind raced. The main gun had never been fired; its destructive potential was unknown. The test had been scheduled for deep space. If it fired now, the devastation would eclipse even a planetary crash.
The ground trembled. Alarms shrieked. The SDF-1 was aligning for a shot.
"Cut all systems!" Lisa ordered.
Claudia threw the master switches again and again—nothing. "It's not responding!"
A blinding flame erupted from the bow. The orange-red glow cast warped shadows across the bulkheads.
Between the twin arms, torrents of energy twisted and writhed like a living inferno, gathering at the tips. Sparks crackled, straining to break free.
There was nothing Lisa could do.
The door burst open and Gloval stumbled in, striking his head against the frame. They had built the largest warship in history—yet somehow failed to leave enough clearance for a tall man.
"Captain—the main gun's about to fire!"
Gloval took a moment to absorb the chaos. His expression told Lisa he understood no more than she did.
"I can't override it!" Claudia cried. "What do we do?"
Lisa learned a brutal truth in that instant: no academy prepares you for helplessness.
The energy climaxed—and released.
The earth shook as the main gun thundered like a chorus of demons. A river of destruction erupted outward, a blazing spear that tore across the sea.
Lisa braced for carnage—but the beam cleared the cliffs and struck the ocean instead. Water vaporized instantly, spiraling into monstrous clouds. The beam punched into the heavens, vanishing into the void.
Reports began streaming into the bridge. Macross City was unharmed. Her father lived. The world was intact.
But the Zentraedi were not.
Two heavy cruisers bore straight toward Earth, unaware of their doom—until the beam split in two and pierced them cleanly down the centerline. Armor, weapons, superstructure—all vaporized in an instant, their remains exploding outward in a blinding fireball.
Britai watched in stony silence, arms folded, as the two cruisers vanished.
"The ship is here," he declared. "Advance with utmost caution."
The Zentraedi fleet tightened formation and swept toward the blue world.
—
In the aftermath of the SDF-1's blast, searing heat spread across the sea and seagulls shrieked overhead.
Gloval stood beneath the great dome—the "windshield"—pressing his face close, scanning the rolling mist. A sigh of relief escaped him. The city was safe.
"Magnetic activity increasing," Sammie reported. "A fleet has appeared out of nowhere—only a few ships remain near the fold vortex."
"We've regained full control of all systems," Claudia announced. "Do you know what happened, sir?"
Gloval felt suddenly ancient—older than the ship, the island, or the surrounding sea. He suspected the truth, though he would not voice it here, not even among those he trusted most.
If he was right, the fate of the entire planet now rested upon his shoulders.