Steven Kent - The Clone Redemption

“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.

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.