The Clone Redemption Page 19

  Sitting in his stateroom, the lights dimmed so low he could not read from paper, he rubbed his temples, stared into a dark corner, and thought about the honored dead. He pictured Captain Miyamoto Genyo, whom he had come to regard as the last of the Samurai. Yamashiro had admired Miyamoto more than any man he had ever known. He revered Miyamoto above even his own father. When the aliens had destroyed the Onoda, they destroyed a portion of Yamashiro’s soul. With the burning of the Onoda, much of Yamashiro’s strength melted as well. He had leaned on Miyamoto’s resolve throughout the mission.

  Yamashiro believed he was different than other men. Other men joked about having angels and devils on their shoulders; his voices came from fear and aggression. An angel and a devil would have been easier to deal with. The devil might have been persuasive, but you always knew it was lying to you. Unable to ignore fear or aggression, Yamashiro found himself performing a balancing act. Sometimes, despite instincts telling him to wait, he needed to pull the trigger and finish the job. Sometimes it went the other way.

  Now that Miyamoto was gone, Yamashiro Yoshi had to divine his own philosophy of war. Under Miyamoto’s tutelage, the admiral had come to equate honor with death in battle. Now, having seen three battleships melt, he’d come to realize that there was no honor in a pointless death. He was not afraid of dying in battle, doing his duty even when it might cost him his life. Having a chance to succeed, that changed the landscape of Yamashiro’s mortality. He did not mind dying during the invasion of the alien home world. Dying during the destruction of an abandoned base on a forgotten moon, though, that was pointless.

  Yamashiro did not mind laying down his life invading the Avatari. By extension, he would willingly ask every man and woman under his command to make the same sacrifice ... if they had a chance of accomplishing their mission.

  If death took on meaning in battle, Yamashiro realized he had dishonored the noble dead by assigning every dangerous detail to the SEALs. He admired the SEALs. He respected their courage. He would not deny the SEALs their chance to die with honor; nor would he deny his sailors that opportunity, men and women alike.

  The flashing light on Yamashiro’s communications console interrupted the darkness and his thoughts alike. He knew who was calling and why, his assistant had already warned him. Though he did not feel like having the discussion at that time, Yamashiro answered the call.

  “Moshi Moshi,” he said.

  “Admiral.”

  “What do you need, Captain?”

  “The master chief of the SEALs came to see me.”

  “So I understand.”

  “He says he has men who have been trained to pilot a transport.”

  “Yes. He left a similar message with my assistant.”

  “He offered to have his men fly a mission to A-361-B.” Takahashi sounded excited, like he had made a great discovery and expected Yamashiro to applaud. He waited for Yamashiro to say something, but the admiral did not respond.

  “Admiral, we don’t need to risk our men,” said Takahashi.

  “Hiro,” Yamashiro said in a cheerless whisper, “the SEALs are our men.”

  Takahashi did not argue the point.

  “Tell Master Chief Oliver that his offer is appreciated, but that on this mission, I would prefer to send Japanese.”

  Yamashiro knew that the SEAL would misinterpret this response. He would mistake it for prejudice, but that was okay. In his dealings with Illych and Oliver, he had seen how well the SEAL clones dealt with prejudice. The worse he treated them, the more happily they seemed to respond. Yamashiro did not think they would cope with his concern for their well-being quite so easily.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Location: Solar System A-361-B

  Galactic Position: Solar System A-361

  Astronomic Location: Bode’s Galaxy

  Before the destruction of the Onoda, the Kyoto, and the Yamato, Yamashiro considered the Kamikaze farewell an appropriate tribute. On this day, he did not see the two transports off as they left for A-361-B. The time for ceremony had passed.

  A few friends came to see the crews as they boarded their ships. The crews entered the launch area and noticed the deck more empty than usual. The only sailors they saw were a couple of mechanics bending over the open engine compartment of a transport. When the pilot looked in their direction, the mechanics turned away.

  “We’re flying a mission, right?” one of the technicians asked the pilot of the lead transport.

  “Last I heard,” said the pilot.

  “What relief. For a moment I thought maybe we had leprosy.”

  The open hatch at the rear of the transport reminded the pilot of a mausoleum. He took one last breath before putting on his helmet, held the air in his lungs, then sighed as it escaped through his lips.

  He placed his helmet over his head, and the technicians followed his example. They walked up the ramp and into the kettle, no one speaking. An even dozen stealth infiltration pods lay on the deck of the kettle, strapped along the wall, their polished tops reflecting the light from the technicians’ helmets.

  “The SEALs call them caskets,” one of the techs told the pilot.

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” said the pilot. He felt hollow inside. He felt scared. This was the part of the mission that worried him most, thinking he might reveal the fear he so wanted to hide. The pilot believed he would have better control once his transport left the Sakura; but at present, he doubted his own courage.

  It was not the pilot’s first mission. He’d flown Illych and his team to A-361-F, the fatal mission. He’d observed their Kamikaze farewell and remembered thinking the ceremony was a waste of time as he watched the SEALs board his transport.

  “Secure the cargo,” he told the technicians as he climbed the ladder to the cockpit.

  The pilot walked the narrow catwalk between the ladder and the cockpit, a man facing the destiny he could no longer escape. He walked slowly, his head down, arms dangling by his sides. In his heart, he hoped that Admiral Yamashiro would call off the mission; but he knew that would not happen. Now that the hatch was sealed, and he had entered his cockpit, the pilot found the resolve that would enable him to carry out his duty.

  “Flight Control, this is Transport 1,” he began, and he went through the launch steps as if they were the five stages of death. He contacted the pilot of the second transport to make sure his ship was ready.

  Flying at its top speed of thirty million miles per hour, the Sakura ferried the transport to a delivery point approximately three million miles off A-361-B. That would leave the transports with a long, slow flight; but that was how it had to be. If they launched too close to A-361-B, the aliens would surely spot the Sakura.

  When he received the message that the ship had arrived, the pilot purged the air out of the kettle and launched.

  Calling from the kettle of the transport, one of the technicians asked the pilot, “If the aliens made the air in the Onoda nine thousand degrees, what’s going to stop them from igniting the air in our helmets?”

  “Probably it’s not enough air,” said the pilot. “They have ignored our helmets so far.”

  “They had better targets last time,” said the technician.

  “No one forced you to take this mission,” the pilot pointed out.

  It was true. Per Admiral Yamashiro’s orders, none of the crew had been required to accept this mission. Before assigning pilots and technicians, Captain Takahashi asked them if they believed they could carry out their duty. They all said they could.

  “Are you kidding? This is my ticket to the Yasukuni Shrine before the SEALs fill it up,” said the technician, sounding almost serious. The Yasukuni Shrine was a Shinto temple in old Japan that served as a designated resting place for the spirits of soldiers and heroes. Tradition had it that the spirits of the Kamikaze went to Yasukuni.

  When the Japanese Fleet had begun this mission, only a handful of crew members had heard of Yasukuni. Now every man and woman in the fleet knew
about the shrine. Not many sailors claimed to believe the stories, but no one made jokes about the shrine the way they used to.

  “This is not a Kamikaze mission,” said the pilot. “Yamashiro would have given a farewell if it were.”

  “He should have given us a farewell,” said the technician.

  “You should tell him that when we return,” said the pilot.

  Both transports crews were made up of lieutenants. Captain Takahashi had decided that this mission was too important for enlisted men and too likely to fail to dump in the lap of a senior officer.

  It’s going to be a long mission, thought the pilot. He had six million miles to travel in a transport with a top speed of two hundred thousand miles per hour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Location: Solomon

  Galactic Position: Norma Arm

  Astronomic Location: Milky Way

  Liotta pulled the Bolivar out from under my feet. He left strict orders with all of his ships’ captains that they were forbidden to fly their ships to Solomon.

  As long as I traveled in ships belonging to the Enlisted Man’s Fleet, Solomon would remain out of reach. So I chose a ship that did not belong to the fleet. I took the spy ship. I captured it. As far as I was concerned, it belonged to the Wayson Harris Fleet, a growing armada that now included one shuttle, eight transports, and one scuffed-up Unified Authority cruiser complete with stealth shield and broadcast engine.

  Technically speaking, my crew was AWOL; but I was the highest-ranking officer in the fleet and the head of the new Praetorian Guard. I’d pardon the infraction. It was a small crew. I hoped no one would notice.

  “Admiral Liotta’s going to shit himself when he finds out we took this ship,” said Captain Holman, the corners of his mouth twitching as he held back a smile.

  “You’re not thinking of backing out?” I asked.

  “Not a chance. I just get a kick out of the idea of Liotta shitting himself.”

  I liked Jim Holman. He was casual. He was relaxed. He was also easy to recognize with that red hair and beard.

  We could have broadcasted in within a hundred thousand miles of Solomon, but Holman brought us in beside the Solomon broadcast station—a satellite that had fallen out of orbit and been left to drift as the planet it once circled traveled around its sun.

  He did not reveal his flight plan to me until after the broadcast. “Why exactly are we taking the scenic route?” I asked.

  “Broadcasting in beside a working broadcast station provides good camouflage,” he said. “If the Unifieds are out there, they’ll detect the anomaly but they won’t see our ship. They’ll think debris floated into the broadcast zone.”

  “Clever,” I said.

  “Basic tactics,” Holman said.

  I doubted Curtis Liotta knew about it.

  “Besides, I’m not supposed to be here. If Admiral Liotta knew I came with you, he’d throw me in the brig.”

  “I appreciate the ride. I just wondered why we took the longer route.”

  Holman was right, Liotta would have court-martialed Holman if he had known about the mission. “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Do you want the long answer or the short one?” asked Holman.

  “Might as well give me the long answer, we’ve got time to kill,” I muttered.

  Holman laughed. “I have a personal stake in this trip. I’m transporting contraband.”

  “You’re smuggling contraband to a planet that’s about to get scorched?” I asked.

  “It’s not really contraband, and I’m not smuggling it . . . and it’s not going to the planet exactly. General, I think you are going to like this.” He left the ship’s tiny bridge and motioned for me to follow him. “Let’s make a quick inspection of the forward cargo bay,” he said.

  I thought maybe Holman had brought a stash of booze for the ride. Though it would have taken a barrel of hooch to get me drunk, a stiff drink sounded good; and Holman absolutely struck me as the kind of officer who might enjoy an occasional libation while crossing long stretches of open space.

  “I wish I could take credit for this,” he said as he led me down the hall. “Scott Mars came up with the idea.”

  Lieutenant Mars again, I thought. What if I had left him on Terraneau? We would not have been able to reach the barges had he and his men not repaired this spy ship. We would not have been able to escape with the barges if his men had not hacked into the Mars broadcast station. And now he had some new surprise. I wondered if it would be as good.

  We passed a couple of sailors as we went down the stairs to the second deck. They saluted Holman, and he addressed them by name. He’d handpicked the crew for this mission, choosing loyal men who would think straight in battle ... men who weren’t afraid to take unauthorized leave for a good cause.

  “You came to save lives,” Holman said, still sounding casual and friendly. Judging by his tone, you might have thought he’d invited me for beers after a round of golf. “I’m here to end some.”

  “When did you take up with Scott Mars?” I asked.

  “When you made me captain of this ship.”

  Most of the lights were still out on the second deck, but Mars’s engineers had restored the heat and air. Maybe it was good that the lights were out; that way, I did not have to see the patches in the walls.

  Rather than rewiring the old lights, the engineers had placed temporary domes along the walls at twenty-foot increments. The domes glowed softly, producing enough light for us to see the doors along the corridor.

  “You know, General, I have to admit, I was surprised when you put Admiral Jolly in charge. He was a joke as an officer.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “He was a mistake.”

  “And ‘Curtis the Snake’ is more of a politician than an officer,” said Holman. He was out of line saying this. He was way out of line; but we were flying an unauthorized mission in a stolen ship. I decided I could overlook the impropriety.

  “From what I understand, Liotta is considering an early retirement,” I said.

  Holman stopped walking, and asked, “No kidding? Early retirement, just like Admiral Jolly? Do you think he’ll be killed by looters as well?” The man was smart. He’d figured out what happened to Jolly. At least, he had his suspicions.

  Holman started walking again. “Listen, here’s why you shouldn’t have put Liotta in charge. He’s not going to run into looters. If he thinks he’s due for an early retirement, he’s going to hide someplace safe, where no one can touch him.”

  “You don’t have much respect for the man,” I said.

  “Not much,” he said. “He’d have been a good senator if he wasn’t a clone.”

  “You mean for the Unifieds.”

  “Yeah, a good man for Unified Authority politics.”

  We entered a cargo hold at the bow of the ship. Like the corridor outside, the room was dark. Most of the light in the hold came from the low glow of dials along a far wall. Three sailors saluted as we entered. Holman returned their salutes, and they went back to work.

  The light, by the way, was not the pale white that shone from the domes in the hall. In one part of the room, the light glowed red. In the other, the light glowed blue. This was a cargo hold. It should have sat empty except for crates and supplies. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lumens, I saw equipment built into the walls and deck.

  “This is why I volunteered for this mission,” Holman said. “What do you think?”

  “You didn’t volunteer. I asked you,” I said.

  “Okay, this is why I agreed to come. That’s kind of like volunteering. So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” I said.

  “It’s a torpedo room.”

  “Mars built a torpedo room in a spy ship?” The ship was small and relatively harmless, designed for flying stealth missions and gathering information, not fighting battles.

  Having torpedoes made sense on one level, though. With its stealth generator going,
the cruiser flew virtually invisible. We’d be able to catch our targets unawares.

  “Those skinny things are torpedo tubes?” I asked. “They look more like peashooters.”

  Holman called one of the sailors over, and said, “Senior Chief, can you show General Harris the pills.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor said. It’s not hard to read how sailors feel about their commanding officers. This guy not only respected Holman, he also liked him. I could see it in the way he responded. The senior chief petty officer spun around and headed toward the twin chrome-and-iron tubes.

  “You’re right about the tubes, they are small,” Holman said, a hint of pride in his voice. “Standard tubes have a thirty-two-inch bore. These tubes have an eight-inch bore.”

  “You’re firing quarter-sized torpedoes?” I asked, fighting the urge to laugh.

  “Don’t blame me, I didn’t design them,” Holman said.

  “This was Mars’s idea?” Maybe he’s lost his touch, I thought.

  “He didn’t make the torpedoes; he just installed the tubes. Oh, and he told me where to find the torpedoes.”

  Nestled in the nearest tube, as snug as a bullet in the chamber of a gun, sat a three-foot-long torpedo with red lights etched along its shaft. The glow from the torpedo was the lurid color of blood oranges, and the lights along the tube matched the color precisely.

  The tube beside it held a torpedo that glowed ice blue. The senior chief removed the torpedo from the blue tube and brought it to me so that I could have a closer look.

  He cradled the ice blue “pill” as he carried it. Small or not, this baby would certainly kill everyone in the cargo bay if it exploded.

  As I inspected the torpedo, I realized that it wasn’t marked with blue lights; the glow came from the inside. The outside of the torpedo was made of some kind of thick polymer through which the inner core shone. The dark areas along that shaft were labels of some sort.