“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.
“Maybe the Unified Authority has a program for cloning blind prostitutes,” Yokoi said.
Both officers laughed.
Austere old Miyamoto Genyo was the next officer to arrive. He stepped in the door, and the joking came to an end.
Miyamoto was the captain of the Onoda. When asked to christen his ship, Miyamoto named it after the final hero of the Second World War—Second Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda, who spent twenty-nine years hiding in a jungle because he refused to believe that Japan had surrendered. He would have remained in hiding until he died, but the government sent his former commanding officer into the jungle to tell him to go home.
Around the fleet, many people believed that the story would have been different had it been Miyamoto Genyo hiding in that jungle. Miyamoto would have hidden for twenty-nine years, just like Onoda; but when the retired commanding officer came to tell him the war was over, Miyamoto would have shot him for treason.
Last to arrive at the meeting were Takeda Gumpei, captain of the Yamato, and Admiral Yamashiro himself. They arrived together, talking like old friends. The hard-drinking, life-loving Takeda was Admiral Yamashiro’s favorite, and the other captains loathed him for it.
Admiral Yamashiro only gave these briefings when he had particularly bad news. For the last three years, all of the news had been bad.
Bode’s Galaxy had millions if not billions of solar systems. The fleet was prepared to search each system for the aliens. Every time they traveled to a new solar system, they discovered it was dark, “dark” meaning the sun had been expanded and killed. “Dark” meaning one of the planets in the solar system had been mined by the aliens and that there was no life left on that planet.
“We have located a new solar system,” Yamashiro began. “It has a living sun.
“Gentlemen, our invasion is about to begin.”
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Penning my author’s notes is one of my favorite parts of the book-writing process because it gives me a chance to create a snapshot of my work. Snapshots are interesting anomalies. They do not explain the past or give a hint of what lies ahead; they simply describe the moment. Look at a photograph of John F. Kennedy stepping off the plane in Dallas, and you see a young, handsome politician with a promising future. There is nothing to indicate that tragedy looms ahead.
Today is Thursday, March 25, 2010. I have just completed the first round of revisions of The Clone Empire. You, looking backward in time, are holding the book that from my perspective must still undergo another round of revisions.
I finished my rewrite at 7:23 P.M. and plan to go to sleep early this evening as I will begin work on a young-adult novel early tomorrow morning. I am also nearly halfway through the first draft of The Clone Redemption, book seven in the Wayson Harris saga.
And there is more good news. Chris and Ed, two of my closest friends, are getting married in a few days. I am traveling to attend their wedding. Two days after I come home from the wedding, I will fly to Hawaii to teach at a college. I will return home in June, just in time for my daughter’s high-school graduation.