The Clone Alliance

of his self-broadcasting battleships had appeared in my space. With some guidance from a flight-deck officer, I flew my transport into one of the Sakura’s launch bays.

As the rear doors of the kettle opened, I saw Yamashiro and two of his officers waiting to greet me.

Yamashiro was a short man whose black hair was turning white. He had powerful shoulders and a wide neck. His hands were covered with calluses. The calloused hands and his quiet confidence suggested some background in martial arts.

Because he was a politician and not an officer, Yamashiro dressed in suits instead of a uniform. He seemed to own an endless supply of dark blue blazers and red neckties. The officers beside him wore the midnight blue uniform of the Shin Nippon Navy.

“May I come aboard your ship?” Yamashiro asked in a jovial tone.

“Sure,” I said. “You don’t have to ask.”

“I would not dream of setting foot on your property without first asking permission. We spent several weeks looking for you. Do you know how we knew you were on Little Man?” Yamashiro asked as he started up the ramp.

“How did you know I was on that planet?” I asked.

“As my ship approached the planet, my radar men located the lifeless remains of a Unified Authority fighter carrier. One of them radioed me, and said, ‘Someone has destroyed a fighter carrier out here.’

“I told them, ‘We must have found him. Only Wayson Harris could destroy such a ship.’”

He was talking about the Grant. I had seen the ship blow up, but I was not the one who did it.

Yamashiro was no taller than five-six. He came up to my chest. His skin was the color of very dark tea, and his eyes were black as ebony. He looked around the kettle with a bemused expression, smiling as he examined the broadcast engine sticking out of the cutaway floor.

“My partner is hurt,” I said, pointing to where Ray Freeman lay on the bench.

“Ah, I see.” Yamashiro turned to one of his men, and said, “Takahashi, call for an emergency team.” Then he told me, “We have an excellent physician on board.”

Takahashi went to an intercom station just outside my transport. He spoke loud enough for me to hear his voice, but he spoke in Japanese. Moments later, an emergency medical team appeared. Yamashiro and I stood and watched as the medics bent over Freeman and loaded him onto a stretcher. Before leaving, one of the medics spoke to Yamashiro.

“He says that your friend’s burns are bad, but the cuts are not so bad. He has a concussion, but there has been no permanent damage.”

“Can they fix him up?” I asked.

“Of course,” Yamashiro said. “We have excellent medical facilities aboard this ship.

“Perhaps we should leave the team to attend to your friend,” Yamashiro said. “You and I have much to discuss.” With this, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket and lit one up. He did not offer me a smoke. We had spent some time together, so he knew I would not take one.

As we left, Yamashiro’s two-officer entourage fell in behind us, one standing a pace behind him to his left and the other one a pace behind and to his right. Despite my presence, his men stayed in formation.

If he sent either of his men ahead to open a door or fetch a drink of water, the other officer would step between the governor and me. That was the point. Yamashiro was the shogun, and these officers were his samurai, always standing one step behind and flanking him on the left and right—positioned to protect.

“We have been tracking you for several weeks,” Yamashiro said, as we walked. “You have proven a most interesting subject.

“At first we thought that you decided to leave the Marines and become a farmer. Then again, you must have changed your mind, or else you would not have left that planet.”

“Guess I wasn’t cut out for the farming life,” I said.

“We became confused when you flew away in a transport. There was no place to go in such a short-range vehicle.”

We went up two levels on an elevator and came out in an area filled with civilian offices. This part of the ship was brightly lit. Rows of cubicles stretched from one wall to the other. Men in white shirts and neckties worked quietly at their desks. I noticed women working in the administrative area of the ship as well.

“We soon realized you were flying to the broadcast station. There was some question about how you reached such a remote planet as Little Man in the first place. You must have traveled in a self-broadcasting ship.” Yamashiro paused and waited for me to confirm what he had guessed.

“That ship broke down,” I said. I neglected to mention that a suicidal pilot used it to broadcast himself into the hull of the Grant, the derelict fighter carrier Yamashiro’s men spotted floating near Little Man.

Hearing this, Yamashiro stopped walking and cursed softly, a pained expression on his face. One of the officers walking behind us quietly laughed. As he dug into his pocket, Yamashiro said, “Takahashi said you were stranded on that planet. I told him you would not have gone to such a planet unless you had a method to leave.”

“You give me more credit than I deserve,” I said.

Yamashiro pulled out a money clip and stripped off five bills. “Perhaps I do. I bet Takahashi fifty dollars.” He handed the money to the officer, who bowed and accepted it without a word.

“Sorry,” I said.

Yamashiro started walking again.

“And when you reached the broadcast station, you behaved in a most peculiar fashion. Some of my men thought that you had discovered a way to restart the Broadcast Network or at least a way to make the station operational. We watched you remove the broadcast engine.” He stopped speaking and waited for me to explain.

“We were trying to splice the broadcast engine into the transport’s electrical system.”

Yamashiro hissed. He dug into his pocket, pulled out another fifty dollars, and gave it to Takahashi, who absolutely beamed. Yamashiro shook his head. “That was what Takahashi believed. I thought maybe you hoped to create some sort of weapon with it.” He continued walking, but now he stared at the ground instead of looking at me.

“No,” I said, “I was just looking for a ticket back to Earth.”

“And you tried to modify a transport so you could use it to broadcast?” Yamashiro asked. He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Harris, that would be suicide. You did not have a broadcast computer. Even if you managed to make the engine work, you could not control the broadcast. You would die.”

The two officers walking behind us had been whispering back and forth. Now they stopped and listened closely.

“Yes, I knew that,” I said.

“My engineers tell me that you could not fly a transport through the Broadcast Network, the electrical current would atomize the metal in its hull,” Yamashiro said, sounding scandalized.

“I figured as much,” I said.

“So you chose suicide over the life of a farmer?” Yamashiro looked shocked.

“That just about sums it up.”

Takahashi, the officer to whom Yamashiro had just given that fifty dollars, said something in Japanese. I did not recognize the words, but I would have bet it translated to “speck” or something similar.

“Perhaps I have not overestimated you after all, Harris,” said Yamashiro, a wicked smile creasing his face. He turned back toward the officer behind us. “Takahashi did not believe that a clone such as yourself would have enough initiative to consider suicide. He bet me that you and your friend would not have flown out here if you did not believe you could restart the Broadcast Network.”

Takahashi sneered at me as he handed Yamashiro a wad of bills. “I bet heavily that you would rather die than live as a farmer, Harris.” Yamashiro counted the bills silently, folded them, and placed them in his pocket. He made no attempt to hide his satisfaction.

“Sadly, I will not get to enjoy my winnings. Takahashi is my son-in-law. My daughter will complain to her mother that I have robbed her husband of two hundred dollars, and my wife will make me give the money back.” I