Steven Kent - The Clone Redemption

His chief navigator approached the table where he stood with Admiral Yamashiro and Commander Suzuki. All three men turned to look at him, but the navigator spoke directly to the captain.

“Captain, sir, the aliens have placed an ion shield around their planet,” said the navigator.

He pointed to a display showing a planet that looked like a ball bearing. Instead of clouds and continents, the planet’s surface appeared to be sheathed in a white gold sleeve.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all,” Takahashi said. He tried to appear unconcerned even as he felt his heart sinking.

“Yes, sir,” said the navigator. He saluted, turned, and walked back to his post.

Deafening silence followed.

Takahashi looked back at the image of the planet, a gleaming white gold ball surrounded by the luxuriant darkness of space. It looked like a gem, or possibly the eye of a demon. It looked both beautiful and evil.

“They’ve sleeved themselves,” said Yamashiro. “Just like they sleeved Shin Nippon.”

Frustrated beyond words, Takahashi looked down and shook his head. He felt a momentary urge to shout, but he swallowed down his emotion, just as he had swallowed down every other emotion over the last three years of his life. “The dice never break our way,” he said.

“Captain, sir, we still need to rescue those pilots,” said Suzuki.

“Rescue our pilots and fire our bombs,” Takahashi told Commander Suzuki. “We proceed with our mission as we planned it.”

He looked to his father-in-law for approval. Grim-faced as ever, Yamashiro met his gaze and gave him a single nod.

When the Japanese Fleet had first left for Bode’s Galaxy, Yamashiro considered the SEALs expendable, maybe even disposable. He also believed he could locate the aliens and destroy their planet without needing the SEALs’ services. After seeing three of his battleships destroyed, the admiral no longer held either belief.

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.

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.