Steven Kent - The Clone Redemption

“Good thing we’re leaving all nonessential personnel on New Copenhagen.”

“Where they will starve to death if they don’t suffocate first.”

“Where they will have a chance of surviving.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Hara. He gazed over the clone’s shoulder at the Yakuza who had entered the bar. Hara had as unreadable a poker face as any man on the ship, but his eyes would have given him away had it not been for the shades.

“I am here to let you know that you will not be joining the colony,” said Oliver.

He sounded so relaxed. He thinks he’s in control, Hara thought. If only he could see the men sitting behind him.

“Did Yamashiro send you?” asked Hara.

“No, I came on my own.”

“And I see that you came alone,” said Hara.

“I hoped we could keep this between us.”

“A gentleman’s agreement?” asked Hara.

“Something like that.”

“You want me to go down with the ship?” Hara asked.

“Consider it seppuku if you like.”

“You are not a pilot or a weapons technician, doesn’t that make you ‘nonessential personnel’? Do you plan on committing seppuku as well?” Hara could feel his heart racing. He could feel the sweat running down the outside of his chest and along his back. He was in control of the situation, and the SEAL still rattled him.

Calm as ever, Oliver said, “I’m staying on the ship.”

“You can commit suicide if you want. Why should I?”

“Because there will not be room for serpents in the Garden of Eden,” said Oliver. “The colony won’t have room for gambling or prostitution or vice lords. There won’t be time for gangsters or secret organizations.”

Hara nodded to the men behind Oliver. Watching his men rise to their feet and walk to the table, Hara felt a wave of relief wash over him. He laughed, an explosive mirth-filled bray. “You think I’m a gangster?”

“I think you are one of the losers,” said Oliver.

“ ‘ The losers’?” asked Hara. Seeing his men standing behind Oliver, he felt giddy. Taking this man, this inscrutable SEAL, had been so easy.

“ Ya Ku Za. Eight-nine-three, I believe it refers to a losing hand in cards,” said Oliver.

“Very good,” said Hara. “You have a good grasp of Japanese.”

One of the men laid a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and pressed the tip of his butterfly knife into the SEAL’s back. Corey Oliver did not flinch. He did not move. His eyes remained fixed on Hara’s.

“You have decided that I should die with the ship, and I have decided that you do not have the right to make that decision,” said Hara, adding, “If you go out quietly, we won’t need to eliminate witnesses.”

No more words passed between Hara and Oliver. While his men escorted the clone out of the bar, Hara returned to his table at the back. He felt no regret about what would happen to the SEAL. When you worked both sides of the law, the occasional murder was a survival mechanism. He did not have time to think about Oliver; he needed to make plans for New Copenhagen.

The SEAL had been correct, the name, Yakuza , did refer to a losing hand in cards. In Hara’s mind, it was the losing hand that made the Yakuza the winners. In his mind, the Yakuza were not the ones who held the cards, they were the ones who dealt them.

Hara’s feeling of triumph turned cold when he saw the next two men who entered the bar …a pair of SEALs.

With four of his men surrounding the SEAL and his knife pressed into the clone’s back, Ricky Oshiro should have felt confident. They moved silently down an empty service hall in a pack surrounding the SEAL. Two men led the way. If MPs or witnesses entered the hall, the men in the lead would scare them away. Oshiro and another man flanked the SEAL. The man bringing up the rear lagged ten feet behind the pack. He carried an S9 pistol in his hand. If the SEAL made a move, he would shoot to kill.

They turned into a service hall that led behind the mess area. Their footsteps echoed off the walls as they marched past the galley area.

The man in the rear was the first to go.

The two men leading the pack turned a corner. Oshiro and the SEAL followed. And that was it. The last man never appeared. When Oshiro looked back to see what had happened, the SEAL broke his arm at the elbow and wrist. The reversal happened so quickly that Oshiro did not notice anything until he felt the pain and his knife had clattered to the floor. As the SEAL went for his next target, he shattered Oshiro’s leg with a kick to the side of the knee.

The Yakuza were tough men, dangerous by nature and experienced fighters; but the SEAL was a demon by design. As Oshiro cradled his broken wrist, the SEAL slid his talonlike fingers across the neck of the man on his right, puncturing skin and tissue, then tearing out tubes. The man gasped and collapsed, uttering only a whisper. The sheet of blood that sprayed from the wound stained his shirt, the wall, and the floor around him. He died holding a hand to the wound as blood bubbled out between his fingers.

The men in the front did not respond quickly enough to save themselves. The SEAL swept an ankle from under the man on the right, breaking the joint and leaving him hobbled. With a cry of pain, he fell to the floor.

Only one uninjured opponent remained. The man did not run. He had a gun, but he knew he could not draw it fast enough to save himself. He kicked at the SEAL, but the clone ducked, spun, and moved away. The man chased, his arms guarding his face, his fists clenched tight.

As the SEAL came in range, Oshiro tried to kick him, but the SEAL dodged the kick, dropped to one leg, and struck the inside of Oshiro’s injured knee with a back-fist. With his right elbow and left knee broken, Oshiro fought back the pain as he rolled toward the knife he had dropped. The SEAL leaped over his shoulder and drove the heel of his foot into the wounded Yakuza ’s neck, killing him.

The uninjured Yakuza lunged at the SEAL, an aggressive mistake that ended the fight. Using his fingers like a knife, the SEAL drove his fingers into the man’s gut. Blood jetted out of the wound, but the SEAL had not finished. He slashed the man across his left biceps, then along his throat. The cut across the arm was disabling. The holes in his stomach and neck drained the man’s life in a matter of seconds.

The last of the Yakuza lay helpless on the floor. He did not have a gun, and the knife was too far away for him to reach it. He tried to drag himself to safety, but Oliver slid silently behind him, grabbed his head, and snapped his neck.

Only when the fighting had ended did the three SEALs behind the corner emerge with the body of the fifth Yakuza , the gunman. “Not exactly a textbook assault,” Senior Chief Warren said in the condescending tone of a teacher correcting an errant pupil.

“I just eliminated four men,” said Oliver.

“Yes, and it wouldn’t have been much louder if you had attacked them with a set of kettledrums and a bugle,” said Warren.

The other SEALs set to work without a word. They loaded the bodies onto a cart, which they rolled to the same wastedisposal unit that the Yakuza would have used to incinerate Oliver. While Oliver and Warren mopped the floor and cleaned the walls, the bodies of the gangsters burned to ash.

In less than three minutes, the SEALs cleaned the service hall and disposed of the bodies. They prided themselves on efficiency.

“Fifteen of my men are missing,” said Admiral Yamashiro. “What do you know about the disappearances, Master Chief?”