“No, sir. We don’t know how they delivered the heat to the ship,” said Hara.
“Oh, so, that is still unknown,” said Takahashi.
“Yes, sir,” said Hara.
Hara noted the way that the SEAL continued to study the frozen image of the destroyed ship. The SEAL did not join in the discussion.
SEALs made Hara nervous. He tried to ignore the clone, but his eyes kept trailing back toward him.
Hara was not the only Yakuza on the ship. He had fifteen men in his organization. There had been more. Three had stolen drugs from the infirmary and tried to sell them. One had beaten a female sailor. All four men had disappeared. Hara believed that the SEALs killed them.
Hiding a body on a ship might be hard, but you could always dump it into space. When he looked into the cold, dark eyes of the SEAL, eyes hidden in shadows under that bony ridge of brow, Hara saw the eyes of a man for whom murder came easily.
Hara tapped the screen of his computer, and a new image appeared above the desk—the image of a wasted city.
“Is this a simulation?” asked Takahashi.
“No, Captain. This is a video feed from a satellite,” said Hara. “This is what we found when we arrived at New Copenhagen.”
The image showed burned buildings and streets lined with buildings that had been both charred and smashed. It showed a burned forest in which the remaining trees looked like giant pins stood on end. The feed showed a desert in which the sand had melted to glass. Hara explained some of the details.
The SEAL finally spoke. He asked, “Lieutenant, are you saying that the aliens attacked the ships and the planet with the same weapon?”
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 water. She was a pretty girl with long hair and a dark complexion. Before leaving, she smiled at Oliver and nodded at Hara.
Oliver touched the water to his lips. He might have taken a small sip, Hara could not tell.
“You aren’t thirsty,” Hara observed. “Then why did you come to a bar?”
“Why do you think?”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I’m like you, Lieutenant. I’m watchful,” said Oliver. His right hand sat on the table, the sharp fingers curled back, the knuckle of his forefinger knocking against the glass of water.
Hara was again reminded how much he disliked the SEALs. There was an order to Japanese society, a rhythm between authority and corruption. The SEALs disrupted it. Deciding to test the clone’s manners, Hara said, “We don’t see the kage no yasha in our bars very often.”
If he took offense, Oliver did not show it. He smiled briefly, and said, “Yes, we shadow demons prefer to remain in our lair.”
“You know that term as well,” Hara said, sounding both impressed and disappointed. “I was looking forward to translating it for you.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
Hara noticed that there was something different in the SEAL’s demeanor, and it made him nervous. Under most circumstances, the SEALs had an almost embarrassed air about them, as if they were ashamed to be seen. But Oliver was sitting in the open, his banter as comfortable as if he were family.
“What did you want to discuss, Master Chief?” Hara asked as he fumbled to slip the thumb of his left hand into the sleeve of his shirt. Hidden in the cuff, he had a panic button. By pressing it, he sent a distress signal to the other Yakuza.
“I came to let you in on a secret,” said Oliver. “Would you like to know what we talked about after you left the meeting?”
“As a matter of fact, I am curious about that,” Hara said.
Oliver spoke in a soft voice, a voice so calm and even that Hara had to lean over the table to hear him. The SEAL’s gaze fixed on Hara’s eyes.
In the past, the SEALs did not meet other officers’ gazes. There’s something different about him, Hara thought again. Something threatening. He rolled his thumb over the panic button again.
“But, Master Chief, isn’t that restricted information?” asked Hara.
Oliver did not respond to the question.
Hara watched as the door of the bar opened. With his back to that door, Oliver did not see the two brantooed sailors enter the bar. His eyes hidden behind dark glasses, Hara watched the men as they quietly slipped into a nearby booth.
“We’re heading back to New Copenhagen. Yamashiro wants to start a colony.”
“On New Copenhagen? That cinder of a planet might sustain life, but it would not be a life worth living,” said Hara.
“No one is calling it the Garden of Eden,” said Oliver.
“What about the ship they saw, the one that chased us away? What will he do if that ship returns?”
“We hit it with our best weapon,” Oliver said. “We have plenty of stealth infiltration pods.”
“You do realize that that was a Unified Authority ship. Does Yamashiro really want to fire on a U.A. ship?”
“We could always broadcast to Earth and ask the Unified Authority if the ship belongs to them,” said Oliver.
A man and a woman entered the bar. Hara did not care about the couple, but he was glad to see that there were three men with brantooed necks and dark glasses waiting outside the door, along with the two who had entered the bar. For the first time since the conversation began, the lieutenant allowed his thumb to drop from the panic button.
“I don’t understand why we are returning to the Orion Arm at all,” said Hara. “We have not completed our mission. Is the old man admitting defeat?”
“We still have a way of getting around the ion curtain,” said Oliver. “You’re a betting man. I’ll wager you’ve run a simulation of it.”
“Broadcasting the Sakura into their atmosphere? I’ve run the simulation. The ship won’t survive long. It’s suicide.”
“Good thing we’re leaving all nonessential personnel on New Copenhagen.”
“Where they will starve to death if they don’t suffocate first.”
“Where they will have a chance of surviving.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Hara. He gazed over the clone’s shoulder at the Yakuza who had entered the bar. Hara had as unreadable a poker face as any man on the ship, but his eyes would have given him away had it not been for the shades.
“I am here to let you know that you will not be joining the colony,” said Oliver.
He sounded so relaxed. He thinks he’s in control, Hara thought. If only he could see the men sitting behind him.
“Did Yamashiro send you?” asked Hara.
“No, I came on my own.”
“And I see that you came alone,” said Hara.
“I hoped we could keep this between us.”
“A gentleman’s agreement?” asked Hara.
“Something like that.”
“You want me to go down with the ship?” Hara asked.
“Consider it seppuku if you like.”
“You are not a pilot or a weapons technician, doesn’t that make you ‘nonessential personnel’? Do you plan on committing seppuku as well?” Hara could feel his heart racing. He could feel the sweat running down the outside of his chest and along his back. He was in control of the situation, and the SEAL still rattled him.
Calm as ever, Oliver said, “I’m staying on the ship.”
“You can commit suicide if you want. Why should I?”
“Because there will not be room for serpents in the Garden of Eden,” said Oliver. “The colony won’t have room for gambling or prostitution or vice lords. There won’t be time for gangsters or secret organizations.”
Hara nodded to the men behind Oliver. Watching his men rise to their feet and walk to the table, Hara felt a wave of relief wash over him. He laughed, an explosive mirth-filled bray. “You think I’m a gangster?”
“I think you are one of the losers,” said Oliver.
“ ‘ The losers’?” asked Hara. Seeing his men standing behind Oliver, he felt giddy. Taking this man, this inscrutable SEAL, had been so easy.
“Ya Ku Za. Eight-nine-three, I believe it refers to a losing hand in cards,” said Oliver.
“Very good,” said Hara. “You have a good grasp of Japanese.”
One of the men laid a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and pressed the tip of his butterfly knife into the SEAL’s back. Corey Oliver did not flinch. He did not move. His eyes remained fixed on Hara’s.
“You have decided that I should die with the ship, and I have decided that you do not have the right to make that decision,” said Hara, adding, “If you go out quietly, we won’t need to eliminate witnesses.”
No more words passed between Hara and Oliver. W
hile his men escorted the clone out of the bar, Hara returned to his table at the back. He felt no regret about what would happen to the SEAL. When you worked both sides of the law, the occasional murder was a survival mechanism. He did not have time to think about Oliver; he needed to make plans for New Copenhagen.
The SEAL had been correct, the name, Yakuza, did refer to a losing hand in cards. In Hara’s mind, it was the losing hand that made the Yakuza the winners. In his mind, the Yakuza were not the ones who held the cards, they were the ones who dealt them.
Hara’s feeling of triumph turned cold when he saw the next two men who entered the bar ... a pair of SEALs.
With four of his men surrounding the SEAL and his knife pressed into the clone’s back, Ricky Oshiro should have felt confident. They moved silently down an empty service hall in a pack surrounding the SEAL. Two men led the way. If MPs or witnesses entered the hall, the men in the lead would scare them away. Oshiro and another man flanked the SEAL. The man bringing up the rear lagged ten feet behind the pack. He carried an S9 pistol in his hand. If the SEAL made a move, he would shoot to kill.
They turned into a service hall that led behind the mess area. Their footsteps echoed off the walls as they marched past the galley area.
The man in the rear was the first to go.
The two men leading the pack turned a corner. Oshiro and the SEAL followed. And that was it. The last man never appeared. When Oshiro looked back to see what had happened, the SEAL broke his arm at the elbow and wrist. The reversal happened so quickly that Oshiro did not notice anything until he felt the pain and his knife had clattered to the floor. As the SEAL went for his next target, he shattered Oshiro’s leg with a kick to the side of the knee.
The Yakuza were tough men, dangerous by nature and experienced fighters; but the SEAL was a demon by design. As Oshiro cradled his broken wrist, the SEAL slid his talonlike fingers across the neck of the man on his right, puncturing skin and tissue, then tearing out tubes. The man gasped and collapsed, uttering only a whisper. The sheet of blood that sprayed from the wound stained his shirt, the wall, and the floor around him. He died holding a hand to the wound as blood bubbled out between his fingers.
The Clone Redemption Page 22