The Clone Redemption

strange in the way the ensign spoke. Maybe it was an odd note in the voice, maybe it was the frightened look in his eyes.

That was when Takahashi realized that, like the SEALs, his crewmen knew that they were about to die. On some level, they knew. They might not have known the mechanics of their fate, but they knew how the mission would end.

The pods look like coffins, Takahashi thought as he watched SEALs wheeling S.I.P.s into the bay. He had never seen one up close, but now he saw that they looked like coffins, oblong, man-sized, loaf-shaped boxes with rounded corners and convex surfaces on all sides. They were black with a dull gloss sheen. And they had no visible engines, no rockets, no thrust chambers or manifolds. Whatever propelled them was concealed inside their smooth shells.

In the darkened landing bay, with a few lights shining in the ceiling and the low glow of the computer stations, Takahashi stood fascinated by the coffin-shaped bombs and the demonlike men preparing them. He thought, It will all be over soon. Just another few minutes, and it will all be over.

On his notepad he had a picture of Yoko, his wife. He stared at her and took courage in the thought that this mission might well protect her. He also knew that the only way he would ever see her again was in death.

Leaving the bay, Takahashi paused to take one last look along the darkened deck. He saw men who looked like demons scurrying on an errand of mercy and murder, working as silently as shadows.

The main hall of the lower deck was dark and mostly empty. Once Admiral Yamashiro had given them their ceremonial farewell, the SEALs disappeared into the woodwork. Hundreds of them must have reported to the Sakura’s four landing bays.

It took Takahashi longer to reach the bridge than usual. He found curiosities everywhere he looked. In the dim light, his sailors looked like ghosts. They floated up and down the corridors, haunting the decks that still had lights and walls and flooring.

He found the top deck crowded with sailors. Most of the men did not recognize him until he stood among them. They moped along the hall, whispering among themselves. All discipline seemed to have drained out of them. When he stepped close enough for them to see him clearly, they stood nearly at attention and saluted.

The bridge, though, was different. Here the mood remained businesslike. Takahashi entered the bridge, and Suzuki circled toward him like a bird of prey.

“Are we ready to launch?” asked Takahashi.

“We just heard from the landing bay, sir. The infiltration pods are charged.”

“Good. And our broadcast engines?”

“Ready, sir.”

“Where do you have us broadcasting in?” asked Takahashi. It came so easily now. He was talking about his own death, but he might have been talking about visiting old friends back home.

Suzuki stepped closer so that no one would hear what he said next. “I programmed the computer to broadcast us into the center of the planet.”

Takahashi thought about that. “Interesting plan, Commander, but it leaves no margin for error.”

“What could go wrong?” asked Suzuki.

Takahashi smiled, and said, “Something will go wrong. Something always goes wrong.”

“Yes, sir. Would you prefer to enter above one of their cities?” He had the coordinates. Their spy satellites had mapped the entire planet before the Avatari sleeved the planet.

“Someplace flat and low,” said Takahashi. “Even if everything goes according to plan, we will still need to avoid their tachyon shield.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Location: Planet A-361-B

Galactic Position: Solar System A-361

Astronomic Location: Bode’s Galaxy

The anomaly shattered the cold, bright sky at the edge of the city. One thousand feet in the air, the inside of the tachyon layer formed a perfectly smooth ceiling above the planet, a silver-white surface as bright as a sun shining through the gauze of clouds. Like the other ships of her make, the Sakura had a black hull that offered reasonable camouflage in space but stood in stark relief against the bright sky.

Not designed to fly among such atmospheric abstractions as wind currents and convections, the battleship fumbled in the air. Inside the bridge, navigators struggled to stabilize the big ship in the air, using boosters engineered for course correction in space. The ship jumped and dropped like a fledgling bird struggling to fly.

With his ship bouncing five stories at a time, Takahashi found it almost impossible to think, and his survival instincts took control of his brain. Even though he had come on this mission planning to die, fear and panic now filled his mind. Had he not been in his chair when the ship broadcasted into the atmosphere, he would have hit the ceiling above his head. To his left and right, men and clones who had been standing, now lay on the floor, some writhing in pain, some unconscious.

Holding on to workstations and walls to lock himself in place, Commander Suzuki fought his way to the navigation station. An experienced navigator, he squirmed behind the console and took control of the ship. Seconds passed. Tremors still rocked the Sakura, but Suzuki stabilized the ship.

Takahashi rose partway out of his chair. His mind cleared. “Landing bay …Landing bay …” he yelled into the communications console.

No one responded.

Takahashi tried to climb out of his chair, but his legs were weak. The acid-and-sawdust smell of vomit filled the bridge. Takahashi ran a hand across his forehead. When he looked at the hand, fresh bright blood covered his fingers and palm.

The door to the bridge opened, and in staggered Master Chief Oliver. He looked at Takahashi and asked, “Why hasn’t it happened?”

Takahashi put up a hand, waited a moment, then spit out blood and two teeth.

Corey Oliver had short legs, but he could run three fourminute miles without a break. Now he sprinted down the hall, trying to keep his balance as the deck rose and dropped beneath his feet.

Oliver had already shifted his mind into combat mode. Thoughts took second place to reflexes and autonomic judgment. A sailor lay on the ground in the fetal position, his arms across his stomach. Oliver leaped over the man, landed, and kept running without looking back. Another sailor stood leaning against a wall for support, a stream of blood pouring from the gashes along his left eye and cheek. He reached a hand out to Oliver, who spun to dodge him and just kept running.

The ship fell and bounced. It was a big bounce. Oliver held a hand above his head as the floor dropped from beneath him. His wrist and elbow slammed into the ceiling. The SEAL knew how to land on hard surfaces; bending his knees, balancing perfectly, he rose to his feet and ran to the stairs, already aware that he had dislocated his shoulder. Cradling his right arm with his left, the clone stumbled to the stairs, then jumped whole flights in his rush to reach the landing bays. He landed hard, bounded face-first into the bulkhead, turned, and jumped the next flight. A wounded sailor tried to stop him. Oliver pushed the sailor aside and found his way to the bottom deck. The lights had gone out. The deck was so dark that he would have needed lights had it not been for the genetic enhancements in his eyes.

The air smelled of fire, sweat, excrement, and blood. Men had died. Oliver saw bodies. With the panels removed from the ceiling and the walls, men had flown into girders and piping in the turbulence.

Oliver opened the first landing bay and hit the “panic” button on the communications panel. When he saw the destruction, his breath caught in his throat.

Showers of sparks shot out of holes in the walls. Bodies and equipment lay scattered like garbage along the floor. Two launching devices had fallen over, the “caskets” they held now scattered among the bodies on the floor.