Captain Takahashi Hironobu watched as the sled pulled the transport toward the first atmospheric lock. Low and squat, with tiny wings that looked like an engineering afterthought, the transport rolled past the blast doors and stopped to wait as the lock closed behind it. The metal blast doors closed slowly, taking fifteen seconds to slide into place.
How will they remember us? Takahashi asked himself. When their batteries run dry and their generators break and the technology that launched them does not survive to the next generation, will they believe in space travel or write us off as a myth? Will they see us as martyrs or saviors? Will the parents of some future generation teach their children that gods placed them on this planet and promised to return?
Takahashi thought about his wife and how much he missed her. He missed the children, too, of course. If the Morgan Atkins Believers had never declared their civil war, and the aliens had not invaded the galaxy, the Takahashi family would have remained on Ezer Kri. He would have grown old watching his children mature into adults and start families of their own.
If the Broadcast Network had not been destroyed, he could contact them. Even from New Copenhagen, light-years away, he could have told his wife that he loved her and seen how his children had grown. He wanted to see his family again, just once before he died; but Earth was at war again, and he could not approach the planet without risking everything.
Takahashi was not alone in the landing bay. SEALs and a handful of technicians had come to prepare infiltration pods for the attack. He watched as one Japanese technician and three SEALs carried a pod to a computer station. A SEAL attached a line from the computer to the S.I.P. as the tech typed on the screen.
Takahashi approached the technician, and asked, “Ensign, how many pods do we have?”
The man grunted without looking back to see who had asked the question. He casually looked up from his work, then snapped to attention. Fear showing on his face, he saluted.
Takahashi returned the salute and repeated his question, “How many pods are left?”
“Sir, I have not checked the inventory, sir,” said the technician.
Doing a credible imitation of his father-in-law, Takahashi growled, “Go check.”
The man saluted and ran.
Be polite, Takahashi reminded himself. This man will die in a few minutes preserving the colony.
Takahashi wondered if the man would mutiny if he knew the turn that his life was about to take. The captain had complete confidence in the SEALs, though. They knew what was coming.
The captain returned their salutes, studied their faces, then grunted, “As you were.”
The SEALs quietly went back to preparing the S.I.P.s. The bombs. They were preparing the very bombs that would end their lives. They were digging their own graves.
“Captain Takahashi, sir, we have 1,118 pods, sir,” the ensign said as he returned.
Ten of these should be enough to destroy a planet. We might be able to collapse a star with twenty of them, he thought. “Prepare one hundred pods,” he told the ensign. “I want them in place and charged within the next five minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. He saluted again and relayed the order to the other teams. There was something 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.”