The Clone Redemption

Location: New Copenhagen

Galactic Position: Orion Arm

Astronomic Location: Milky Way

Thirty-five stealth infiltration pods hovered in space, ten thousand miles away from the Sakura forming a loose blockade around the ship. The technicians controlling the pods kept their field-resonance engines fully charged and on the brink of overcharging. They were like grenades, keys pulled and ready to throw.

Theoretically, the enemy ships only needed to venture within five thousand miles of one of the pods for the trap to work. When your bombs explode with enough force to shatter small planets, marksmanship is not really an issue.

Within an hour of the Sakura drifting into place above New Copenhagen, three ships streaked into view. They glowed a brilliant orange gold in the darkness of space, like fireflies flying in formation. They might have broadcasted in millions of miles away or they might have been lying in wait. Sakura security never detected their anomalies.

Three anomalies appeared behind the first ships, signaling the arrival of three more ships. Another trio of ships appeared on the opposite side of the Sakura.

Watching the nine ships advance, Yamashiro said, “First wave, support wave, third wave to flank, cutting off retreat …Those must be Unified Authority ships, they are using the same tactics they used against the Mogats.

“Who are they at war with? Why attack us?”

“Are they responding to our signal?” asked Takahashi.

“No, sir.”

“Keep trying,” said Takahashi.

Another few seconds passed, and he asked, “They’re still not responding?”

“No, sir.”

“Are they in range of the pods?” asked Takahashi.

“Almost, sir. They’re flying very slowly. They’ve dropped down under one thousand miles per hour.”

“Maybe they want us to escape,” Yamashiro said. He had already begun the transformation from military leader back to statesman.

“Still no response?” asked Takahashi, now getting nervous. Knowing that destroying the ships could start a war between the Unified Authority and New Copenhagen, Takahashi wanted to avoid bloodshed.

“The first three ships are in range of the pods,” said the weapons officer.

“Still no response?” Takahashi asked one last time.

“Captain, we need to …” Yamashiro did not get the chance to finish his sentence.

Takahashi knew his job. He took a deep breath, and said, “Fire the nearest pod.” He spoke in English. It was his bridge now; ceremony and tradition had never interested him. He and his crew spoke Japanese, but they spoke English more fluently.

To the naked eye, it looked like nothing happened. If there was a flash from the explosion, it was so small that nothing showed on the monitors. There was no visible shock wave, no wall of debris. An uninformed observer might have thought that the three glowing ships had simply malfunctioned.

What struck Takahashi was not the destruction of three ships with a single weapon but the completeness of their demise. Torpedoes left holes. Sometimes, they set off chain reactions. Sometimes, small parts of the hull broke off.

That was not what happened to these ships. In the invisible wake of the explosion, the three glowing ships slid sideways like boats caught by a powerful wave. Their bows continued to face toward the Sakura as they skittered to the side and began shedding parts. Their shields disappeared, and the armor fell from their hulls in flakes, revealing skeletons of twisted girders. Because they were in space, and there was nothing to stop them, the U.A. ships continued sliding sideways until the Sakura’s telemetry could no longer track them.

For a moment, the universe seemed to freeze.

This wasn’t a naval battle. It was like crushing an insect, thought Takahashi.

“The other ships are leaving, sir.”

On his tactical display, Takahashi watched six glowing ships disappear into anomalies.

Admiral Yamashiro and Captain Takahashi stood in the control tower of one of the landing bays. Below them, lines of sailors, both men and women, marched onto transports. They wore uniforms and carried duffel bags. They moved slowly onto the transports, heads down, steps short. “It’s like watching prisoners on their way to a firing squad,” said Yamashiro. “They think they are the ones who are going to die.”

Takahashi asked, “Is living easier than dying?”

Yamashiro said, “Your crew would mutiny if they knew what you planned. You, Hironobu, you are the brave one. You know where you are going and what you need to do.”

“My mission will end three minutes after it begins. There’s no need for bravery,” said Takahashi. He did not look at his father-in-law as he said this. He stared away, watching the lines of sailors boarding the transports. Lifeboats, he thought. These men and women will escape my sinking ship.

For the first time in three years, Yamashiro smiled at his son-in-law. Speaking in Japanese, he said, “You cannot convince me that flying a Kamikaze mission over an alien planet is the act of a coward.”

There is much you do not know, thought Takahashi. Takahashi Hironobu, who could not return to his wife on Earth and was about to lose his ship, took comfort in the thought of a quick death.

For the first time in his short life, Senior Chief Jeff Harmer raised his voice as he asked, “Me? Why do I have to go?”

In his five short years of existence—other military clones were raised in orphanages, but the SEALs “crawled out of the tube” with the bodies and minds of twenty-one-year-old men—Corey Oliver had never seen a SEAL show such insubordination.

They convened in a small room, the ten senior chiefs sitting in a single row of chairs, all looking exactly alike. Each man was short, five feet and two inches tall, with a charcoalcolored tint to his skin and a bald head. We really do look like shadow demons, thought Oliver.

“Are you refusing to follow a direct command?” he asked. Just two weeks earlier, he had been a senior chief petty officer as well. Now he was a master chief, the commander of the SEALs, but he was no older or more experienced than the ten remaining senior chiefs. He had not performed his duties better than they had. In his mind, the selection process had been arbitrary, not by merit.

Looking sorry for his outburst, Harmer lowered his eyes, and said, “No, Master Chief.” Judging by his posture, he might even have called the master chief, “sir,” but that would not have been appropriate. The SEALs were enlisted men, they did not refer to each other as, “sir.”

“It’s just, Master Chief …Why are you assigning me this duty?” asked Harmer.

Oliver smiled, but he did not respond in a soft voice. “What is your MOS, Senior Chief?” he asked.

“Special Reconnaissance,” Harmer said, sounding like a child caught in a lie.

“And your training included?” asked Oliver.

“Survival tactics.”

“And?”

“Geographical assessment.”

“And?”

“And assault planning and damage assessment.”

“You have an appropriate skill set, so you go,” Oliver said. “You and a company of SEALs will work as survival specialists, policemen, and drill sergeants. Once a sustainable living situation is achieved, you will train the colonists in defensive tactics.”

“Nursemaids,” said Harmer.

“Protectors,” said Oliver, his voice every bit as grim as the words he said. “You will report to your transport in