The Clone Empire

“No, Takahashi-san,” Yokoi said, “you misunderstand me. I asked what we are doing, not what we came to do. We came to kill the alien invaders. We have been here a long time. In another few months, we will have been on this mission for three years. Have we killed any aliens? Have we seen any aliens?”

As Yokoi spoke, a waitress in a pink-and-white kimono came to the table to deliver another bottle of sake. The waitress’s kimono, the tiny finger bowls from which they drank, the knee-high table, and the tatami mats on which the four captains sat were neither practical nor comfortable, but they were tradition. So much of what they did in the Japanese Fleet was based on the ancient traditions that defined the Japanese. Even in Bode’s Galaxy, eleven million light-years from Earth, they sat on the floor and drank rice wine from cups shaped like mustard bowls because their ancestors had sat on tatami mats, made wine out of rice which they drank from tiny ceramic cups.

Takahashi could tell that Yokoi was drunk. His words came out in a mishmash of Japanese and English. It was time for him to return to his ship and sober up, but telling him so would go against tradition. Japanese men did not criticize each other for getting drunk.

“It’s a big galaxy,” Takahashi said. “Who knows where the aliens are hiding.”

For Takeda, the size of the galaxy was yet another reason for a toast. He yelled, “Kanpai!” and the rest of the captains had to follow. They murmured, “Kanpai,” and Takeda tossed his drink back and swallowed it in one fluid motion. The others brought their cups to their mouths, not sure if they would drink or drown.

By that time, Yokoi, the youngest and smallest officer of the four, was so drunk he could no longer support himself. He rested his chest and head on the table. His right arm was extended beyond his head, bent at the elbow, so he could hold his sake cup above his head. The next time he drank, he would raise his mouth to the cup instead of the other way around.

The waitress came with another bottle of sake, gave the captains a polite bow, and backed away.

“Three years? Has it really been three years?” asked Miyamoto Genyo, the captain of the Onoda. The oldest and most stoic of the officers, Miyamoto allowed the others to drink and chat while he watched with a disapproving scowl.

Yokoi, not bothering to lift his head off the table, swiveled around so that he faced Miyamoto, and said, “We left in February 2515.”

“So we did,” said Miyamoto. He was not drunk. He sat with his back straight and his head held high. He had white hair around his ears and temples, and he packed a few extra pounds; but Miyamoto Genyo was a prime example of the aging generation. He lived the codes of loyalty, honor, and tradition.

“Perhaps we are wasting our time,” he conceded. Coming from an old warrior like Miyamoto, that comment was tantamount to mutiny. Men of his generation endured any inconvenience in stony silence when it involved the honor the fleet.

Did I stop at seven bowls or eight? Takahashi asked himself when the call came in the next morning. It came at 06:00, and he was still lying facedown on his futon.

“Takahashi,” he said, trying to sound more alert than he felt.

“Captain, sir, one of the SEALs is waiting for you outside your office.”

Hearing this, Takahashi groaned. His head hurt, he felt tired, and he did not want to see a SEAL clone, not when he was already feeling sick. “On my way,” he said.

“Should I tell him you may be a minute?”

“Let him wait,” Takahashi said, and signed off.

He remained on the futon, facedown, for another minute, then climbed out of bed, stretched, and washed his face. He moved slowly, hating Captain Takeda for making all of those toasts and hating himself for not leaving early.

In truth, Takahashi saw no reason to stay sober. On this mission, every day was just like the one before. They had been out nearly three years, but to him it seemed more like three decades.

He put on his uniform and tried to walk upright as he made his way to the bridge.

Even after three years, his crew still flinched when the SEALs entered the bridge. The SEALs never threatened anyone. They conducted themselves in a manner befitting officers; but they were so damnably ugly, just the sight of them hurt Takahashi’s head.

Before leaving on this mission, Takahashi had met with Admiral Brocius of the Unified Authority to warn him that the SEAL clones would never fit in on a Japanese ship. “They are too strange, too different. They do not belong among the Shin Nippon.”

Brocius listened to everything he had to say, and answered, “You’re going to need them.”

Now, three years into the mission, the SEALs were useless cargo, and everybody knew it—twelve thousand trained killers with no one to kill.

The leader of the SEALs was Master Chief Petty Officer Emerson Illych. Like the rest of his men, he stood a scant five feet and two inches tall and weighed less than 150 pounds. His physique reminded Takahashi of the twelve-year-old son he had left back on Earth.

Everyone was scared of the SEALs even though they behaved themselves. Captain Miyamoto described Illych as having “the heart of a Samurai and the face of a Chinese dragon.”

The description fit. Illych’s nose turned up so far that it looked like a snout. His head was completely bald, devoid of whiskers and eyebrows. The bony ridge that ran above his tiny dark eyes was thick and sharp. And his skin …his skin was leathery with a dark gray tint. It did not look like it belonged on a living human.

Illych stood at ease just outside Takahashi’s office door, as if stationed there to guard it. When he saw the captain cross the bridge, he snapped to attention.

Takahashi returned the SEAL’s salute without looking at him. Along with revulsion, Takahashi felt a stab of pity for the SEAL and his facial deformity.

“What can I do for you, Master Chief?” Takahashi asked, holding the office door for him to enter.

“Captain, I received orders to report to your office,” he said in English. Japanese sailors spoke English and Japanese, the SEALs only spoke English.

“I didn’t send for you,” Takahashi said, not wanting to admit that he had still been asleep until a few minutes earlier.

Several messages flashed on his computer screen, including an urgent message from Admiral Yoshi Yamashiro, the highest-ranking officer in the Japanese Fleet.

Takahashi opened the message and read it.

“Well, it appears we are about to receive some important guests,” he told Illych. “Admiral Yamashiro is coming.”

And so they waited for the other officers to arrive.

Yokoi Shigeru, captain of the Kyoto, arrived first, looking pale and stiff, and sickly. He handled hangovers about as well as he handled being drunk. He managed to croak out a question, “Why are you holding a meeting at 06:30?”

“You’re going to need to ask Admiral Yamashiro,” Takahashi said.

“Oh,” said the freshly sobered Yokoi.

He did not even notice Master Chief Illych until after he sat down. He dropped into a chair, looked over, and started. “Master Chief, I am so sorry. I did not notice you when I came in.”

Illych smiled and said nothing.

The three of them sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Yokoi returned to his rant from the night before. He leaned toward the SEAL clone, and said, “It’s been three years, Master Chief, do you ever worry that we will not find the aliens?”

“No, sir,” Illych said. It was part of the SEAL persona. They never initiated conversations with outsiders. When outsiders asked them questions, they kept their answers brief.

“You never feel discouraged?” Yokoi asked.

“No, sir,” said Illych.

Yokoi turned to Takahashi and spoke in Japanese. He asked, “Do you think they like women?”

Takahashi responded in Japanese, “With a face like his, perhaps he likes bats.”

Illych sat content, staring straight ahead and ignoring the conversation. He sat with his legs crossed, his talonlike fingers clasped over one of his knees.