The Clone Redemption

Hara answered in an indifferent tone. After all, killer clone or human, the SEAL was still an enlisted man. He said, “That seems rather obvious, Master Chief.”

Hara called the SEAL by rank to remind him of his place. Deep in his heart, he hated the SEAL. In Japanese society, the Yakuza and the police enjoyed a mostly peaceful coexistence. The SEALs were not Japanese, and Hara resented their intrusion.

“How is that possible?” asked Yamashiro.

Now that he was dealing with authority, Hara took a mental step back. He said, “Sir, we have no idea what kind of weapon they have used, but it generates a lot of heat within an atmosphere. I used my computer to simulate the destruction on New Copenhagen, and it is in keeping with what happened to our ships.”

“Show us the simulation, Lieutenant,” said Yamashiro.

Hara shook his head, and said, “I apologize, sir, but I did not create an animated model.”

“What does that mean?” asked Yamashiro.

“The simulation predicted what might happen to a planet if you raised its temperature to ten thousand degrees without generating a visual display,” said Hara.

“What would happen?” asked Yamashiro. He seemed to become more intense by the second.

“You would incinerate plants; melt streets; melt anything made of plastic, steel, or glass; evaporate streams.” He ran the video feed of New Copenhagen, then stopped it on an image of a broken skyscraper.

“This building is broken down to its base. It appears to have been crushed. In my computer simulation, the high temperatures caused the planet’s atmosphere to rise like a hot-air balloon. Buildings that survived the heat were smashed when the temperature returned to normal, and the atmosphere fell back into place.”

“Would it be possible for someone to survive on that planet?” Yamashiro asked in Japanese.

“Survive?” Hara sounded incredulous. “Admiral, these temperatures …”

“No. Not during the attack, now. If we placed people on New Copenhagen, would they survive?” Yamashiro asked the question in Japanese, glancing over at the SEAL, who did not appear to be listening.

“There are no plants to generate oxygen. I’m not sure if you could plant crops in this soil. The temperatures may have burned the nutrients out of the soil. That’s just a guess.

“You probably would not have to worry about germs,” Hara said, thinking to himself that as far as he could tell, the planet had been sterilized. He added, “This is not my area of expertise, sir.”

Continuing to speak in Japanese, Yamashiro said, “Yes. Yes. I know. Lieutenant, we no longer have the luxury of sticking to our specialties. I would not be the admiral of a one-ship fleet if we did.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hara.

“In your opinion, Lieutenant, could a colony survive on that planet?”

Hara thought for several seconds. He ran a hand along his jaw, closed his eyes, muttered to himself, then shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

“What about a breathable atmosphere?” asked Yamashiro.

“I have no way of knowing, sir.”

His frustration showing, Yamashiro growled, “What would be your best guess?”

“Sir, your opinion would be as good as mine.”

“What do you know?” asked Yamashiro.

Hara said, “The radiation levels on the planet are manageable. My simulation predicted no rise in radiation.”

Yamashiro nodded, and said, “From what you are not telling me, it appears that a colony might stand a chance of survival.”

“Yes, sir. It might.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Life on the Sakura was divided into three shifts. Most of the crew worked eight-hour shifts; they had eight hours to eat, drink, clean their billets, and relax; and they had eight hours to sleep.

Lieutenant Tatsu Hara lived by his own schedule. He put in his full eight-hour work detail, sometimes extending his shifts to twelve when needed. A man of infinite energy, Hara only slept three to four hours per day. He spent the rest of his time running his businesses.

The Sakura had a “love hotel.” It was not a brothel. Hara and the other Yakuza had originally planned to convert it into one, but sailors who tried to push drugs or prostitution disappeared along with their enterprises. Now the hotel simply rented rooms by the hour, and Hara did not get a cut.

He still ran the hotel. Knowing who reserved the rooms and knowing which officers slept with which women brought Hara more power than profit. A less patient man might have abandoned the hotel, but Hara did not measure success by money alone.

He and the fifteen remaining Yakuza made plenty of money from the casino, the Pachinko parlors, the dance club, and the five bars that they ran. They would have preferred to own these businesses, but operating them was profitable enough.

Hara sat in the back of his most profitable bar thinking about the future. Unlike the officers’ clubs, this bar was dark and quiet, a romantic place only a few doors from the hourly hotel. Soft music played over the speakers, hanging in the air like the scent of perfume. The door opened, and in the light from the hall, he saw the silhouette of a short man with a bald head.

The SEALs did not walk like other men; they glided with the sinewy grace of a cat on the prowl. He was alone. No woman. No friends. He walked into the bar, selected a small open table, and sat facing Hara.

Wearing dark glasses that did not block out light but did hide his eyes, Hara continued to watch the SEAL and the clone stared back at him. A second passed, and Hara walked over to the table. He said, “Master Chief, I’m surprised to see you here.”

Oliver smiled, rose to his feet though he did not salute, and said, “Lieutenant, I hope I am welcome here.”

“It’s an open bar, Master Chief,” said Hara. “Men, women, officers, enlisted men, it’s open to everyone.”

“Even clones?” asked Oliver.

“Are you waiting for a date?” Hara asked, though he knew the answer. The SEALs did not fraternize. He sometimes wondered if they had sex with each other though he doubted it. They were saints. They were demons. They were the kage no yasha.

“No,” said Oliver.

“Mind if I join you?” asked Hara.

The SEAL waved to the table, and they both took their seats. Though he prided himself on knowing everything that happened on the Sakura, Hara did not know what decisions Yamashiro had made after he left the briefing that afternoon.

Hara signaled to the waitress and ordered two glasses of single-malt Scotch, speaking in Japanese. Then he turned to the SEAL. Still speaking in Japanese, he asked, “Do you want yours on ice?”

When the SEAL pretended not to understand him, Hara said, “I know you speak Japanese.”

Oliver smiled at the waitress, and said, “Mizu de ii desu.”

She bowed, thanked him in Japanese, and went to get the drinks.

“Water?” asked Hara.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” said Oliver.

“When did you learn to speak Japanese?” asked Hara.

“After we left Earth,” Oliver said. “How did you know I could speak?”

“I watch more carefully than Admiral Yamashiro or Captain Takahashi.”

“You watch me more closely?”

“I watch everything more closely.”

The waitress returned. She gave Hara a five-finger tumbler with Scotch over ice. She gave Oliver a glass of