All You Need Is Kill

1

When the bullets start flying, it's only a matter of time before fear catches up with a soldier.

There you are, steel death whizzing past in the air.

Distant shells thunder low and muddy, a hollow sound you feel more than hear. The close ones ring high and clear. They scream with a voice that rattles your teeth, and you know they're the ones headed for you. They cut deep into the ground, throwing up a veil of dust that hangs there, waiting for the next round to come ripping through.

Thousands of shells, burning through the sky—slices of metal no bigger than your finger—and it only takes one to kill you. Only takes one to turn your best buddy into a steaming side of meat.

Death comes quick, in the beat of a heart, and he ain't picky about who he takes.

The soldiers he takes quick—before they know what hit 'em—they're the lucky ones. Most die in agony, their bones shattered, their organs shredded, leaking a sea of blood onto the ground. They wait alone in the mud for Death to steal up behind them and wring out the last drops of life with his icy hands.

If there's a heaven, it's a cold place. A dark place. A lonely place.

I'm terrified.

I grip the trigger with stiff fingers; my arms shake as I send a rain of scorching steel down onto the enemy. The rifle kicks as I fire it. Vunk. Vunk. Vunk. A beat steadier than my heart. A soldier's spirit isn't in his body. It's in his weapon. The barrel warms until it glows, the heat turning fear into anger.

Fuck the brass and their fucking pathetic excuse for air support!

Fuck the suits and their plans that aren't worth a damn once the shit starts flying!

Fuck the artillery for holding back on the left flank!

Fuck that bastard who just got himself killed!

And more than all of 'em, fuck anything and everything aiming at me! Wield your anger like a steel fist and smash in their faces.

If it moves, fuck it!

I have to kill them all. Stop them from moving.

A scream found its way through my clenched teeth.

My rifle fires 450 20mm rounds per minute, so it can burn through a clip fast. But there's no point holding back. It don't matter how much ammo you have left when you're dead. Time for a new magazine.

"Reload!"

The soldier I was shouting to was already dead. My order died in the air, a meaningless pulse of static. I squeezed my trigger again.

My buddy Yonabaru caught one of the first rounds they fired back—one of those javelins. Hit him straight on, tore right through his Jacket. The tip came out covered in blood, oil, and some unidentifiable fluids. His Jacket did a danse macabre for about ten seconds before it finally stopped moving.

There was no use calling a medic. He had a hole just below his chest nearly two centimeters across, and it went clean through his back. The friction had seared the wound at the edges, leaving a dull orange flame dancing around the opening. It all happened within the first minute after the order to attack.

He was the kind of guy that liked to pull rank on you over the stupidest shit, or tell you who'd done it in a whodunit before you'd finished the first chapter. But he didn't deserve to die.

My platoon—146 men from the 17th Company, 3rd Battalion, 12th Regiment, 301st Armored Infantry Division—was sent in to reinforce the northern end of Kotoiushi Island. They lifted us in by chopper to ambush the enemy's left flank from the rear. Our job was to wipe out the runners when the frontal assault inevitably started to push them back.

So much for inevitable.

Yonabaru died before the fighting even started.

I wondered if he suffered much.

By the time I realized what was going on, my platoon was smack dab in the middle of the battle. We were catching fire from the enemy and our own troops both. All I could hear were screams, sobbing, and "Fuck!" Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The profanities were flying as thick as the bullets. Our squad leader was dead. Our sergeant was dead. The whir of the rotors on the support choppers was long gone. Comms were cut off. Our company had been torn to shreds.

The only reason I was still alive was because I'd been taking cover when Yonabaru bought it.

While the others stood their ground and fought, I was hiding in the shell of my Jacket, shaking like a leaf. These power suits are made of a Japanese composite armor plating that's the envy of the world. They cover you like white on rice. I figured that if a shell did make it past the first layer, it'd never make it past the second. So if I stayed out of sight long enough, the enemy would be gone when I came out. Right?

I was scared shitless.

Like any recruit fresh out of boot camp I could fire a rifle or a pile driver, but I still didn't know how to do it worth a damn. Anyone can squeeze a trigger. Bang! But knowing when to fire, where to shoot when you're surrounded? For the first time I realized I didn't know the first thing about warfare.

Another javelin streaked past my head.

I tasted blood in my mouth. The taste of iron. Proof that I was still alive.

My palms were clammy and slick inside my gloves. The vibrations of the Jacket told me the battery was almost out of juice. I smelled oil. The filter was on its last legs, and the stench of the battlefield was fighting its way into my suit, the smell of enemy corpses like the smell of crumpled leaves.

I hadn't felt anything below my waist for a while. It should have hurt where they hit me, but it didn't. I didn't know whether that was good or bad. Pain lets you know you're not dead yet. At least I didn't have to worry about the piss in my suit.

Out of fuel—air grenades. Only thirty—six 20mm slugs left. The magazine would be empty in five seconds. My rocket launcher—which they gave each of us only three rockets for anyway—got itself lost before I could even fire the damn thing. My head—mounted camera was wasted, the armor on my left arm was shredded, and even at full throttle the Jacket was only outputting at 40 percent. Miraculously, the pile driver on my left shoulder had survived without a scratch.

A pile driver is a close—combat weapon that uses an explosive charge to fire tungsten carbide spikes—only good against enemies within arm's reach. The powder cartridges it fires are each as big as a man's fist. At a ninety—degree angle of impact, the only thing that can stand up to it is the front armor plating on a tank. When they first told me its magazine only held twenty rounds, I didn't think anyone could live long enough to use even that many. I was wrong.

Mine had four rounds left.

I had fired sixteen times, and missed fifteen—maybe sixteen.

The heads—up display in my suit was warped. I couldn't see a goddamn thing where it was bent. There could be an enemy standing right in front of me and I'd never know it.

They say a vet who is used to the Jacket can get a read on his surroundings without even using the camera. Takes more than eyes in battle. You have to feel the impact passing through layers of ceramic and metal and into your body. Read the pull of the trigger. Feel the ground through the soles of your boots. Take in numbers from a kaleidoscope of gauges and know the state of the field in an instant. But I couldn't do any of that. A recruit in his first battle knows shit—all.

Breathe out. Breathe in.

My suit was rank with sweat. A terrible smell. Snot was seeping from my nose, but I couldn't wipe it.

I checked the chronometer beside my display. Sixty—one minutes had passed since the battle started. What a load of shit. It felt like I'd been fighting for months.

I looked left, right. Up, down. I made a fist inside one glove. Can't use too much strength, I had to remind myself. Overdo it, and my aim would drift low.

No time to check the Doppler. Time to fire and forget.

Thak thak thak thak thak!

A cloud of dust rose.

The enemy's rounds seemed to ride the wind over my head, but mine liked to veer off after leaving the barrel, as if the enemy simply willed them away. Our drill sergeant said guns could be funny like that. You ask me, it seems only fair that the enemy should get to hear shells screeching down on them, too. We should all have our turn feeling Death's breath on the back of our neck, friend and foe alike.

But what would Death's approach sound like to an inhuman enemy? Did they even feel fear?

Our enemies—the enemies of the United Defense Force—are monsters. Mimics, we call them.

My gun was out of bullets.

The silhouette of a misshapen orb materialized in the clay—brown haze. It was shorter than a man. It would probably come up to the shoulder of a Jacketed soldier. If a man were a thin pole standing on end, a Mimic would be a stout barrel—a barrel with four limbs and a tail, at any rate. Something like the bloated corpse of a drowned frog, we liked to say. To hear the lab rats tell it, they have more in common with starfish, but that's just details.

They make for a smaller target than a man, so naturally they're harder to hit. Despite their size, they weigh more than we do. If you took one of those oversized casks, the kind Americans use to distill bourbon, and filled it with wet sand you'd have it about right. Not the kind of mass a mammal that's 70 percent water could ever hope for. A single swipe of one of its limbs can send a man flying in a thousand little pieces. Their javelins, projectiles fired from vents in their bodies, have the power of 40mm shells.

To fight them, we use machines to make ourselves stronger. We climb into mechanized armor Jackets—science's latest and greatest. We bundle ourselves into steel porcupine skin so tough a shotgun fired at point blank wouldn't leave a scratch. That's how we face off against the Mimics, and we're still outclassed.

Mimics don't inspire the instinctive fear you'd expect if you found yourself facing a bear protecting her cubs, or meeting the gaze of a hungry lion. Mimics don't roar. They're not frightening to look at. They don't spread any wings or stand on their hind legs to make themselves look more intimidating. They simply hunt with the relentlessness of machines. I felt like a deer in the headlights, frozen in the path of an oncoming truck. I couldn't understand how I'd gotten myself into the situation I was in.

I was out of bullets.

So long, Mom.

I'm gonna die on a fucking battlefield. On some godforsaken island with no friends, no family, no girlfriend. In pain, in fear, covered in my own shit because of the fear. And I can't even raise the only weapon I have left to fend off the bastard racing toward me. It was like all the fire in me left with my last round of ammo.

The Mimic's coming for me.

I can hear Death breathing in my ear.

His figure looms large in my heads—up display.

Now I see him; his body is stained a bloody red. His scythe, a two—meter—long behemoth, is the same vivid shade. It's actually more of a battle axe than a scythe. In a world where friend and foe wear the same dust—colored camouflage, he casts a gunmetal red glow in all directions.

Death rushes forward, swifter than even a Mimic. A crimson leg kicks and I go flying.

My armor is crushed. I stop breathing. The sky becomes the ground. My display is drowning in red flashing warnings. I cough up blood, saving the rest of the warnings the trouble.

Then my pile driver fires. The blast throws me at least ten meters into the air. Bits of the armor plating from the back of my Jacket scatter across the ground. I land upside down.

Death swings his battle axe.

Metal screams as he cuts through the uncuttable. The axe cries out like a freight train screeching to a halt.

I see the Mimic's carapace sailing through the air.

It only took one blow to reduce the Mimic to a motionless heap. Ashen sand poured from the gaping wound. The two halves of the creature shuddered and twitched, each keeping its own strange rhythm. A creature humanity's greatest technological inventions could barely scratch, laid waste by a barbarian weapon from a thousand years past.

Death turned slowly to face me.

Amid the crush of red warning lights crowding my display, a sole green light winked on. An incoming friendly transmission. "… as a little… kay?" A woman's voice. Impossible to make it out over the noise. I couldn't stand. The Jacket was spent and so was I. It took everything I had left just to roll right side up.

Upon closer inspection, I was not, in fact, in the company of the Angel of Death. It was just another soldier in a Jacket. A Jacket not quite like my own, as it was outfitted with that massive battle axe where the regulation pile driver should have been. The insignia on the shoulder didn't read JP but instead U.S. In place of the usual desert camouflage mix of sand and coffee grounds, the suit shone head—to—toe in metallic crimson.

The Full Metal Bitch.

I'd heard stories. A war junkie always chasing the action, no matter where it led her. Word had it she and her Special Forces squad from the U.S. Army had chalked up half of all confirmed Mimic kills ever. Maybe anyone who could see that much fighting and live to tell about it really was the Angel of Death.

Still carrying the battle axe, the blazing red Jacket started toward me. Its hand reached down and fumbled for the jack in my shoulder plate. A contact comm.

"There's something I've been wantin' to know."

Her voice filled my suit, clear as crystal. A soft, light tone, at odds with the two—meter axe and carnage she'd just created with it.

"Is it true the green tea they serve in Japan at the end of your meal comes free?"

The conductive sand spilling out of the fallen Mimic danced away on the wind. I could hear the distant cry of shells as they flew. This was a battlefield, the scorched waste where Yonabaru, Captain Yuge, and the rest of my platoon had died. A forest of steel shells. A place where your suit fills with your own piss and shit. Where you drag yourself through a mire of blood and muck.

"I've gotten myself in trouble for believing everything I read. So I thought I'd play it safe, ask a local," she continued.

Here I am, half dead, covered in shit, and you want to talk about tea?

Who walks up to someone, kicks them to the ground, and then asks about tea? What was going through her fucking head? I wanted to give her a piece of my mind, but the words wouldn't come. I could think of the words I wanted to say, but my mouth had forgotten how to work—a litany of profanities stalled at the gate.

"That's the thing with books. Half the time the author doesn't know what the hell he's writing about—especially not those war novelists. Now how about you ease your finger off the trigger and take a nice, deep breath."

Good advice. It took a minute, but I started to see straight again. The sound of a woman's voice always had a way of calming me down. The pain I'd left in battle returned to my gut. My Jacket misread the cramps in my muscles, sending the suit into a mild spasm. I thought of the dance Yonabaru's suit did just before he died.

"Hurt much?"

"What do you think?" My reply wasn't much more than a hoarse whisper.

The red Jacket kneeled down in front of me, examining the shredded armor plate over my stomach. I ventured a question. "How's the battle going?"

"The 301st has been wiped out. Our main line fell back to the coast to regroup."

"What about your squad?"

"No use worrying about them."

"So… how do I look?"

"It pierced the front, but the back armor plate stopped it. It's charred bad."

"How bad?"

"Bad."

"Fuck me." I looked up at the sky. "Looks like it's starting to clear."

"Yeah. I like the sky here."

"Why's that?"

"It's clear. Can't beat islands for clear skies."

"Am I going to die?"

"Yeah," she told me.

I felt tears well up in my eyes. I was grateful then that the helmet hid my face from view. It kept my shame a private thing.

The red Jacket maneuvered to gently cradle my head. "What's your name? Not your rank or your serial number. Your name."

"Keiji. Keiji Kiriya."

"I'm Rita Vrataski. I'll stay with you until you die."

She couldn't have said anything I'd rather hear, but I wasn't going to let her see that. "You'll die too if you stay."

"I have a reason. When you die, Keiji, I'm going to take your Jacket's battery."

"That's cold."

"No need to fight it. Relax. Let go."

I heard an electronic squelch—an incoming comm signal in Rita's helmet. It was a man's voice. The link between our Jackets automatically relayed the voice to me.

"Calamity Dog, this is Chief Breeder."

"I read you." All business.

"Alpha Server and vicinity under control. Estimate we can hold for thirteen minutes, tops. Time to pick up that pizza."

"Calamity Dog copies. Running silent from here in."

The red Jacket stood, severing our comm link. Behind her an explosion rumbled. I felt the ground tremble through my spine. A laser—guided bomb had fallen from the sky. It plunged deep into the earth, piercing the bedrock before it detonated. The sandy white ground bulged like an overcooked pancake; its surface cracked and sent darker soil the color of maple syrup spewing into the air. A hail of mud splattered on my armor. Rita's battle axe glinted in the light.

The smoke cleared.

I could see a writhing mass in the center of the enormous crater left by the explosion: the enemy. Red points of light sprang to life on my radar screen, so many that every point was touching another.

I thought I saw Rita nod. She sprang forward, flitting across the battlefield. Her axe rose and fell. Each time it shone, the husk of a Mimic soared. The sand that poured from their wounds spiraled on the whirlwinds traced by her blade. She cut them down with the ease of a laser cutting butter. Her movements took her in a circle around me, protecting me. Rita and I had undergone the same training, but she was like a juggernaut while I lay on the ground, a stupid toy that had run down its batteries. No one had forced me to be here. I had dragged myself to this wasteland of a battlefield, and I wasn't doing a damn bit of good for anyone. Better I'd gotten plugged alongside Yonabaru. At least then I wouldn't have put another soldier in harm's way trying to protect me.

I decided not to die with three rounds left in my pile driver.

I lifted a leg. I put a hand on one knee.

I stood.

I screamed. I forced myself to keep going.

The red Jacket turned to me.

I heard some noise over my headphones, but I couldn't tell what she was trying to say.

One of the Mimics in the pack stood out from the rest. It wasn't that it looked different from the others. Just another drowned, bloated frog. But there was something about it that set it apart. Maybe proximity to death had sharpened my senses, but somehow I knew that was the one I was meant to fight.

So that's what I did. I leapt at the Mimic and it lashed out at me with its tail. I felt my body lighten. One of my arms had been cut off. The right arm—leaving the pile driver on the left intact. Lucky me. I pulled the trigger.

The charge fired, a perfect ninety—degree angle.

One more shot. A hole opened in the thing's carapace.

One more shot. I blacked out.

2

The paperback I'd been reading was beside my pillow.

It was a mystery novel about an American detective who is supposed to be some sort of expert on the Orient. I had my index finger wedged into a scene where all the key players meet for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in New York. The detective's client, an Italian, tries to order an espresso after their meal, but the detective stops him cold. He starts on about how at Japanese restaurants, they bring you green tea after dinner, so you don't have to order anything. Then he veers off on how green tea goes great with soy sauce, and oh, why is it that in India they spice their milk tea? He's finally gathered everyone involved in the case in one place, and he talks a blue streak about everything but whodunit.

I rubbed my eyes.

Passing my hand over my shirt I felt my stomach through the cloth. I could make out a newly formed six—pack that hadn't been there half a year back. No trace of any wound, no charred flesh. My right arm was right where it should be. Good news all around. What a crappy dream.

I must have fallen asleep reading the book. I should have known something was up when Mad Wargarita started striking up small talk about mystery novels. American Special Operators who'd crossed the entire Pacific Ocean just for a taste of blood didn't have time to read the latest best seller. If they had spare time, they'd probably spend it tweaking their Jackets.

What a way to start the day. Today was going to be my first real taste of battle. Why couldn't I have dreamed about blasting away a few baddies, getting promoted a grade or two?

On the bunk above me a radio with its bass blown out was squawking music—some kind of prehistoric rock so ancient my old man wouldn't have recognized it. I could hear the sounds of the base stirring to life, incoherent chatter coming from every direction, and above it all, the DJ's over—caffeinated voice chirping away with the weather forecast. I could feel every word pierce my skull. Clear and sunny out here on the islands, same as yesterday, with a UV warning for the afternoon. Watch out for those sunburns!

The barracks weren't much more than four sheets of fire—resistant wood propped up together. A poster of a bronze—skinned bikini babe hung on one of the walls. Someone had replaced her head with a shot of the prime minister torn from the base newspaper. The bikini babe's head grinned vapidly from its new home atop a macho muscle builder on another nearby poster. The muscle builder's head was MIA.

I stretched in my bunk. The welded aluminum frame squealed in protest.

"Keiji, sign this." Yonabaru craned his neck over the side of the top bunk. He looked great for a guy I'd just seen get impaled. They say people who die in dreams are supposed to live forever.

Jin Yonabaru had joined up three years before me. Three more years of trimming the fat, three more years of packing on muscle. Back when he was a civilian he'd been thin as a beanpole. Now he was cut from rock. He was a soldier, and he looked the part.

"What is it?"

"A confession. The one I told you about."

"I signed it yesterday."

"Really? That's weird." I could hear him rifling through pages above me. "No, not here. Well, sign one for me again, will ya?"

"You trying to pull a fast one on me?"

"Only if you come back in a bodybag. Besides, you can only die once, so what difference does it make how many copies you sign?"

UDF soldiers on the front line had a tradition. The day before an operation, they'd sneak into the PX and make off with some liquor. Drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. The shot they gave you before battle broke down any acetaldehyde left in the bloodstream. But if you were caught, they'd bring you up before a disciplinary committee—maybe a court martial if you screwed the pooch real bad—after taking stock of inventory once the fighting was over and everyone was back on base. Of course, it was hard to court—martial a corpse. Which is why we'd all leave notes before the battle explaining how the robbery had been our idea. Sure enough, when the investigation started, it was always some poor sap who'd got himself killed who had masterminded the whole thing. It was a good system. The people running the PX were wise to the racket, so they made sure to leave out some bottles that wouldn't be missed too much. You'd think they'd just go ahead and give everyone a few drinks the night before a battle—for morale's sake, if nothing else—but no, it was the same old song and dance every time. Good ideas don't stand a chance against good bureaucracy.

I took the paper from Yonabaru. "Funny, I thought I'd be more nervous."

"So soon? Save it for the day, man."

"What do you mean? We suit up this afternoon."

"You nuts? How long you plan on wearing that thing?"

"If I don't wear it today, when will I?"

"How about tomorrow, when we roll out?"

I nearly fell out of bed. For an instant, my eyes settled on the soldier lying on the bunk next to mine. He was flipping through a porn magazine. Then I stared up into Yonabaru's face.

"What do you mean, tomorrow? They postpone the attack?"

"No, man. It's always been tomorrow. But our secret mission to get hammered starts tonight at nineteen hundred hours. We drink ourselves blind and wake up with a helluva hangover in the morning. A plan not even HQ could fuck up."

Wait. We'd broken into the PX last night. I remembered the whole thing. I was nervous about it being my first battle, so I'd decided to duck out a bit early. I had come back to my bunk and started reading that mystery novel. I even remembered helping Yonabaru up to his bed when he came staggering in from partying with the ladies.

Unless—unless I had dreamed that too?

Yonabaru smirked. "You don't look so good, Keiji."

I picked the novel up off my bed. I'd brought it along to read in my spare time, but I'd been so busy drilling formation that it had stayed stuffed in the bottom of my bag. I remember thinking how appropriately ironic it was that I hadn't had any time to start reading it until the day before I was probably going to die. I opened the book to the last page I'd read. The American detective who was supposed to be an expert on the Orient was discussing the finer points of green tea, just like I remembered. If today was the day before the battle, when had I read the book? Nothing was making any sense.

"Listen. There's nothin' to tomorrow's operation."

I blinked. "Nothin' to it, huh?"

"Just get yourself home without shooting anyone in the back, and you'll be fine."

I grunted in reply.

Yonabaru curled his hand into a gun and pointed his index finger at his head. "I'm serious. Sweat it too much, you'll turn into a feedhead—end up losing your mind before they even get a chance to blow your brains out."

The guy I'd replaced had gone a little haywire, so they pulled him from the front lines. They say he started picking up comm feeds about how humanity was doomed. Not the kind of shit you want heavily armed UDF Jacket jockeys listening to. We might not lose as many to that as we do to the enemy, but it's not pretty either way. In battle, unless you're sound of body and mind, you're a liability. I'd only just arrived on the front lines—hadn't even seen any action—and already I was having hallucinations. Who knows what warning lights were going off in my head.

"You ask me, anyone come out of battle not actin' a little funny has a screw or three loose." Yonabaru grinned.

"Hey, no scarin' the fresh meat," I protested. I wasn't actually scared, but I was growing increasingly confused.

"Just look at Ferrell! Only way to make it is to lose whatever it is that makes you human. A sensitive, caring indiv'dual like myself ain't cut out for fightin', and that's the truth."

"I don't see anything wrong with the sergeant."

"Ain't a question of right or wrong. It's about having a heart made of tungsten and muscles so big they cut off the blood to your brain."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Next you'll be tellin' us that Mad Wargarita is just another grunt like the rest of us."

"Yeah, well, the thing with her is—" and so the conversation went on, back and forth like we always did. Our badmouthing of Rita was just hitting its stride when the sergeant showed up.

Sergeant Ferrell Bartolome had been around longer than anyone else in our platoon. He'd lived through so many battles, he was more than soldier, he was the glue that kept our company together. They said if you stuck him in a centrifuge, he'd come out 70 percent big brother, 20 percent ball—busting drill sergeant, and 10 percent steel—reinforced carbon. He scowled at me, then looked at Yonabaru, who was hastily bundling up our liquor confessions. His scowl deepened. "You the soldier who broke into the PX?"

"Yeah, that's me," my friend confessed without a trace of guilt.

The men on the surrounding beds ducked under their sheets with all the speed of cockroaches scattering in the light, porn magazines and playing cards forgotten. They'd seen the look on the sergeant's face.

I cleared my throat. "Did security, uh… run into some kind of trouble?"

Ferrell's forehead knotted as though he were balancing a stack of armored plating on his head. I had a strong feeling of déjà vu. All this happened in my dream! Something had gone down, unrelated, at the exact time Yonabaru and his buddies were breaking into the PX. Security had gone on alert, and the robbery had come to light ahead of schedule. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Just, uh, a lucky guess."

Yonabaru leaned out over the edge of his bunk. "What kind of trouble?"

"Someone stepped in a knee—deep pile of pig shit. Now that may not have anything to do with you, but nevertheless, at oh—ninehundred, you're going to assemble at the No. 1 Training Field in your fourth—tier equipment for Physical Training. Pass the word to the rest of those knuckleheads you call a platoon."

"You gotta be kidding! We're goin' into battle tomorrow, and you're sending us off for PT?"

"That's an order, Corporal."

"Sir, reporting to the No. 1 Training Field at oh—nine—hundred in full fourth—tier equipment, sir! But, uh, one thing, Sarge. We been doin' that liquor raid for years. Why give us a hard time about it now?"

"You really want to know?" Ferrell rolled his eyes. I swallowed hard.

"Nah, I already know the answer." Yonabaru grinned. He always seemed to be grinning. "It's because the chain of command around here is fucked to hell."

"You'll find out for yourself."

"Wait, Sarge!"

Ferrell took three regulation—length paces and stopped.

"C'mon, not even a hint?" Yonabaru called from where he was taking cover behind the metal bed frame and bundled confessions.

"The general's the one with his panties in a bunch about the rotten excuse for security we have on this base, so don't look at me, and don't look at the captain, either. In fact, you might as well just shut up and do what you're told for a change."

I sighed. "He's not gonna have us out there weaving baskets, is he?"

Yonabaru shook his head. "Maybe we can all do a group hug. Fucking asshole."

I knew where this ended. I'd dreamed all this, too.

After their defeat a year and a half ago at the Battle of Okinawa Beach, the Japanese Corps made it a matter of honor to recapture a little island perched off the coast of the Boso Peninsula, a place named Kotoiushi. With a foothold there, the Mimics were only a stone's throw away from Tokyo. The Imperial Palace and central government retreated and ruled from Nagano, but there wasn't any way to relocate the economic engine that was Japan's largest city.

The Defense Ministry knew that Japan's future was riding on the outcome of this operation, so in addition to mustering twentyfive thousand Jackets, an endless stream of overeager generals had been pooling in this little base on the Flower Line that led down Boso Peninsula. They'd even decided to allow Americans, Special Operators, into the game; the U.S. hadn't been invited to the party at Okinawa.

The Americans probably didn't give a damn whether or not Tokyo was reduced to a smoking wasteland, but letting the industrial area responsible for producing the lightest, toughest, composite armor plating fall to the Mimics was out of the question. Seventy percent of the parts that went into a state—of—the—art Jacket came from China, but the suits still couldn't be made without Japanese technology. So convincing the Americans to come hadn't been difficult.

The catch was that with foreign troops came tighter security. Suddenly there were checks on things like missing alcohol that base security would have turned a blind eye to before. When the brass found out what had been going on, they were royally pissed.

"How's that for luck? I wonder who fucked up."

"It ain't us. I knew the Americans would be watchin' over their precious battalion like hawks. We were careful as a virgin on prom night."

Yonabaru let out an exaggerated moan. "Ungh, my stomach… Sarge! My stomach just started hurtin' real bad! I think it's my appendix. Or maybe I got tetanus back when I hurt myself training. Yeah, that's gotta be it!"

"I doubt it will clear up before tonight, so just make sure you stay hydrated. It won't last until tomorrow, hear me?"

"Oh, man. It really hurts."

"Kiriya. See that he drinks some water."

"Sir."

Ignoring Yonabaru's continued performance, Ferrell walked out of the barracks. As soon as his audience was gone, Yonabaru sat up and made a rude gesture in the direction of the door. "He's really got a stick up his ass. Wouldn't understand a good joke if it came with a fucking manual. Ain't no way I'm gonna be like that when I get old. Am I right?"

"I guess."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Today is turnin' to shit."

It was all playing out how I remembered.

The 17th Armored would spend the next three hours in PT. Exhausted, we would listen to some commissioned officer, his chest bristling with medals, lecture us for another half hour before being dismissed. I could still hear him threatening to pluck the hairs off our asses one by one with Jacket—augmented fingers.

My dream was looking less like one by the minute.

3

There's an exercise called an iso push—up. You lift your body like you would in an ordinary push—up, then you hold that position.

It's a lot harder than it sounds. You can feel your arms and abs trembling, and eventually you lose your sense of time. After you've counted something like the thousandth sheep jumping a fence, you'll beg to be doing ordinary push—ups, anything but this. Your arms aren't designed to be pillars. Muscles and joints are there to flex and bend. Flex and bend. Sounds nice just thinking about it. But you can't think about it, or you'll feel even worse. You're pillars, hear me? Pillars! Nice strong pillars.

Muscle isn't really all that important for a Jacket jockey. Whether a person's grip is thirty kilos or seventy, as soon as they put on that Jacket, they'll have 370 kilos of force in the palm of their hands. What a Jacket jockey needs is endurance and control—the ability to hold one position without twitching a muscle.

Iso push—ups are just the thing for that. Wall sitting isn't half bad, either.

Some claimed iso push—ups had become the favored form of discipline in the old Japan Self—Defense Force after they banned corporal punishment. I had a hard time believing the practice had survived long enough to be picked up by the Armored Infantry Division—the JSDF had joined the UDF before I was even born. But whoever thought of it, I hope he died a slow, painful death.

"Ninety—eight!"

"NINETY—EIGHT!" we all cried out.

"Ninety—nine!"

"NINETY—NINE!"

Staring into the ground, we barked desperately in time with the drill sergeant, sweat streaming into our eyes.

"Eight hundred!"

"EIGHT HUNDRED!"

Fuck OFF!

Our shadows were crisp and clear under the scorching sun. The company's flag snapped and fluttered high above the field. The wind that buffeted the training grounds reeked of salt and left a briny layer of slime on our skin.

There, motionless in the middle of that gargantuan training field, 141 men from the 17th Company of the Armored Infantry Division held their iso push—ups. Three platoon leaders stood, as motionless as their men, one in front of each platoon. Our captain watched over the scene with a grimace from the shade of the barracks tent. Sitting beside him was a brigadier general from the General Staff Office. The general who'd opened his mouth and started this farce was probably off sipping green tea in an air—conditioned office. Cocksucker.

A general was a being from the heavens above. A being perched on a gilded throne, higher than me, higher than Yonabaru, higher than Ferrell, higher than the lieutenant in charge of our platoon, the captain in charge of our company, the lieutenant colonel in charge of our battalion; higher than the colonel in charge of our regiment, higher even than the base commander. The generals were the gods of Flower Line and all who trained, slept, and shat within its walls. So high, they seemed distant and unreal.

Generals didn't steal liquor. They were early to bed, early to rise, always brushing their teeth after every meal, never skipping a morning shave—goddamned messiahs. Generals went into battle facing death with their chins held high, calm as you please. Hell, all they had to do was sit back in Nagano drawing up their battle plans. One order from them and us mortals on the front lines would move like pawns across a chessboard to our grisly fates. I'd like to see just one of them here with us in the mud. We had our own rules down here. Which is probably why they stayed away. Hell, if one of them showed, I'd see to it a stray bullet put them on the KIA list. This was the least damning thought running through my head, any one of which would have been enough to send me to a firing squad.

The brass in the tent weren't the only spectators around to watch our torture.

The guys in 4th Company were really laughing it up. A while back we beat them in an intramural rugby match by more than thirty points, so I guess they felt this was some sort of twisted payback. The liquor we'd swiped was for them too, so this display of solidarity was touching. What a bunch of assholes. If they got into trouble on Kotoiushi, I sure as hell wasn't going to bail them out.

The U.S. Spec Ops and some journalist imbedded in their squad had gathered around the field to watch us from a safe distance. Maybe they didn't do iso push—ups where they came from, but whatever the reason, they were pointing their fat fingers at us and laughing. The breeze coming off the water picked up their voices and dumped them on us. Even at this distance, the commentary was loud and grating. Fingernails on a chalkboard grating. Oh, man. Is that a camera? Is he seriously taking pictures? All right, that's it, motherfucker. You're next on my KIA list.

Pain and fatigue racked my body. My blood pumped slow as lead.

This was getting old. Counting my dream, this was the second time I'd endured this particular session of PT. Not just PT, iso push—ups. In training they taught us that even when you're in excruciating pain—especially when you're in pain—the best thing to do was to find some sort of distraction, something else to focus on other than the burning in your muscles and the sweat streaking down your forehead. Careful not to move my head, I looked around out of the corner of one eye.

The American journalist was snapping pictures, a visitor's pass dangling from his neck. Say cheese! He was a brawny fellow. You could line him up with any of those U.S. Special Forces guys and you'd never know the difference. He'd look more at home on a battlefield than I would, that's for sure.

I got the same vibe from those Special Forces guys that I got from Sergeant Ferrell. Pain and suffering were old friends to men like them. They walked up to the face of danger, smiled, and asked what took him so long to get there. They were in a whole 'nother league from a recruit like me.

In the middle of the testosterone display, the lone woman stuck out like a sore pinky. She was a tiny little thing standing off by herself a short distance from the rest of the squad. Seeing her there beside the rest of her super—sized squad, something seemed out of whack.

Anne of Green Gables Goes to War.

I figure the book would be a spin—off set around World War I. Mongolia makes a land grab, and there's Anne, machine gun tucked daintily under one arm. Her hair was the color of rusted steel, faded to a dull red. Some redheads conjured up images of blood, fire, deeds of valor. Not her. If it weren't for the sand—colored shirt she was wearing, she'd have looked like some kid who'd come to the base on a field trip and gotten herself lost.

The others were fanned out around this girl who barely came up to their chests like awed, medieval peasants gawking at nobility.

Suddenly it hit me. That's Rita!

It had to be. It was the only way to explain how this woman, who couldn't have looked less like a Jacket jockey if she had been wearing a ball gown, was in the company of the spec ops. Most women who suited up looked like some sort of cross between a gorilla and an uglier gorilla. They were the only ones who could cut it on the front lines in the Armored Infantry.

Rita Vrataski was the most famous soldier in the world. Back when I signed up for the UDF, you couldn't go a day without seeing the news feeds sing her praises. Stories titled "A Legendary Commando," "Valkyrie Incarnate," that sort of thing. I'd even heard Hollywood was gonna make a movie about her, but I was already in the UDF by the time it came out, so I never saw it.

About half of all the Mimic kills humanity had ever made could be attributed to battles her squad had fought in. In less than three years, they'd slaughtered as many Mimics as the whole UDF put together had in the twenty years before. Rita was a savior descended from on high to help turn the odds in this endless, losing battle.

That's what they said, anyway.

We all figured she was part of some propaganda squad they were using to make inroads into enemy territory. A front for some secret weapon or new strategy that really deserved the credit. Sixty percent of soldiers were men. That figure shot up to 85 percent when you started talking about the Jacket jockeys who were out bleeding on the front lines. After twenty years fighting an enemy whose identity we didn't even know, losing ground day by day, we grunts didn't need another muscle—bound savior who grunted and sweat and had hamburger for brains just like we did. Yeah, if it were me calling the shots in the General Staff Office, I'd have picked a woman too.

Wherever the U.S. Spec Ops were deployed, morale soared. The UDF had been beaten to the cliff's edge, but they were finally able to start moving back from the brink. After finishing the war in North America, they moved on to Europe and then North Africa. Now they'd come to Japan, where the enemy was knocking on the door of the main island of Honshu.

The Americans called Rita the Full Metal Bitch, or sometimes just Queen Bitch. When no one was listening, we called her Mad Wargarita.

Rita's Jacket was as red as the rising sun. She thumbed her nose at the lab coats who'd spent sleepless months refining the Jackets' polymer paint to absorb every last radar wave possible. Her suit was gunmetal red—no, more than that, it glowed. In the dark it would catch the faintest light, smoldering crimson. Was she crazy? Probably.

Behind her back they said she painted her suit with the blood of her squad. When you stand out like that on the battlefield, you tend to draw more than your share of enemy fire. Others said she'd stop at nothing to make her squad look good, that she even took cover behind a fellow soldier once. If she had a bad headache, she'd go apeshit, killing friend and foe alike. And yet not a single enemy round had ever so much as grazed her Jacket. She could walk into any hell and come back unscathed. They had a million stories.

Your rank and file soldier ended up with a lot of time on his hands, and listening to that sort of talk, passing it on, embellishing it—that was just the sort of thing he needed to kill time and to keep the subject off dead comrades. Rita had been a Jacket jockey eating and sleeping on the same base as me, but I'd never seen her face until that moment. We might have resented the special treatment she got, if we'd had the chance to think about it.

I couldn't take my eyes off the line of her hair—she wore it short—as it bobbed in the wind. There was a graceful balance to her features. You might even have called her beautiful. She had a thin nose, a sharp chin. Her neck was long and white where most Jacket jockeys didn't even have necks. Her chest, however, was completely flat, at odds with the images of Caucasian women you saw plastered on the walls of every barracks cell. Not that it bothered me.

Whoever had looked at her and thought up the name Full Metal Bitch needed to have his head checked. She was closer to a puppy than a bitch. I suppose even in a litter of pit bulls there's room for one sweet one in the bunch.

If, in my dream, the shell of that red Jacket had popped open and she'd climbed out, I would have shit my bunk. I'd seen her face and Jacket plenty on the news feeds, but they never gave you a good idea of what she really looked like in person. I had always pictured Rita Vrataski as tall and ruthless, with a knockout body and an air of total self—confidence.

Then our eyes met.

I looked away immediately, but it was already too late. She started walking toward me. She moved with purpose, one foot planted firmly on the ground before the other moved—a relentless, unstoppable force. But her steps were small, the net result being a harried, flustered gait. I'm not sure I'd ever seen anyone walk quite like that before.

C'mon, don't do this to me. I can't even move. Give a guy a break and get lost, would ya? Go on. Get!

Rita stopped.

The muscles in my arms started to tremble. Then, purposefully, she walked away. Somehow she'd heard my prayer, making a ninety—degree turn right in front of me and heading toward the brigadier general where he sat under the tent. She snapped a perfunctory salute. Not so sloppy as to be insulting, but not so stiff you could hear anything cracking, either. A fitting salute for the Full Metal Bitch.

The brigadier general cast a doubtful glance at Rita. Rita was a sergeant major. In the military hierarchy, the difference between a brigadier general and a sergeant major was about the same as the difference between a four—course meal at a snooty restaurant and an all—you—can—eat buffet. Recruits like me were strictly fast food, complete with an oversized side of fries. But it wasn't that simple. It never was. Rita was U.S. military, the linchpin of the upcoming operation, and one of the most important soldiers on the face of the planet. Rank aside, it was hard to say which one of them really held more power.

Rita stood in silence. The brigadier general was the first to speak.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"Sir, would it be possible for me to join the PT, sir."

The same high voice from my dream, speaking in perfectly intoned Burst.

"You have a major operation coming up tomorrow."

"So do they, sir. My squad has never participated in this form of PT, sir. I believe my participation could be vital in ensuring the successful coordination and execution of tomorrow's joint operation."

The general was at a loss for words. The U.S. Special Forces around the field started to whoop and cheer.

"Request permission to participate in the PT, sir," she said.

"Granted."

"Sir, thank you, sir!"

She flashed a quick salute. Doing an about—face, she slipped among the rows of men staring intently into the ground.

She chose a spot beside me and started her iso push—up. I could feel the heat coming off her body through the chilly air between us.

I didn't move. Rita didn't move. The sun hung high in the sky, showering its rays over us, slowly roasting our skin. A drop of sweat formed in my armpit, then traced its way slowly to the ground. Sweat had started to bead on Rita's skin too. Fuck! I felt like a chicken crammed into the same oven as the Christmas turkey.

Rita's lips made the subtlest of movements. A low voice only I could hear.

"Do I have something on my face?"

"What?"

"You've been staring at me for a while now."

"Me? No."

"I thought maybe there was a laser bead on my forehead."

"Sorry. There wasn't—it's nothing."

"Oh. All right."

"Shit—for—brains Kiriya! You're slipping!" the lieutenant barked. I quickly extended my arm back into position. Beside me, Rita Vrataski, with the disinterested expression of someone who'd never had a need for human contact her entire life, continued her iso push—up.

PT ended less than an hour later. The general, the taste of bile in his mouth forgotten, returned to the barracks without further instructions. The 17th Company had spent a productive pre—battle afternoon.

It hadn't played out the way I remembered it. In my dream, I never made eye contact with Rita, and she hadn't joined in the PT. Maybe I was reading too much into things, but I'd say she did it just to piss the general off. It took a Valkyrie reborn to throw a monkey wrench into a disciplinary training session planned with military precision and get away with it. Then again, her antenna may just have picked up something that made her want to see what this weird iso push—up thing was all about. Maybe she had just been curious.

One thing was for sure, though. Rita Vrataski wasn't the bitch everyone made her out to be.

4

"How about last night, huh? That shit was tight."

"You said it."

"With reflexes like that, that girl must be hiding springs in that little body of hers. I could feel it all the way into my abs."

"She hears you talkin' like that, best watch out."

"Who doesn't like a compliment? I'm just sayin' she was good." As he spoke, Yonabaru thrust his hips.

Seeing someone move like that in a Jacket was pretty damn funny. An everyday gesture with enough power behind it to level a house.

Our platoon was on the northern tip of Kotoiushi Island, waiting to spring the ambush, Jackets in sleep mode. A screen about half a meter tall stood in front of us, projecting an image of the terrain behind. It's what they called active camouflage. It was supposed to render us undetectable from an enemy looking at us head on. Of course, we could have just used a painting. The terrain had been bombed into oblivion, so any direction you looked, all you saw was the same charred wasteland.

Most of the time, the Mimics lurked in caves that twisted deep under the seabed. Before a ground assault, we fired bunker buster bombs that penetrated into the ground before detonating. Eat that. Each one of those babies cost more than I'd make in my entire lifetime. But the Mimics had an uncanny way of avoiding the bombs. It was enough to make you wonder if they were getting a copy of our attack plans in advance. On paper we may have had air superiority, but we ended up in a drawn—out land war anyhow.

Since our platoon was part of an ambush, we weren't packing the large—bore cannons—massive weapons that were each the size of a small car fully assembled. What we did have were 20mm rifles, fuel—air grenades, pile drivers, and rocket launchers loaded with three rounds apiece. Since it was Ferrell's platoon, we were all linked to him via comm. I glanced at my Jacket's HUD. It was twenty—eight degrees Celsius. Pressure was 1014 millibars. The primary strike force would be on the move any minute.

Last night, after that endless hour of PT, I'd decided to go to the party. It wasn't what I remembered doing from the dream, but I didn't really feel like rereading that book. The part about helping Yonabaru up to his bunk after he stumbled back to the barracks stayed the same.

Word around the platoon was that Yonabaru's girlfriend was a Jacket jockey too. With the exception of Special Forces, men and women fought in separate platoons, so we wouldn't have run into her on the battlefield anyway.

"If—and I'm just talkin'—but if one of you got killed…" I ventured.

"I'd feel like shit."

"But you still see each other anyway."

"Heaven ain't some Swiss bank. You can't squirrel away money in some secret account up there and expect to make a withdrawal. You gotta do what you can before goin' into battle. That's the first rule of soldierin'."

"Yeah, I guess."

"But I'm tellin' ya, you gotta hook yourself up with some pussy. Carpe diem, brother."

"Carpe something."

"What about Mad Wargarita? Y'all were talkin' during PT, right? You'd tap that, I know you would."

"Don't even go there."

"Tiny girl like her—I bet she's a wolverine in the sack. The smaller they are, the better they fuck, you know."

"Show some respect."

"Sex ain't got nothin' to do with respect. From the lowest peon to His Majesty the general, everybody wants to do a little poundin' between the legs. All I'm sayin' is that's how we evolved—"

"Just shut the fuck up," I said.

"That any way to talk to me in front of the sergeant? I'm hurt. I've got a very sensitive disposition. I'm just talkin' trash to keep my mind off things. Same as everybody else."

"He's right," someone else chipped in over the comm link.

"Hey, don't I get a vote?"

It was like this was the excuse everyone in the platoon had been waiting for. Everyone started talking at once.

"I'm gonna have to cast my ballot for Yonabaru."

"I've set this thing to filter out your jokes, so stop wastin' your breath."

"Sounds like Kiriya's gonna have to step up his training if he doesn't want Yonabaru to take the piss out of him so easy."

"Sir! I think I need to reboot my Jacket, sir! I don't want it crashing during the battle!"

"Aw man, I'd kill for a cigarette. Musta left 'em in my other Jacket."

"I thought you quit smokin'?"

"Hey, keep it down! I'm tryin' to get some sleep!"

And so it went. Back and forth through the comm link, like it was an Internet chat room. All Ferrell could do was sigh and shake his Jacketed head.

When you're so nervous you've run out of nails to bite, thinking about something you enjoy helps take the pressure off. They taught us that in training too. Of course, you get a bunch of animals like these together, pretty much the only thing they think about is sex. There was only one girl I could think about, my sweet little librarian whose face I could hardly picture anymore. Who knew what she was doing. It'd been half a year since she got married. She was probably knocked up by now. I enlisted right after I graduated from high school, and she broke my heart. I don't think the two things were related. Who can say?

I had signed up thinking I could make some sense of this fuckedup world by betting my life in battle and seeing what fate dealt me. Boy was I ever green. If I was tea—green now, I must've been lime—green back then. Turns out my life isn't even worth enough to buy one of those pricey bombs, and what cards fate has dealt me don't have any rhyme or reason.

"Nuts to this. If we're not gonna dig trenches, can't we at least sit?"

"Can't hide if we're diggin' trenches."

"This active camouflage ain't good for shit. Who's to say they don't see better'n we do, anyhow? They aren't supposed to be able to see the attack choppers either, but they knock 'em out of the sky like balloons in a shootin' gallery. Made for a helluva time at Okinawa."

"If we run into the enemy, I'll be sure to give 'em an eye test."

"I still say the trench is man's greatest invention. My kingdom for a trench."

"You can dig all the trenches you want once we get back. My orders."

"Isn't that how they torture prisoners?"

"My pension to the man who invents a way to fasten your—shit, it's started! Don't get your balls blown off, gents!" Ferrell shouted.

The din of battle filled the air. I could feel the shudder of distant shells exploding.

I turned my attention to Yonabaru. After what happened in PT, maybe my dream was just a dream, but if Yonabaru died by my side at the beginning of the battle, I'd never forgive myself. I replayed the events of the dream in my head. The javelin had come from two o'clock. It had flown right through the camouflage screen, leaving it in tatters, all about a minute after the battle started, give or take.

I tensed my body, ready to be knocked down at any moment.

My arms were shaking. An itch developed in the small of my back. A wrinkle in my inner suit pressed against my side.

What are they waiting for?

The first round didn't hit Yonabaru.

The shot that was supposed to have killed him was headed for me instead. I didn't have time to move a millimeter. I'll never forget the sight of that enemy javelin flying straight at me.

5

The paperback I'd been reading was beside my pillow.

It was a mystery novel about an American detective who was supposed to be some sort of expert on the Orient. I had my index finger wedged into a scene where all the key players meet for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in New York.

Without rising, I looked carefully around the barracks. Nothing had changed. The swimsuit pinup still had the prime minister's head. The radio with the busted bass grated out music from the top bunk; from beyond the grave a singer admonished us against crying over a lost love. After waiting to be sure the DJ would read the weather report in her bubblegum voice, I sat up.

I shifted my weight as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I pinched my arm as hard as I could. The spot I pinched started to turn red. It hurt like a bitch. Tears blurred my vision.

"Keiji, sign this."

Yonabaru craned his neck over the side of the top bunk.

"…"

"What's the matter? Still asleep?"

"Nah. You need my signature? Sure."

Yonabaru disappeared from view.

"Mind if I ask something a little weird?"

"What? I just need you to sign on the dotted line." His voice came from over the bed frame. "Don't need you to write anything else. No funny drawings of the lieutenant on the back or nothin'."

"Why would I do that?"

"I dunno. It's what I did the first time I signed."

"Don't start comparing—ah, forget it. What I wanted to ask was, the attack's tomorrow, right?"

"Sure. That's not the kinda thing they go changin' up."

"You've never heard of anyone reliving the same day over and over, have you?"

There was a pause before he replied. "You sure you're awake? The day after yesterday's today. The day after today is tomorrow. If it didn't work like that, we'd never get to Christmas or Valentine's Day. Then we'd be fucked. Or not."

"Yeah. Right."

"Listen. There's nothin' to tomorrow's operation."

"… Right."

"Sweat it too much, you'll turn into a feedhead—end up losing your mind before they even get a chance to blow your brains out."

I stared blankly at the aluminum piping of the bed frame.

When I was a kid, the war against the Mimics had already started. Instead of cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers, we fought aliens using toy guns that fired spring—loaded plastic bullets. They stung a little when they hit, but that was all. Even up close they barely hurt. I always played the hero, taking the hit for the team. I'd spring out courageously into the line of fire, absorbing one bullet after another. I did a little jump with each successive hit, performing an impromptu interpretive dance. I was really good at it. Inspired by the hero's death, his comrades would launch a bold counterattack. With his noble sacrifice, he'd ensured humanity's salvation. Victory would be declared, and the kids who'd been the bad guys would come back to the human side and everyone would celebrate. There was no game like it.

Pretending to be a hero slain in battle was one thing. Dying a hero in a real war was another. As I got older, I understood the difference, and I knew I didn't wanna die. Not even in a dream.

Some nightmares you can't wake up from, no matter how many times you try. Me, I was trapped in a nightmare, and no matter how many times I woke up, I was still trapped. That I knew I was caught in a loop I couldn't break out of was the worst part of all. I fought back panic.

But was it really happening to me again?

The same day I'd already lived through twice was unfolding again around me. Or maybe it was all a nightmare, after all. Of course things would be happening the way I remembered them. It was all in my head, so why not?

This was ridiculous. I punched the mattress.

Had I dreamed that black point flying at me? Was the javelin that shattered my breastplate and pierced my chest all in my head? Had I imagined the blood, the coughing up bits of lung?

Let me tell you what happens when your lungs are crushed. You drown, not in water, but in air. Gasp as hard as you like, crushed lungs can't pass the oxygen your body needs to your bloodstream. All around you, your friends are breathing in and out without a second thought while you drown alone in a sea of air. I never knew this until it happened to me. I'd never even heard about it. I definitely hadn't made that up. It really happened.

It didn't matter if I never told anyone, if no one ever believed me. It would still be true. The sensation it had imprinted on my mind was proof enough of that. Pain that shoots through your body like a bolt of lightning, legs so damn heavy it feels like they've been stuffed with sandbags, terror so strong it crushes your heart—that's not the stuff of imagination and dreams. I wasn't sure how, but I'd been killed. Twice. No doubt about it.

I didn't mind listening to Yonabaru tell some story I'd already heard before. Hell, I'd do that ten times, a hundred, the more the better. Our daily routines were all filled with that same repetitive shit. But going back into battle? No thanks.

If I stayed here, I'd be killed. Whether I died before or after Yonabaru didn't really matter. There was no way I could survive the firefight. I had to get away. I had to be anywhere but here.

Even saints have limits to their patience, and I was no saint. I'd never been one to blindly believe in God, Buddha, any of that shit, but if somebody up there was going to give me a third chance, I wasn't about to let it go to waste. If I sat here staring up at the top bunk, the only future I had ended in a body bag. If I didn't want to die, I had to move. Move first, think later. Just like they taught us in training.

If today was a repetition of yesterday, Ferrell would be around any minute. The first time he showed up I'd been taking a dump, the second I'd been chatting it up with Yonabaru. After that we'd be off to a ridiculous session of PT, and we'd come back exhausted. That got me thinking. Everyone in the 17th Armored would be in that PT. Not only that, everyone else on the base with time on their hands would be gathered around the field to watch. I couldn't have asked for a better chance to sneak out of the base. Considering how tired I'd be after training, it was the only chance I was likely to get.

If I hurt myself, that would probably do it. They wouldn't send a wounded soldier to PT. I needed an injury that looked bad enough to get me out of PT, but nothing so bad it would lay me up. A man with even a shallow scalp wound would gush blood like a stuck pig. It was one of the first things they taught us in First Aid. At the time, I wondered what good first aid or anything else would do after a Mimic javelin had sliced off your head and sent it flying through the air, but I guess you never know when a little piece of knowledge will come in handy. I had to get started quick.

Fuck! I had a whole day to repeat, but I didn't have enough time when I needed it. That blockheaded sergeant was on his way. Move! Move!

"What's all that noise down there?" Yonabaru asked casually.

"I gotta head out for a minute."

"Head out? Hey! I need your signature!"

I dove into the space between the bunks without even bothering to tie my shoes. Concrete slapping under my feet, I turned just before hitting the poster of the girl in the swimsuit. I darted past the guy with the porno mag lying on his bed.

I wasn't headed anywhere in particular. Right then my top priority was making sure I didn't run into Ferrell. I had to get somewhere out of sight where I could hurt myself, then show up covered in blood around the time Yonabaru and Ferrell were finishing their conversation. For a plan I'd cooked up on the fly, it wasn't half bad.

Shit. I should've brought the combat knife I kept under my pillow. It was useless against Mimics, but for opening cans or cutting through wood or cloth, it was something no self—respecting soldier should be without. I'd cut myself with that knife a thousand times during training. I wouldn't have had any trouble making a scalp wound with it.

I'd made it out the entrance of the barracks, and I wanted to put as much space between me and HQ as possible. I let my speed slacken as I rounded the corner of the building.

There was a woman there. Terrible timing.

She grunted as she pushed a cart piled high with potatoes. I knew her: Rachel Kisaragi, a civilian posted over in Cafeteria No. 2. A snow—white bandana, neatly folded into a triangle, covered her black wavy hair. She had healthy, tanned skin and larger than average breasts. Her waist was narrow. Of the three types of women the human race boasted—the pretty, the homely, and the gorillas you couldn't do anything with save ship 'em off to the army—I'd put her in the pretty category without batting an eye.

In a war that had already lasted twenty years, there just wasn't enough money for all the military support staff to be government employees. Even at a base on the front lines, they filled as many noncombatant roles with civilians as they could. The Diet had already debated the possibility of handing over the transport of war matériel in noncombat zones to the private sector. People joked that at this rate, it wouldn't be long before they'd outsource the fighting to civilians and be done with the whole thing.

I'd heard that Rachel was more of a nutritionist than a cook. The only reason I recognized her was that Yonabaru had been chasing her skirt before he hooked up with his current squeeze. Apparently she didn't like guys who were too forward, which pretty much ruled out Yonabaru.

I smirked at the thought and a mountain of potatoes slammed into me. Desperately, I stuck out my right foot to catch my balance, but I slipped on one of the potatoes and went sprawling on my ass. An avalanche of spuds pummeled my face, one after another, the eager jabs of a rookie boxer on his way to the world heavyweight championship. The metal cart delivered the finishing blow, a hard right straight to my temple.

I collapsed to the ground with a thud sufficiently resounding to give a fuel—air grenade a run for its money. It was a while before I could even breathe.

"Are you all right?"

I groaned. At least it looked like none of the potatoes had hit Rachel.

"I… I think so."

"Sorry about that. I can't really see where I'm going when I'm pushing this thing."

"Nah, it's not your fault. I jumped out right in front of you."

"Hey, don't I know you?" Rachel peered down at poor flattened me with her green eyes.

A sheepish grin spread across my face. "Looks like we ran into each other again…"

"I knew it! You're the new recruit in the 17th."

"Yeah. Sorry for all the trouble," I said. A spud rolled off my belly.

With a hand on her hip, Rachel surveyed the damage. Her delicate eyebrows sank. "Couldn't have spread them out farther if you tried."

"Sorry."

"It's their fault for being so round." She arched her back slightly so her chest stuck out. It was hard to ignore.

"I guess."

"You ever see potatoes that round?"

I hadn't. Not among the tubers littering the floor either.

"Shouldn't take that long to grab them, if you help."

"No—I mean, yeah."

"Well, which is it?"

The clock was ticking. If I wasn't out of here now, I'd be dead tomorrow. I didn't have time to stand around grabbing potatoes—or anything else for that matter. But something else was kicking in, an attraction I'd felt for this girl since the first time I'd met her, right after my posting at the base.

I sat there on the ground, stalling and pretending to be in pain.

I was just about to give her my answer when I heard the sound of precisely measured footsteps approaching from behind.

"What are you doing?" came a growl like a hound from the gates of Hell. Ferrell.

He'd appeared from around the corner of the barracks and was now surveying the potatoes strewn across the concrete path with disapproval.

"I—I was pushing my cart, and—"

"This your mess, Kiriya?"

"Sir, yes sir!" I scrambled to my feet. A wave of vertigo washed over me. He rolled his eyes and fixed his gaze on me.

"S—Sir?"

"You're hurt. Let me take a look."

"It's nothing. I'll be fine."

Ferrell stepped closer and touched my head, right at the hairline.

A sharp pain shot across my scalp. His sausage—like fingers pried open the wound. Warm blood spurted from my forehead to the beat of an unseen rock band. The stream ran lazily down the side of my nose, touched the corner of my mouth, then hung briefly on the tip of my chin until a steady drip drip drip began. A rose of fresh blood blossomed on the concrete. The sharp smell of iron filled my nostrils. Rachel gasped.

"Hrmm. Nice, clean entry wound. What'd you hit it on?"

Rachel stepped in. "My cart fell over. I'm sorry."

"Is that how it happened?"

"Actually, I'm the one who ran into her, but yeah, pretty much."

"Right. Well, it's not as bad as it looks. You'll be fine," Ferrell said, giving the back of my head a playful slap. A spray of blood flew from my brow, staining my shirt. Leaving me where I was, he walked over to the corner of the barracks and shouted, loud enough to scare the cicadas off the walls, "Yonabaru! Get your butt out here!"

"There some soldierin' needs doin'? I'm here to—oh. Morning, Rachel. Sergeant, another fine day in the corps, I trust? So fine, it looks like the concrete up and sprouted potatoes."

"Shut your piehole and get some men out here to pick these up."

"Who, me?"

"Well he's not going to be picking anything up, is he?" Ferrell nodded in my direction.

Yonabaru gaped. "Dude, what hit you? You look like you went twenty in the cage with a three—hundred—pound Irishman." To the sergeant: "Wait, that means Keiji's the one who knocked all these over?" Back to me: "Helluva way to start the day, goin' and ruinin' a guy's morning like that."

"What's the matter, don't you want to help?"

"Don't be silly! For you, I'd pick up anything. Potatoes, pumpkins, land mines—"

"Enough. Is there anyone in this lousy excuse for a platoon whose head isn't lodged securely up his asshole?"

"That hurts, Sarge. You watch. I'll bring the hardest workin' men in the 17th."

"Kiriya! Quit standin' around like a scarecrow and get your butt over to the infirmary! You're excused from today's PT."

"PT? Who said anything about PT?"

"I did. Someone stepped in a knee—deep pile of pig shit in the PX last night. Now that may not have anything to do with you, but nevertheless, at oh—nine—hundred, you're going to assemble at the No. 1 Training Field in your fourth—tier equipment for Physical Training."

"You gotta be kidding! We're goin' into battle tomorrow, and you're sending us off for PT?"

"That's an order, Corporal."

"Sir, we'll report to the No. 1 Training Field at oh—nine—hundred in full fourth—tier equipment, sir! But one thing, Sarge. We been doin' that liquor raid for years. Why give us a hard time about it now?"

"You really want to know?" Ferrell rolled his eyes.

Leaving the conversation I'd heard before behind, I escaped to the infirmary.

6

I was standing at the gate that divided the base from the outside world. The guard who checked my ID raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

There was an extra layer of security on the base thanks to the U.S. crew's visit. Although the Japanese Corps oversaw general base security, the balance of power with the U.S. prevented them from interfering with anything under U.S. jurisdiction. Luckily, U.S. security didn't have any interest in anyone that wasn't one of their own.

Without leave papers from a commanding officer, Keiji Kiriya wasn't getting off the base. But the U.S. soldiers could come and go as they pleased, and all they had to do was flash an ID. Everyone used the same gate, so if I got an American guard, he might let me through, no questions asked. All they cared about was keeping undesirables away from their precious Special Forces squad. A recruit trying to go AWOL wasn't likely to catch their eye.

The guard must not have seen many Japanese ID cards, because he stared at mine for a long time. The machine that checked IDs just logged who passed through the gate. No need to panic. Why would they change the system up the day before an attack? The muscles in my stomach tensed. The guard was looking back and forth between me and my card, comparing the blurry picture with my face.

The cut on my temple burned. The sawbones who tended to me in the infirmary gave me three stitches without any painkiller. Now it was sending searing bolts of electricity shooting through my body. The bones in my knee creaked.

I was unarmed. I missed my knife, warm and snug under my pillow. If I had it with me, I could lock this guy in a half nelson and—thinking like that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I stretched my back. Gotta stay cool. If he stares at you, stare right back.

Stifling a yawn, the guard pressed the button to open the gate. The doorway to freedom creaked open.

I turned slowly to look back as I slipped past the yellow bar. There, in the distance, was the training field. The sea breeze, heavy with the scent of the ocean, blew across the field toward the gate. On the other side of the fence, soldiers the size of ants performed tiny, miniature squats. They were the soldiers I'd eaten with and trained with. They were my friends in the 17th. I swallowed the nostalgia that rose up in me. I walked, unhurried, the moist wind blowing against my body. Keep walking until you're out of sight of the guard. Don't run. Just a little farther. Turn the corner. I broke into a sprint.

Once I started running, I didn't stop.

It was fifteen klicks from the base to Tateyama, a nearby entertainment district. Even if I took a roundabout route, it would be twenty klicks at most. Once I was there, I could change my clothes and lay in the supplies I needed. I couldn't risk trains or the highway, but once I hit Chiba City I would be home free. Neither the army nor the police stuck their noses in the underground malls—turned—slums there.

It was about eight hours until Squad 1830's meeting. That's when they'd probably figure out I'd gone AWOL. I didn't know if they'd send cars or choppers after me, but by dusk, I planned to be just another face in the crowd. I remembered the training we'd done at the foot of Mount Fuji. Sixty—kilometer marches in full gear. Crossing the Boso Peninsula in half a day wouldn't be a problem. By the time tomorrow's battle started, I'd be far away from days that repeat themselves and the brutal deaths they ended in.

The sun hung high in the sky, washing me in blinding light. Fifty—seven millimeter automatic guns sat covered in white tarps at hundred—meter intervals along the seawall. Red—brown streaks of rust marred the antique steel plates at their base. The guns had been installed along the entire coastline when the Mimics reached the mainland.

As a kid, when I'd first laid eyes on those guns, I thought they were the coolest things I'd ever seen. The black lacquer finish of their steel instilled an unreasonable sense of confidence in me. Now that I'd seen real battle, I knew with cool certainty that weapons like these could never repel a Mimic attack. These guns moved like the dinosaurs they were. They couldn't hope to land a hit on a Mimic. What a joke.

They still had service crews assigned to these that came out and inspected them once a week. Bureaucracy loves waste.

Maybe humanity would lose.

The thought came to me out of the blue, but I couldn't shake it.

When I told my parents I'd enlisted, they'd wanted me to join the Coast Guard. They said I'd still get a chance to fight without going into battle. That'd I'd be performing the vital task of defending the cities where people worked and lived.

But I didn't want to fight the Mimics to save humanity. I'd seen my fill of that in the movies. I could search my soul till my body fell to dust around it and I'd never find the desire to do great things like saving the human race. What I found instead was a wire puzzle you couldn't solve no matter how many times you tried. Something buried under a pile of puzzle pieces that didn't fit. It pissed me off.

I was weak. I couldn't even get the woman I loved—the librarian—to look me in the eye. I thought the irresistible tide of war would change me, forge me into something that worked. I may have fooled myself into believing I'd find the last piece of the puzzle I needed to complete Keiji Kiriya on the battlefield. But I never wanted to be a hero, loved by millions. Not for a minute. If I could convince the few friends I had that I was someone who could do something in this world, who could leave a mark, no matter how small, that would be enough.

And look where that got me.

What had half a year of training done for me? I now possessed a handful of skills that weren't good for shit in a real battle and six—pack abs. I was still weak, and the world was still fucked. Mom, Dad, I'm sorry. It took me this long to realize the obvious. Ironic that I had to run away from the army before I figured it out.

The beach was deserted. The Coast Guard must have been busy evacuating this place over the past six months.

After a little less than an hour of running, I planted myself on the edge of the seawall. I'd covered about eight kilometers, putting me about halfway to Tateyama. My sand—colored shirt was dark with sweat. The gauze wrapped around my head was coming loose. A gentle sea breeze—refreshing after that hot wind that had swept across the base—caressed the back of my neck. If it weren't for the machine guns, props stolen from some long forgotten anime, intruding on the real world, it would have been the very picture of a tropical resort.

The beach was littered with the husks of spent firework rockets— the crude kind you put together and launch with a plastic tube. No one would be crazy enough to come this close to a military base to set off fireworks. They must have been left by some bastard on the feed trying to warn the Mimics about the attack on Boso Peninsula. There were anti—war activists out there who were convinced the Mimics were intelligent creatures, and they were trying to open a line of communication with them. Ain't democracy grand?

Thanks to global warming, this whole strip of beach was below sea level when the tide came in. By dusk, these fucking tubes would be washed away by the sea and forgotten. No one would ever know. I kicked one of the melted tubes as hard as I could.

"Well, what's this? A soljer?"

I spun around.

It had been a while since I'd heard anyone speak Japanese. I'd been so lost in my thoughts, I didn't realize anyone had come up behind me.

Two figures, an elderly man and a little girl, stood atop the embankment. The old man's skin would have made fine pickle brine if you set it out in a jar on a bright day like today. In his left hand he clutched a three—pronged metal spear right out of a fairy tale. What's he doing with a trident? The girl—she looked about the right age to be in elementary school—squeezed his right hand tightly. Half hidden behind the man's leg, the girl looked up at me unabashedly from under her straw hat. The face beneath the hat was too white to have spent much time cooking under the sun.

"Yourn an unf'milyar face."

"I'm from the Flower Line base." Dammit! I'd run my mouth before my brain.

"Ah."

"What, uh, brings you two out here?"

"Sea has fish wantin' t'be caught. Family's all gon' up to Tokyo."

"What happened to the Coast Guard?"

"Word come 'bout the whoopin' we took down on Okinawa. Why, they all up 'n' left. If the army kin take care them croakers for us, we'd breathe easier, that's fer sure."

"Yeah." Croakers was obviously some local slang for Mimics. Ordinary people never got the chance to see a Mimic with their own eyes. At best they'd catch a glimpse of a rotting corpse washed up on the beach, or maybe one that had gotten caught in a fishing net and died. But with the conductive sand washed away by the ocean, all that would remain would be empty husks. That's why a lot of people thought Mimics were some type of amphibian that shed its skin.

I only caught about 70 percent of what the old man said, but I heard enough to know that the Coast Guard had pulled out of the area. Our defeat at Okinawa must have been more serious than I thought. Bad enough for them to recall our combined forces up and down the Uchibo line. Everyone had been redeployed with a focus on major cities and industrial areas.

The old man smiled and nodded. The girl watched him with eyes wide as saucers, witness to some rare spectacle. He put a lot of hope in the UDF troops stationed at Flower Line Base. Not that I had signed up to defend him or anyone else for that matter. Still, it made me feel bad.

"You got any smokes, son? Since the mil'tary left, can't hardly come by none."

"Sorry. I don't smoke."

"Then don't you worry none." The old man stared out at the sea.

There weren't many soldiers in the Armored Infantry who suffered from nicotine addiction. Probably because you couldn't smoke during battle, when you needed it the most.

I stood silent. I didn't want to do or say anything stupid. I couldn't let him find out I was a deserter. They shot deserters. Escaping the Mimics just to be killed by the army didn't make much sense.

The girl tugged at the man's hand.

"She tires out real easy. Good eyes on her, though. Been born a boy, she'da been quite a fisherman."

"Yeah."

"Just one thing 'fore I go. Ain't never seen anythin' like this. Came runnin' out my house quick as I might, found you here. What you make of it? Anythin' to do with 'em croakers?" He raised his arm.

My eyes followed the gnarled twigs of his fingers as he pointed. The water had turned green. Not the emerald green you'd see off the shore of some island in the South Pacific, but a frothy, turbid green, as if a supertanker filled with green tea ice cream had run aground and spilled its cargo into the bay. A dead fish floated on the waves, a bright fleck of silver.

I recognized that green. I'd seen it on the monitors during training. Mimics ate soil, just like earthworms. But unlike earthworms, the soil they passed through their bodies and excreted was toxic to other life. The land the Mimics fed on died and turned to desert. The seas turned a milky green.

"Ain't like no red tide I e'er seen."

A high—pitched scream filled the air. My head rang to its familiar tune.

Eyebrows still knitted, the old man's head traced an arc as it sailed through the sky. The shattered pieces of his jaw and neck painted the girl's straw hat a vivid red. She didn't realize what had happened. A javelin exits a Mimic's body at twelve hundred meters per second. The old man's skull went flying before the sound of the javelin had even reached us. She slowly looked up.

A second round sliced through the air. Before her large, dark eyes could take in the sight of her slain grandfather, the javelin ripped through her, an act of neither mercy nor spite.

Her small body was obliterated.

Buffeted by the blast, the old man's headless body swayed. Half his body was stained a deep scarlet. The straw hat spun on the wind. My body recoiled. I couldn't move.

A bloated frog corpse stood at the water's edge.

This coast was definitely within the UDF defense perimeter. I hadn't heard reports of any patrol boats being sunk. The base on the front was alive and well. There couldn't be any Mimics here. A claim the two corpses lying beside me would surely have contested if they could. But they were dead, right before my eyes. And I, their one hope for defense, had just deserted the only military unit in the area capable of holding back this invasion.

I was unarmed. My knife, my gun, my Jacket—they were all back at the base. When I'd walked through that gate an hour ago, I'd left my only hope for defense behind. Thirty meters to the nearest 57mm gun. Within running distance. I knew how to fire one, but there was still the tarp to deal with. I'd never have time to get it off. Insert my ID card into the platform, key in my passcode, feed in a thirty kilometer ammo belt, release the rotation lock lever or the barrel won't move and I can't aim, climb into the seat, crank the rusted handle—fuck it. Fire, motherfucker! Fire!

I knew the power of a Mimic. They weighed several times as much as a fully geared Jacket jockey. Structurally they had a lot in common with a starfish. There was an endoskeleton just below the skin, and it took 50mm armor—piercing rounds or better to penetrate it. And they didn't hold back just because a man was unarmed. They rolled right through you like a rototiller through a gopher mound.

"Fuck me."

The first javelin pierced my thigh.

The second opened a gaping wound in my back.

I was too busy trying to keep down the organs that came gurgling up into my throat to even notice the third.

I blacked out.

7

The paperback I'd been reading was beside my pillow. Yonabaru was counting his bundle of confessions on the top bunk.

"Keiji, sign this."

"Corporal, you have a sidearm, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Could I see it?"

"Since when are you a gun nut?"

"It's not like that."

His hand disappeared into the top bunk. When it returned, it clutched a glistening lump of black metal.

"It's loaded, so watch where you point it."

"Uh, right."

"If you make corporal, you can bring your own toys to bed and ain't nobody can say a thing about it. Peashooter like this ain't no good against a Mimic anyhow. The only things a Jacket jockey needs are his 20mm and his rocket launcher, three rockets apiece. The banana he packs for a snack doesn't count. Now would you sign this already?"

I was too busy flicking off the safety on the gun to answer.

I wrapped my mouth around the barrel, imagining that 9mm slug in the chamber, waiting to explode from the cold, hard steel.

I pulled the trigger.

8

The paperback I'd been reading was beside my pillow. I sighed.

"Keiji, sign this." Yonabaru craned his neck down from the top bunk.

"Sir, yes sir."

"Listen. There's nothin' to tomorrow's operation. Sweat it too much, you'll turn into a feedhead—end up losing your mind before they even get a chance to blow your brains out."

"I'm not sweating anything."

"Hey man, ain't nothin' to be ashamed of. Everyone's nervous their first time. It's like gettin' laid. Until you've done the deed, you can't get it out of your head. All you can do is pass the time jerkin' off."

"I disagree."

"Hey, you're talkin' to a man who's played the game."

"What if—just hypothetically—you kept repeating your first time over and over?"

"Where'd you get that shit?"

"I'm just talkin' hypothetically is all. Like resetting all the pieces on a chess board. You take your turn, then everything goes back to how it started."

"It depends." Still hanging from the top bunk, his face lit up. "You talkin' about fucking or fighting?"

"No fucking."

"Well, if they asked me to go back and fight at Okinawa again, I'd tell 'em to shove it up their asses. They could send me to a fuckin' firing squad if they want, but I wouldn't go back."

What if you didn't have a choice? What if you had to relive your execution again and again?

At the end of the day, every man has to wipe his own ass. There's no one to make your decisions for you, either. And whatever situation you're in, that's just another factor in your decision. Which isn't to say everybody gets the same range of choices as everybody else. If there's one guy out there with an ace in the hole, there's sure to be another who's been dealt a handful of shit. Sometimes you run into a dead end. But you walked each step of the road that led you there on your own. Even when they string you up on the gallows, you have the choice to meet your death with dignity or go kicking and screaming into the hereafter.

But I didn't get that choice. There could be a giant waterfall just beyond Tateyama, the edge of the whole damn world, and I'd never know it. Day after day I go back and forth between the base and the battlefield, where I'm squashed like a bug crawling on the ground. So long as the wind blows, I'm born again, and I die. I can't take anything with me to my next life. The only things I get to keep are my solitude, a fear that no one can understand, and the feel of the trigger against my finger.

It's a fucked—up world, with fucked—up rules. So fuck it.

I took a pen from beside my pillow and wrote the number "5" on the back of my left hand. My battle begins with this number.

Let's see how much I can take with me. So what if the world hands me a pile of shit? I'll comb through it for the corn. I'll dodge enemy bullets by a hair's breadth. I'll slaughter Mimics with a single blow. If Rita Vrataski is a goddess on the battlefield, I'll watch and learn until I can match her kill for kill. I have all the time in the world.

Nothing better to do.

Who knows? Maybe something will change. Or maybe, I'll find a way to take this fucking world and piss in its eye.

That'd be just fine by me.