All You Need Is Kill

1

"Shit, it's started! Don't get your balls blown off, gents!"

Battle 159.

I dart forward, my Jacket's Doppler set to max.

I spot a target, fire, duck. A javelin whizzes past my head.

"Who's up there? You're too far forward! You wanna get yourself killed?"

The lieutenant said the same thing every time. I wiped sand from my helmet. Thunder erupted from the shells crisscrossing the sky. I glanced at Ferrell and nodded.

This time the battle would end. If I stood by and watched as Yonabaru and Ferrell died, they wouldn't be coming back. It all came down to this. There was no repeating this battle. The fear that clawed at my guts wasn't fear of death, it was fear of the unknown. I wanted to throw down my rifle and axe and find a bed to hide under.

A normal reaction—the world wasn't meant to repeat itself. I grinned in spite of the butterflies in my stomach. I was struggling with the same fear everyone struggles with. I was putting my life— the only one I had—on the line.

"You're not actually caught in a time loop," Rita had explained to me. My experiences of the 158 previous battles were real; it was me who didn't really exist. Whoever it was that had been there for the excruciating pain, hopelessness, and the hot piss in his Jacket, he was only a shattered memory now.

Rita told me that from the point of view of the person with the memory, there was no difference between having had an actual experience and only having the memory of it. Sounded like philosophical bullshit to me. Rita didn't seem to understand it all that well either.

I remember reading a comic, back when I still read comics, about a guy who used a time machine to change the past. It seemed to me that if the past changed, then the guy from the future who went back in time to change it should have disappeared—like the guy in those old Back to the Future movies—but the comic glossed over those details.

I had become an unwilling voyeur to the dreams of the Mimics. In my very first battle, the one where Rita saved my life, I had unknowingly killed one of those Mimics she called "servers." In every battle since then, from the second right up to the 158th, Rita had killed the server. But the network between me and the server had already been established the instant I killed it, meaning I was the one trapped in the loop, and that Rita had been freed.

The Mimics used the loop to alter the future to their advantage. The javelin that missed Yonabaru in the second battle had been meant for me. My chance encounter with a Mimic when I ran from the base hadn't had anything to do with chance. They'd been hunting me all along. If it hadn't been for Rita, they would have had me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

The fighting continued. Chaos stalked the battlefield.

I slid into a crater with the rest of my squad to avoid getting ventilated by a sniper javelin shot. The squad had moved a hundred meters nearer to the coast since the start of battle. The conical hole we had taken cover in was courtesy of the previous night's GPS—guided bombardment. A stray round landed near my feet, spraying sand into the air.

"Just like Okinawa," remarked Ferrell, his back pressed against the wall of earth.

Yonabaru squeezed off another round. "Musta been a helluva fight."

"We were surrounded, just like now. Ran out of ammo and things got ugly."

"You're gonna jinx us."

"I don't know—" Ferrell sprang up from the cover of the crater, fired his rifle, then sank back against the wall. "I got it in my head that this battle's going somewhere. Just a feeling."

"Shit, Sarge is talkin' happy talk. Better watch out we don't get struck by lightning."

"You have any doubts, just watch our newest recruit in action," Ferrell said. "Wouldn't surprise me to see him get up and dance the jitterbug just to piss the Mimics off."

"I don't know the jitterbug," I said.

"No shit."

"Maybe I'll give that pretty battle axe of yours a try." Yonabaru nodded at the gleaming slab of tungsten carbide in my Jacket's grip.

"You'd just hurt yourself."

"That's discrimination is what that is."

Same old, same old. Everyone talking over each other, no one listening.

"Bogies at two o'clock!"

"Our thirty—fifth customer of the day!"

"Which one of you assholes just sent me this huge—ass file? We're in the middle of a fuckin' war, if you haven't been keepin' up!"

"Man, I need some smokes."

"Shut the fuck up and shoot!"

The front line edged out of cover and leveled their rifles at the approaching throng. Bullets pierced the air, but the Mimic blitz kept coming. I gripped the handle of my axe.

Without warning, a bomb fell from the sky. The laser—guided precision munition smashed the bedrock, digging deep into the earth before detonating. The Mimics tumbled into the crater.

A crimson Jacket appeared amid the downpour of earth and clay. Tungsten carbide slashed away at flailing limbs and those thick, froggy torsos. After a few minutes, nothing was left moving. Nothing alien anyway.

Static filled my ears, then her voice came through. "Sorry to keep you waiting." The Full Metal Bitch stood, hefting an enormous battle axe, amid our sand—colored platoon. Her gunmetal red armor glistened in the sun.

I lifted my hand so she could pick me out of the crowd. "We just got here ourselves."

"What's the Full Metal Bitch doin' here?" Yonabaru forgot all about taking cover and stared stupidly at her Jacket. I would have paid good money for a look at his face.

Rita addressed Ferrell. "I need to talk to whoever's in charge of this platoon. Patch me in."

Ferrell opened a channel between Rita and the lieutenant. "You're good to go."

"This is Rita Vrataski. I have a request for the officer in charge of the 3rd Platoon of the 17th Company, 3rd Battalion, 12th Regiment, 301st Armored Infantry Division. I need to borrow Keiji Kiriya. That all right with you?"

She didn't state her rank or division. In a military culture where the sky was whatever color your ranking officer said it was, only the Valkyrie was free to operate outside the chain of command. Even back in that first battle, it hadn't been the Full Metal Bitch who cradled my head as I lay dying. It was Rita Vrataski.

The lieutenant's reply was unsure. "Kiriya? Maybe you'd like someone with more experience, someone—"

"Yes or no?"

"Well, uh, yes."

"I appreciate your help. Sarge, how 'bout you? Mind if I borrow Kiriya?"

Ferrell shrugged his approval, his Jacketed shoulders rising like an ocean wave.

"Thank you, Sarge."

"See that he doesn't do any jitterbugging near our squad."

"Jitterbugging? That some sort of code?" Rita asked.

"Just a figure of speech."

"Keiji, what's all this about?"

"Sorry, Sarge. I'll explain later," I said.

"We'll hit 'em from twelve o'clock."

"Uh, right."

"Hey, Keiji! If you see a vending machine, pick me up some smokes!" Yonabaru called out right before I disconnected from the comm link.

Rita chuckled at Nijou's wisecrack. "You've got a good squad. You ready?"

"Be gentle."

"I'm always gentle."

"That's not the way I hear it."

"Just worry about the Mimics, okay?"

Slamming against the sides of the impact crater, scrabbling, and finally climbing over one another, Mimics had begun to push out from the hole Rita had blasted in the ground. We dove into the pack headfirst. It was wall—to—wall bloated frogs.

Run. Fire. Retreat. Fresh magazine. Run some more. Fire. Breathe.

Precision bombs hunted for the Mimics where they hid. Smoke spiraled skyward where they had found their quarry. Sand and dirt followed the smoke into the air, and chunks of Mimic flesh weren't far behind. We rushed into the crater and took out everything the bombs left. Root 'em out, mow 'em down.

Even when you were just repeating the same day over and over, life on the battlefield was anything but routine. If the angle of your swing was off by so much as a degree, it could set off a chain of events that would change the entire outcome of the battle. A Mimic you let slip through one minute would be mowing through your friends the next. With each soldier that died, the line grew weaker, until it eventually collapsed under the strain. All because your axe swung at forty—seven degrees instead of forty—eight.

There were more Mimics than I could count. Dots filled the Doppler screen. The rule of thumb was that it took a squad of ten Jackets to bring down one Mimic. Even then, to make it an even match the squad had to be fanned out to spray the damn thing with bullets until there weren't any bullets left.

Rita was in constant motion. She swung her axe with the ease of a child swinging a plastic toy sword. The air was thick with Mimic parts. Another step, another swing, another limb. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I'd never seen anything like it. Javelins carried death through the air. I was close enough to reach out and touch half a dozen Mimics. In spite of the danger all around me, I felt an uncanny calm. I had someone to watch my back. Rita was a filter that distilled and neutralized the fear. I was in the valley of the shadow of death, no two fucking ways about it, but I had Rita at my side.

I learned to survive by mimicking Rita's skill with the axe, and in the process, I'd come to know her every move—which foot she'd take the next step with, which Mimic she'd strike first when surrounded. I knew when she would swing her axe, and when she would run. All that and more was hardcoded into my operating system.

Rita sidestepped danger and moved through the enemy ranks, carving a path of perfectly executed destruction. The only things she left standing were targets she couldn't be bothered to kill. I was only too happy to mop up after her. We'd never trained together, but we moved like twins, veterans of countless battles at each other's side.

Four Mimics came for Rita at once—bad odds, even for the Valkyrie. She was still off balance from her last swing. With my free hand, I gave her a gentle nudge. For a split second she was startled, but it didn't take her long to understand what I'd done.

She really was a master. In less than five minutes, she'd learned to work in tandem with me. When she realized I could use a free arm or leg to knock her clear of an attack, she turned and faced the next enemy head on, without any intent of dodging. A Mimic foreleg came within a hand's breadth of her face and she didn't even flinch.

We worked as a single unit. We tore through the enemy with frightening power, always keeping the other's Jacket in the corner of our eyes. We didn't need words or gestures. Every motion, every footstep said all that needed to be said.

Our enemy may have evolved the ability to rewind time, but humanity had evolved a few tricks of its own. There were people who could keep a Jacket in tip—top condition, people who could conjure up strategies and handle logistics, people who could provide support on the front lines, and last but not least, people who were natural—born killers. People could adapt themselves to their environment and their experiences in any number of ways. An enemy that could look into the future and perceive danger fell victim to its own evolutionary atrophy. We learned faster than they could.

I had passed through death 158 times to emerge at heights no creature on this planet could aspire to in a single lifetime. Rita Vrataski had ascended even higher. We strode ahead, far from the rest of the force, an army unto ourselves. Our Jackets traced graceful clockwise spirals as we pressed on—a habit I'd picked up from Rita. Twitching mounds of carrion were all we left in our wake.

Forty—two minutes into the battle, we found it. The Mimic at the root of the whole motherfucking loop. The thread that bound us. If not for this server, I would never have drowned in my own blood, watched my guts spill onto the ground dozens of times over, wandered aimlessly through this Hell with no way out. If it weren't for this server, I would never have met Rita Vrataski.

"This is it, Keiji. You have to be the one to bring it down."

"With pleasure." "Remember: antenna first, then the backups, then the server." "And then we go home?" "Not quite. When the loop ends, the real battle begins. It's not over until there isn't a Mimic left moving." "Nothing's ever easy."

Genocide was the only way to win this war. You couldn't shave their forces down by 30 percent and claim victory. You had to destroy every last one of them. Take down the server, and the war would go on. All Rita and I could do was free our troops from the quagmire of the Mimics' time loops. A lasting victory would require more force than two soldiers alone could ever bring to bear. But on the day we did win, I could die, Rita could die, Yonabaru, Ferrell, and the rest of our platoon could die, even those cunt—lipped assholes in the 4th could die, and time would never repeat again. A new day would dawn on Earth.

Rita said taking out a Mimic server was as easy as opening a tin can. All you needed was the right opener. Catch was, up until then she'd been the only person on the planet who had one.

People of Earth, rejoice! Keiji Kiriya just found another can opener! Act now, and for every Rita Vrataski—brand can opener you purchase, you'll receive a second Keiji Kiriya—brand can opener at NO ADDITIONAL CHARGE!

Of course, you couldn't buy us separately if you wanted to. I suppose Rita and I wouldn't have made very honest salesmen. What this nightmarish time loop from the bowels of Hell hath joined together, let no man put asunder. Only Rita and I understood each other's solitude, and we would stand side by side, dicing Mimics into bite—size chunks until the bitter end.

"Antenna down!"

"On to the backups."

"Copy that."

I raised my battle axe and brought it down in a swift, clean stroke—

I opened my eyes. I was in bed.

I took a pen and wrote "160" on the back of my hand. Then I kicked the wall as hard as I could.

2

It's not easy telling a person something you know is going to make them cry, let alone doing it with an audience. And if Jin Yonabaru is in that audience, you're up shit creek in a concrete canoe with a hole in the bottom.

Last time it had come out sounding too forced. I was trying to think of a better way to say it, but I couldn't come up with anything short and sweet that would let Rita know that I was also experiencing the time loops. Maybe I should just tell her that. Hell, I didn't have any better ideas.

I'd never been particularly smart, and what little brains I did have were preoccupied with trying to figure out why I hadn't broken out of the loop according to plan. I'd done everything just as Rita told me, but here I was on my 160th day before the battle.

The sky over the No. 1 Training Field was as clear the 160th time as it had been the first. The ten o'clock sun beat down on us without pity. PT had just ended, and the shadows pooled at our feet were speckled with darker spots of sweat.

I was a total stranger to this woman with rust—colored hair and skin far too pale for a soldier. Her rich brown eyes fixed on me.

"So you wanted to talk. What is it?"

I was out of time, and I was fresh out of bright ideas. I'd have been better off taking her aside before PT. Too late now.

I looked at Rita and said the same bit about green tea I had before. Hey, that didn't go so bad this time, I thought. Maybe she's not going to—oh, fuck.

Tears streamed down Rita's cheeks and dripped from the point of her chin, then splashed as they landed in the palm of the hand I held out to catch them. I was still hot from exercising, but the tears burned like 20mm slugs. My heart was pounding. I was a junior high school student asking a girl to the dance. Not even battle pumped my blood pressure this much.

Rita clutched the bottom of my shirt, squeezing so tight the tips of her fingers were white. On the battlefield I could see every move coming before she made it, but here I was clueless. I'd programmed myself to dodge a thousand Mimic attacks with ease, but what good was my OS when I really needed it? My mind wandered, looking for an out. I wondered if my shirt was sweaty where she was grabbing it.

The last time, I had stood like a park statue until Rita regained her composure and spoke. Maybe after ten more trips through the loop this would all be routine. I'd know just what to say to soothe her as I held her gently against my shoulder. But that would mean reducing my interactions with the one and only person in the world who understood me to a rote performance. Something told me it was better to just stand there and take it.

Yonabaru was gaping at us like a tourist in a zoo gapes at a bear who has suddenly stood up and begun to waltz. At least I'd finally found a situation that would shut him up. Ferrell politely averted his eyes, but only halfway. And that was more or less how the rest of the platoon behaved. Fuck me. I was the dancing bear. Don't stare. Don't say anything. Just throw your money in the can and move along.

What was it you were supposed to do when you were nervous— picture everyone naked? No, that was for speaking in public. In training they taught us to hold ourselves together by thinking of something we enjoyed. Something that made you happy. In battle, this would probably be one of those happy things to think back on, so why was it so nerve—racking now? If God had an answer, He wasn't talking.

I took Rita by the wrist. She looked lost.

"I'm Keiji Kiriya."

"Rita. Rita Vrataski."

"I guess I should start with ‘Nice to meet you.'"

"Why are you smiling?"

"I dunno. Just happy, I guess," I said.

"You're an odd one." Rita's face softened.

"Let's make a break for it." My eyes glanced over her shoulder. "My two o'clock. You ready?"

Rita and I sprinted away, leaving the men on the field scratching their heads. We slipped past the chain link fence bordering the training grounds. The breeze blowing off the sea was cool against our skin. For a while we ran for running's sake. The coastline lay far off to our left, cobalt—blue waters spreading beyond the meaningless barricade of barbed wire that lined the beach. The ocean still blue because we had fought to keep it that way. A patrol boat cutting a course parallel to our own trailed a white wake along the sharp line that divided sea and sky.

The deep shouts of the soldiers faded. The only sounds were the roar of the sea, the faraway shuffling noises of military boots on concrete, my too—loud pounding heart, and the sigh of Rita's breath.

I came to an abrupt halt and stood dumbly, just as I had before we started running. Rita couldn't cut her speed in time and came crashing into me. Another OS slip—up. I took a few awkward steps. Rita stumbled as she regained her balance. We held on to each other to keep from falling. My arm was wrapped around Rita's body and hers around mine.

The impact risked breaking any number of regulations. Her toned flesh pressed against me like reactive armor. A pleasant scent assaulted my senses. Without my Jacket, I was defenseless against any stray chemicals that chanced into the air.

"Uh, excuse me." Rita was the first to apologize.

"No, my bad. I shouldn't have stopped."

"No. I mean, excuse me, but—" she said.

"You don't have to apologize."

"I'm not trying to apologize. It's just—would you mind letting go of my hand?"

"Ah—" A red ring stood out on Rita's wrist where my fingers had gripped her skin. "Sorry."

To me, Rita was an old friend, a companion of many battles. But to her, Keiji Kiriya was a stranger she'd just met. Nothing more than an ashen silhouette from another time. Only I remembered the relief we'd felt when we stood with our backs pressed against each other. Only I had experienced the electricity that flowed between us when our eyes met in implicit understanding. Only I felt a sense of longing and devotion.

Before I joined the army, I saw a show about a man in love with a woman who'd lost her memory in an accident. He must have gone through something like what I was going through now. Hopelessly watching all the things you love in the world being carried away on the wind while you stand by powerless to prevent it.

"I'm—well…" I didn't even know what to say to her this time, despite the previous loop.

"This your clever way of getting the two of us out of there?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Good. Now where exactly are we?" Rita spun on her heel as she took in her surroundings.

We stood in a wide space bordered on one side by the barbed—wire barricade and a chain—link fence on the other three. Weeds sent shoots of green through the cracks in the concrete that covered the roughly ten—thousand—square—meter enclosure.

"The No. 3 Training Field."

I'd managed to take us from one training field to another. Smooth. I'd been spending too much time with Ferrell. His love of training bordered on serious mental illness, and it had started to rub off on me.

Rita turned back to me. "It's kind of bleak."

"Sorry."

"No, I like the emptiness of it."

"You have unusual tastes."

"Is that even a taste? The place I grew up was hopelessly empty. We didn't have any oceans, though. The sky out here is—it's so brilliant," she said, her head tilted back.

"You like it? The sky?"

"Not the sky so much as the color of it. That shimmering blue."

"Then why's your Jacket red?"

A few moments of silence passed between us before she spoke again.

"The sky in Pittsfield is so washed out. Like the color of water after you've rinsed out a paintbrush with blue paint in it. Like all the water in the ground rushed up in the sky and thinned it." I gazed at Rita. She looked back at me, rich brown eyes staring into mine. "Sorry. Forget I said that," she said.

"How come?"

"It wasn't a very Rita Vrataski thing to say."

"I don't know about that."

"I do."

"Well, I thought it was nice," I said.

Rita opened her eyes wide. For an instant, they flashed with a glint of the Full Metal Bitch. The rest of her face remained still. "What'd you say?"

"I said it sounded nice."

She looked surprised at that. A lock of rust—colored hair fell to her forehead, and she raised her hand to play with it. I caught a glimpse of her eyes from between her fingers. They were filled with a strange light. She looked like a girl whose heart strings had begun to unravel, a child whose lies had been laid bare by the piercing gaze of her mother.

I broke the awkward silence. "Is something wrong?"

"No."

"I wasn't making fun of you. It's just something I wanted to say. Guess I didn't get the timing right."

"We've had a conversation like this before in an earlier loop, haven't we? But only you remember," Rita said.

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

"No, it doesn't bother me," she said, shaking her head.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Tell me what you're planning."

"Well, there's a lot I still don't understand," I said. "I need you to explain how to end the loop, for starters."

"I'm asking what you're planning to do next so I don't have to think about it."

"Are you kidding?" I asked.

"I'm dead serious."

"But you're Rita Vrataski. You always know what to do."

"It will be fun being the one outside the loop for a change."

"Not much fun for me," I said. I wondered what she meant by saying "will"; I thought she'd been freed from the loop already, after 211 times through thirty hours in Florida. I opened my mouth to ask, but she interrupted.

"I think I've earned the right to sit back and watch," she said. "I've had to handle enough shit as it is. It's your turn. The sooner you accept that, the better."

I sighed. "I know."

"Hey, don't blame me."

"Well then, it's still a little early, but my next stop is the cafeteria. I hope you're in the mood for Japanese food."

The cafeteria was noisy. In one corner, a group of soldiers was seeing who could do the most push—ups in three minutes. Another group we walked past was playing gastronomic chicken with a mystery liquid that looked like a combination of ketchup, mustard, and orange juice. At the far end of the room some guy was singing a folk song—or maybe it was an old anime theme song—that had been popular at least seventy years ago, complete with banjo accompaniment. One of the feed religions had originally used it as an anti—war song, but that wasn't the sort of detail that bothered guys who signed up with the UDF. The tune was easy to remember, and that's all it took to be a hit with a crowd of Jacket jockeys.

Let's all join the ar—my!

Let's all join the ar—my!

Let's all join the ar—my!

And kill ourselves some things!

I'd watched all this 159 times. But since I'd been caught in the loop, I hardly noticed a thing about the world outside my own head that didn't directly pertain to my way out of here. I sat quietly in a small, gray cafeteria, devoid of sound, methodically shoveling tasteless food into my mouth.

Even if tomorrow's battle went well, some of the soldiers here wouldn't be coming back. If it went poorly, even fewer would return. Everybody knew it. The Armored Infantry was Santa Claus, and battle was our Christmas. What else for the elves to do on Christmas Eve but let their hair down and drink a little eggnog.

Rita Vrataski was sitting across from me, eating the same lunch for the 160th time. She examined her 160th umeboshi.

"What is this?"

"Umeboshi. It's ume—people call it a plum, but it's more like an apricot—dried in the sun, and then pickled. You eat it."

"What's it taste like?"

"Food is like war. You have to experience it for yourself."

She poked at it two or three times with her chopsticks, then threw caution to the wind and put the whole thing in her mouth. The sourness hit her like a body blow from a heavyweight fighter and she doubled over, grabbing at her throat and chest. I could see the muscles twitching in her back.

"Like it?"

Rita worked her mouth without looking up. Her neck tensed. Something went flying out of her mouth—a perfectly clean pit skidded to a halt on her tray. She wiped the edges of her mouth as she gasped for breath.

"Not sour at all."

"Not at this cafeteria," I said. "Too many people from overseas. Go to a local place if you want the real stuff."

I picked up the umeboshi from my tray and popped it into my mouth. I made a show of savoring the flavor. Truth be known, it was sour enough to twist my mouth as tight as a crab's ass at low tide, but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of seeing that.

"Pretty good." I smacked my lips.

Rita stood, her mouth a stern line. She left me sitting at the table as she strode down the corridor between the tables, past throngs of soldiers, and up to the serving counter. There, Rachel spoke to a gorilla of a man who could reach up and touch the ceiling without so much as stretching—the same gorilla from the 4th whose fist my jaw had encountered all those loops ago. Beauty and the Beast were understandably surprised to see the subject of their conversation walk up to them. The entire cafeteria could sense that something was up; the conversations dimmed, and the banjo music stopped. Thank God.

Rita cleared her throat. "Could I get some dried pickled plums?"

"Umeboshi?"

"Yeah, those."

"Well, sure, if you like."

Rachel took out a small plate and started piling it with umeboshi from a large, plastic bucket.

"I don't need the plate."

"I'm sorry?"

"That thing you're holding in your left hand. Yeah, the bucket. I'll take all of them."

"Um, people don't usually eat that many at once," Rachel said.

"That a problem?"

"No, I suppose not—"

"Thanks for your help."

Bucket in hand, Rita walked back triumphantly. She thunked it down in the middle of the table right in front of me.

The container was about thirty centimeters across at the mouth— a tub big enough to serve about two hundred men, since nobody ever wanted more than one—packed halfway to the top with bright red umeboshi. Big enough to drown a small cat. The base of my tongue started to ache just looking at it. Rita went for her chopsticks.

She singled out one of the wrinkled, reddish fruit from the bucket and popped it into her mouth. She chewed. She swallowed. Out came the pit.

"Not sour at all." Her eyes watered.

Rita passed the barrel to me with a shove. My turn. I picked out the smallest one I could find and put it in my mouth. I ate it and spit out the pit.

"Mine either."

We were playing our own game of gastronomic chicken. The tips of Rita's chopsticks quivered as she plunged them back into the barrel. She tried twice to pick up another umeboshi between them before she gave up and just skewered one on a single stick, lifting it to her mouth. The fruit trailed drops of pink liquid that stained the tray where they fell.

A crowd of onlookers had begun to gather around us. They watched in uneasy silence at first, but the excitement grew palpably with each pit spat out on the tray.

Sweat beaded on our skin like condensation on a hot day's beer can. The revolting pile of half—chewed pits grew. Rachel was off to the side, watching with a worried smile. I spotted my friend from the 4th in the throng, too. He was having such a good time watching me suffer. Each time Rita or I put another ume in our mouths, a wave of heckling rippled through the crowd.

"Come on, pick up the pace!"

"No turnin' back now, keep 'em poppin'!"

"You're not gonna let this little girl show you up, are you?"

"Fuck, you think he can beat Rita? You're crazy!"

"Eat! Eat! Eat!"

"Watch the doors, don't want nobody breakin' this up! I got ten bucks on the scrawny guy!" followed immediately by, "Twenty on Rita!" Then someone else cried out, "Where's my fried shrimp? I lost my fried shrimp!"

It was hot, it was loud, and in a way I can't explain, it felt like home. There was an invisible bond that hadn't been there my previous times through the loop. I'd had a taste of what tomorrow would bring, and suddenly all the little things that happen in our lives, the minutiae of the day, took on new importance. Just then, being surrounded by all that noise felt good.

In the end, we ate every industrially packed umeboshi in the barrel. Rita had the last one. I argued that it was a tie, but since Rita had gone first, she insisted that she had won. When I objected, Rita grinned and offered to settle it over another barrel. It's hard to say whether that grin meant she really could have gone on eating or if the overload of sour food had made her a little funny in the head. The gorilla from the 4th brought in another full barrel of the red fruit from Hell and placed it in the middle of the table with a thud.

By that point, I felt like I was made of umeboshi from the waist on down. I waved the white flag.

After that, I talked with Rita about everything—Yonabaru who never shut up, Sergeant Ferrell and his training obsession, the rivalry between our platoon and the 4th. For her part, Rita told me things she hadn't had time to get to in the last loop. When not encased in her Jacket, the Bitch wore a shy smile that suited her well. Her fingertips smelled of machine grease, pickled plum, and a hint of coffee.

I don't know which flags I'd set or how, but on that 160th loop my relationship with Rita deepened as it never had before. The next morning, Corporal Jin Yonabaru didn't wake up on the top bunk. He woke up on the floor.

3

I found no peace in sleep. A Mimic would snuff out my life, or I'd black out in the middle of battle. After that, nothing. Then without warning, the nothingness gave way. The finger that had been squeezing the trigger of my rifle was wedged three quarters of the way through my paperback. I'd find myself lying in bed, surrounded by its pipe frame, listening to the high—pitched voice of the DJ read the day's weather. Clear and sunny out here on the islands, same as yesterday, with a UV warning for the afternoon. Each word wormed its way into my skull and stuck there.

By "sunny" I had picked up the pen, by "islands" I was writing the number on my hand, and by the time she'd gotten to "UV warning" I was out of bed and on my way to the armory. That was my wake—up routine.

Sleep on the night before the battle was an extension of training. For some reason, my body never grew fatigued. The only thing I brought with me were my memories and the skills I'd mastered. I spent the night tossing and turning, my mind replaying the movements it had learned the previous day as it burned the program into my brain. I had to be able to do what I couldn't the last time through the loop, to kill the Mimics I couldn't kill, to save the friends I couldn't save. Like doing an iso push—up in my mind. My own private nightly torment.

I awoke in battle mode. Like a pilot flipping through switches before takeoff, I inspected myself one part at a time, checking for any muscles that might have knotted up overnight. I didn't skip so much as a pinky toe.

Rotating ninety degrees on my ass, I sprang out of bed and opened my eyes. I blinked. My vision blurred. The room was different. The prime minister's head wasn't staring out at me from atop the swimsuit model. By the time I noticed, it was too late; my foot missed a platform that wasn't there and my inertia sent me tumbling from the bed. My head slammed into a tile—covered floor, and I finally realized where I was.

Sunlight shone through layers of blast—resistant glass and spilled across the vast, airy room. An artificial breeze from the purifier poured over my body as I lay sprawled on the floor. The thick walls and glass completely blocked out the sounds of the base that were usually so loud in my ears.

I was in the Sky Lounge. In a base of exposed steel and khaki—colored, fire—retardant wood, this was the one and only properly appointed room. Originally an officers' meeting room that doubled as a reception hall, the night view of Uchibo through its multilayered glass would have fetched a good price.

As nice as the view was, it was a lousy place to wake up, unless you were a mountain goat or a dedicated hermit with a love of heights. Or you could be Yonabaru. I'd heard he had some secret spot up here one floor higher than even the officers were allowed to go. "His love nest," we called it.

More like a love aerie.

Looking out across the ocean I could see the gentle curve of the horizon. Uchibo beach was dimly visible through the morning mist. Triangles of waves rose, turned to foam, and faded back into the sea. Beyond those waves lay the island the Mimics had made their spawning grounds. For a moment, I thought I saw a bolt of bright green shoot through the surf. I blinked my eyes. It had only been a glint of sunlight on the water.

"You certainly slept well last night." Rita stood over me, having walked in from the other room.

I looked up slowly from the tile floor. "Feels like it's been years."

"Years?"

"Since I had a good night's sleep. I'd forgotten how good it is."

"That's crazy time—loop talk."

"You should know."

Rita gave a wave of her hand in sympathy.

Our savior, the Full Metal Bitch, looked more relaxed this morning than I had ever seen her. Her eyes were softer in the cool morning light, and the sunlight made her rust—colored hair glow orange. She gave me the sort of look she might give to a puppy who'd followed her home. She was placid as a Zen monk. She was beautiful.

The room suddenly grew too bright, and I narrowed my eyes against the glare. "What's that smell?"

An unusual odor mingled with the clean air coming from the filter. It wasn't necessarily a bad smell, but I wouldn't have gone so far as to call it pleasant. Too pungent for food, too savory for perfume. Quite frankly, I didn't know what the hell it was.

"All I did was open the bag. You've got a sharp nose."

"In training they told us to be wary of any unusual odors, since it could mean there was a problem with the Jacket filter—not that I'm in a Jacket right now."

"I've never met anyone who confused food with chemical weapons before," Rita said. "Don't you like the smell?"

"Like isn't the word I'd use. It smells… weird."

"No manners at all. Is that any way to thank me for boiling a morning pot of coffee for us?"

"That's… coffee?"

"Sure is."

"This isn't your way of getting back at me for the umeboshi, is it?"

"No, this is what roasted coffee beans picked from actual coffee trees that grew in the ground smell like. Never had any?"

"I have a cup of the artificial slop every day."

"Just wait till I brew it. You ain't smelled nothin' yet."

I didn't know there were any natural coffee beans left in the world. That is, I suspected real coffee still existed, somewhere, but I didn't know there was anyone still in the habit of drinking it.

The beverage that passed for coffee these days was made from lab—grown beans with artificial flavoring added for taste and aroma. Substitute grounds didn't smell as strong as the beans Rita was grinding, and they didn't fight their way into your nose and down your entire respiratory tract like these did, either. I suppose you could extrapolate the smell of the artificial stuff and eventually approach the real thing, but the difference in impact was like the difference between a 9mm hand gun and a 120mm tank shell.

"That must be worth a small fortune," I said.

"I told you we were on the line in North Africa before we came here. It was a gift from one of the villages we freed."

"Some gift."

"Being queen isn't all bad, you know."

A hand—cranked coffee grinder sat in the middle of the glass table. A uniquely shaped little device—I'd seen one once in an antique shop. Beside it was some kind of ceramic funnel covered with a brown—stained cloth. I guessed you were supposed to put the ground—up coffee beans in the middle and strain the water through them.

An army—issued portable gas stove and heavy—duty frying pan dominated the center of the table. A clear liquid bubbled noisily in the frying pan. Two mugs sat nearby, one chipped with cracked paint, and one that looked brand new. At the very edge of the table sat a resealable plastic bag filled with dark brown coffee beans.

Rita didn't seem to have many personal effects. There was nothing in the way of luggage save a semi—translucent sack at the foot of the table—it looked like a boxer's heavy bag. Without the coffee—making equipment to support it, the bag had collapsed, nearly empty. Soldiers who had to be ready to ship out to the far corners of the earth at a moment's notice weren't permitted much cargo, but even by those standards Rita traveled light. That one of the few things she did bring was a hand—powered coffee grinder didn't do anything to lessen the perception that she was a little odd.

"You can wait in bed if you like."

"I'd rather watch," I said. "This is interesting."

"Then I guess I'll get grinding."

Rita started turning the handle on the coffee grinder. A gravelly crunching sound filled the room and the glass table shook. Rita's curls quaked atop her head.

"When the war's over, I'm gonna treat you to the best green tea you ever had—in return for the coffee."

"I thought green tea came from China."

"It may have started there, but it was perfected here. It was a long time before they'd even allow it to be exported. I wonder what kind we should have."

"They serve it for free in restaurants?"

"That's right."

"After the war…" Rita sounded just a little sad.

"Hey, this war will be over someday. No doubt about it. You and I'll see to that."

"You're right. I'm sure you will." Rita took the ground beans and spread them on the cloth covering the funnel. "You have to steam them first."

"Oh yeah?"

"Completely changes the flavor. Something an old friend once taught me. Don't know how it works, but he was right."

She moistened the freshly ground beans with a little not—quite boiling water. Cream—colored bubbles hissed to life where the water touched the grounds. A striking aroma woven of threads bitter, sweet, and sour filled the air surrounding the table.

"Still smell weird?"

"It smells wonderful."

Using a circular motion, Rita carefully poured in the water. Drop by drop, a glistening brown liquid began filling the steel mug waiting beneath.

A thin line of steam had begun to rise from the mug when an earsplitting sound pierced the thick walls and blast—hardened glass of the Sky Lounge. The tile floor shook. Rita and I were on the ground in a heartbeat. Our eyes met.

There was no chandelier tinkle of shattered glass, only a sharp concussive sound, as though someone had thrown a thick telephone book onto the ground. Spiderweb fractures spread through the window glass, a sand—colored javelin sticking from the middle of the web. Deep purple liquid crystal seeped from the cracks and onto the floor below.

Too late, sirens began to blare across the base. Three plumes of smoke rose outside the window. The water off the coast had turned a livid green.

"An—an attack?" My voice was shaking. Probably my body too. In all 159 loops there had never been a surprise attack. The battle was supposed to start after we landed on Kotoiushi Island.

A second and third round impacted the window. The entire glass pane bulged inward but somehow held. Cracks crisscrossed the window. Pinpricks of light swam before my eyes.

Rita had gotten to her feet and was calmly returning the frying pan to the top of the portable gas stove. She killed the flame with a practiced hand.

"This glass is really something. You never know if it's all just talk," Rita mused.

"We have to hit back—no, I've got to find the sergeant—wait, our Jackets!"

"You should start by calming down."

"But, what's happening!" I hadn't meant to shout, but couldn't help it. None of this was in the script. I'd been looped so long that the idea of novel events terrified me. That the novel event in question happened to involve Mimic javelins exploding against the windows of the room I was standing in didn't help.

"The Mimics use the loops to win the war. You're not the only one who remembers what's happened in each loop."

"Then this is all because I screwed up the last time?"

"The Mimics must have decided this was the only way they could win. That's all."

"But… the base," I said. "How did they even get here?"

"They came inland up the Mississippi to attack Illinois once. They're aquatic creatures. It's not surprising they found a way through a quarantine line created by a bunch of land—dwelling humans." Rita was calm.

"I guess."

"Leave the worrying to the brass. For you and me, this just means we fight here instead of Kotoiushi."

Rita held out her hand. I clasped it and she helped me to my feet. Her fingers were callused at the bases—rub marks from the Jacket contact plates. The palm of the hand she'd been holding the frying pan with was much warmer than my own. I could feel the tight apprehension in my chest begin to ebb.

"A Jacket jockey's job is to kill every Mimic in sight. Right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's right."

"We'll go to the U.S. hangar first. I'll put on my Jacket. We'll get weapons for both of us. I'll cover you on our way to the Japanese hangar. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Then we hunt down the server and kill it. End the loop. After that, just need to mop up whatever's left." I stopped shaking. Rita flashed an ironclad grin. "No time for our morning cup o' joe."

"Just gotta finish this before it gets cold," I said, reaching for a cup.

"That an attempt at humor?"

"It was worth a try."

"That would be nice though. Coffee never tastes the same when you reheat it. And if you leave the natural stuff sitting out, after about three days it starts to grow mold. That happened to me once in Africa. I coulda kicked myself."

"Was it good?"

"Very funny."

"If you didn't drink it, how do you know it wasn't?"

"You can drink all the moldy coffee you like. Don't expect me to clean up after you when you get sick. Come on."

Rita moved away from the table, leaving behind the freshly brewed, all—natural coffee. As we started to walk from the room, a small woman who'd been pressed up against the door came tumbling in, feathered headdress and all. Her black hair was braided into a ponytail that flopped behind her bizarre choice of headgear. Everybody's favorite Native American, Shasta Raylle.

"We're under attack! We're under attack!" she shouted, nearly breathless. Her face was streaked with lines of red and white warpaint. I began to wonder if the whole loop thing was just me going crazy for the last few seconds of life in a steaming crater somewhere.

Rita took a step back to appreciate one of the brightest minds MIT had to offer. "Which tribe's attacking?"

"Not a tribe! The Mimics!"

"This how you always dress for battle?"

"Is it that bad?" Shasta asked.

"I'm not one to criticize someone's customs or religion, but I'd say you're about two hundred years late to the powwow."

"No, you don't understand!" Shasta said. "They forced me to dress up like this at the party last night! This sort of thing always happens when you're not around."

I suppose everyone has a cross to bear, I thought.

"Shasta, why are you here?" Rita said, with surprising patience.

"I came to tell you your axe isn't in the hangar, it's in the workshop."

"Thanks for the heads—up."

"Be careful out there."

"What are you going to do?"

"I can't fight, so I figured I'd find a nice place to hide—"

"Use my room," Rita said quickly. "The javelins can't make it through the walls or the glass. It's tougher than it looks. You just need to do me one little favor."

"A… favor?"

"Don't let anyone in here until either he or I come back." Rita jabbed a thumb in my direction. I don't think Shasta even realized there was anyone standing next to Rita until then. I could almost hear her big eyes blinking from somewhere behind her glasses as she stared at me. I hadn't met Shasta Raylle yet in this loop.

"And you are…?"

"Keiji Kiriya. A pleasure."

Rita stepped toward the door. "You're not to let anyone in, no matter who they are or what they say. I don't care if it's the president, tell him to go fuck himself."

"Yes sir!"

"I'm counting on you. Oh, and one other thing—"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for the good luck charm. I'll need it."

Rita and I hurried to the hangar.

4

By the time Rita and I had made the relatively long trip from the Sky Lounge, U.S. Special Forces had established a defensive perimeter with their hangar at its center.

Two minutes for Rita to put on her Jacket. One minute forty—five seconds to run to Shasta's workshop. Six minutes fifteen seconds to put down two Mimics we encountered on the way to the Nippon hangar. In all, twelve minutes and thirty seconds had passed since we left the Sky Lounge.

The base had descended into chaos. Tongues of flame shot into the sky and vehicles lay overturned in the roads. Smoky haze filled the alleyways between the barracks, making it difficult to see. The firecracker popping of small arms fire, useless against Mimics, rang through the air, drowned out by the occasional roar of a rocket launcher. Javelins met attack choppers as they scrambled into the sky, shattering their rotor blades and sending them spiraling toward the ground.

For every person running north to flee the carnage, there was another running south. There was no way of knowing which way was safe. The surprise attack had smashed the chain of command. No one at the top had any better idea of what was going on than anyone at the bottom.

There were hardly any Mimic corpses, and of the ten thousand plus Jackets on the base there was no sign at all. Human bodies were scattered here and there. It didn't take more than a glance at a crushed torso to know they were KIAs.

A dead soldier lay face down on the ground thirty meters in front of my hangar. His torso had been shredded to ground beef, but he was still clutching a magazine with both hands. Beneath a thin layer of dust a smiling, topless blond stared up from its pages. I would know those prodigious breasts anywhere. The guy in the bunk next to mine had been looking at them during all those heart—to—heart talks I'd had with Yonabaru in the barracks. It was Nijou.

"Poor bastard died looking at porn," I said.

"Keiji, you know what we have to do."

"Yeah, I know. There's no going back this time. No matter who dies."

"There's not much time. Come on."

"I'm ready." I thought I was, for that one second. "Fuck! This isn't a battle, it's a massacre."

The hangar door stood open. There were marks where someone had jimmied the lock with something like a crowbar. Rita thrust one of the battle axes into the ground and unlatched the 20mm rifle slung on her back.

"You've got five minutes."

"I only need three."

I ran into the hangar. It was a long narrow building with Jackets lining either side of the passage down the middle. Each building housed enough Jackets for one platoon, twenty—five to a wall. The air inside was heavy and moist. The lights set into the walls flickered off and on. Most of the Jackets still hung from their hooks, lifeless.

The overpowering stench of blood almost knocked me off my feet. A huge dark pool had collected in the center of the room, staining the concrete. Enough to fill a bird bath. Two lines that looked as though they'd been painted with a brush extended from the pool toward the other entrance at the far end of the hangar.

Someone had been horribly wounded here, and whoever dragged them away didn't have the manpower or equipment to do it neatly. If all that blood had leaked out of one person, they were already dead. A handful of Jackets were strewn in disarray on the ground, liked the desiccated molts of some human—shaped beast.

A Jacket was a lot like one of those ridiculous cuddly suits employees dress up in at theme parks to look like some maniacally grinning mouse. When they're empty, they just hang on the wall with gaping holes in the back waiting for someone to climb in.

Since Jackets read minute muscular electric signals, each one has to be custom made. If you were to wear someone else's Jacket, there's no telling what would happen. It might not move at all, or it might snap your bones like twigs, but whatever the result, it wouldn't be good. No one made it out of Basic without learning at least that much. The Jackets on the ground were clear evidence that someone had ignored that basic rule out of desperate necessity. I shook my head.

My Jacket had been left unmolested in its berth. I climbed in. Of the thirty—seven pre—suit—up checks, I skipped twenty—six.

A shadow moved at the far end of the hangar where the blood trails led—the end of the hangar Rita wasn't watching. My nervous system jumped into panic mode. I was twenty meters from the door, maybe less. A Mimic could cover the distance in under a second. A javelin even faster.

Could I kill a Mimic with my bare hands? No. Could I deal with it? Yes. Mimics moved faster than even a Jacketed human could, but their movements were easy to read. I could dodge its charge and press tight against the wall to buy enough time to work my way to Rita. Unconsciously, I assumed a battle posture, rotating my right leg clockwise and my left counterclockwise. Then the shadow's identity finally clicked: It was Yonabaru.

He was covered in blood from the waist down. Dried blood caked his forehead. He looked like a sloppy painter. A smile replaced the tension in his face and he started running toward me.

"Keiji, shit, I haven't seen you all morning. Was startin' to worry."

"That makes two of us. Glad you're all right." I canceled the evasion program my body was running and stepped over the clothes I'd left on the floor.

"Whaddayou think you're doin'?" he asked.

"What's it look like? I'm going to kill some Mimics."

"You crazy? This isn't the time."

"You have something better to do?"

"I dunno, how about a nice orderly retreat, or findin' a place the Mimics aren't and goin' there. Or maybe just runnin' the fuck away!"

"The Americans are suiting up. We need to join them."

"They're not us. Forget 'em. If we don't leave now, we may not get another chance."

"If we run, who'll be left to fight?"

"Have you lost it? Listen to yourself!"

"This is what we trained for."

"The base is lost, dude, it's fucked."

"Not while Rita and I are here it's not."

Yonabaru grabbed my Jacketed arm, actually trying to tug me along like a child pulling with all his weight on his father's hand to get to the toy store. "You're talkin' crazy, dude. There's nothin' you or me can do that'll make a difference," he said with another tug. "Maybe this is your idea of duty, honor, all that shit. But believe me, ain't none of us got a duty to get ourselves killed for nothin'. Me and you are just ordinary soldiers. We're not like Ferrell or those guys in Special Forces. The battle doesn't need us."

"I know." I shook off Yonabaru's hand with the slightest of twitches. "But I need the battle."

"You really mean it, don't you?"

"I don't expect you to understand."

Rita was waiting for me. I'd taken four minutes.

"Don't say I didn't warn ya."

I ignored Yonabaru's glib comment and ran out of the hangar. Rita and I weren't the only soldiers wearing Jackets now. My HUD was sprinkled with icons indicating other friendlies. Clustered in groups of two or three, they'd taken cover in the barracks or behind overturned vehicles where they could spring out at intervals to fire short bursts with their rifles.

The Mimic surprise attack had been flawless. The soldiers were completely cut off from command. Even those wearing Jackets weren't fighting like a disciplined platoon—it was more like an armed mob. For armored infantry to be effective against a Mimic, they had to fan out from cover and throw everything they had at the enemy just to slow them down. One on one, even two on one, they didn't stand a chance.

Friendly icons blinked onto my display, then winked out. The number of friendlies was holding steady solely thanks to

U.S. Special Forces. The number of Mimic icons was steadily increasing. Half the comm traffic was static, and the rest was a mix of panicked screams and "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I didn't hear anyone giving orders. Yonabaru's dire predictions didn't look far off.

I opened a comm channel to Rita. "What now?"

"Do what we do best. Kill some Mimics."

"Anything more specific?"

"Follow me. I'll show you."

We joined the battle. Rita's crimson Jacket was a banner for our fragmented army to rally behind. We moved from one lone soldier to the next, herding them together. Until the last Mimic was dead, we'd keep at it.

The Valkyrie flew from one end of Flower Line to the other at will, carrying her unspoken message of hope to all who saw her. Even the Japanese troops, who'd never seen her Jacket in person, much less fought at her side, gained a renewed sense of purpose at the sight of that glittering red steel. Wherever she went, the heart of the battle followed.

In her Jacket, Rita was invincible. Her sidekick, yours truly, might have had an Achilles' heel or two, but I was more than a match for any Mimic. Humanity's enemy had met its executioners. It was time to show the Mimics just how deep into Hell they'd fallen.

Lifting energy packs and ammo from the dead, we kicked and stomped a jitterbug of death across the battlefield. If a building got in our way, we carved a new path through with our battle axes. We detonated a fuel depot to destroy an entire mob of Mimics. We wrenched off part of the antenna tower's base and used it as a barricade. The Full Metal Bitch and the squire at her side were steel death incarnate.

We came across a man hidden behind the burning hulk of an armored car. A Mimic was bearing down on him, and I knew without being told that this one was mine to take care of. I struck, and the Mimic fell. Quickly, I put myself between the Mimic's corpse and the man to protect him from the conductive sand spilling out of its body. Without a Jacket to filter the nanobots, the sand was deadly.

Rita secured a perimeter around the wounded man. Smoke billowed from the car, reducing visibility to next to nothing. Ten meters away, at about six o'clock, lay a steel tower that had fallen on its side. Beyond that, our Doppler was swarming with white points of light. If we stayed here we'd be overrun by Mimics.

The man's leg was pinned beneath the overturned vehicle. He was well—muscled, and an old film camera hung from a neck which was much thicker than my own. It was Murdoch, the journalist who'd been snapping pictures at Rita's side during PT.

Rita kneeled and examined his leg. "I thought you tried to stay out of battle."

"It was a good shot, Sergeant Major. A Pulitzer for sure, if I'd managed to take it. Didn't count on the explosion, though." Soot and grime fouled the corners of his mouth.

"I don't know whether that makes you lucky or unlucky."

"Meeting a goddess in Hell must mean I still have some luck," he said.

"This armor plate is dug into your leg pretty deep. It'll take too long to get you out."

"What are my options?"

"You can stay here shooting pictures until the Mimics crush you to death, or I can cut off your leg and carry you to the infirmary. Take your pick."

"Rita, wait!"

"You have one minute to think it over. The Mimics are coming." She rose her axe, not really interested in offering him the full sixty seconds.

Murdoch took a deep breath. "Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"If I live—will you let me take a proper picture of you? No tongues sticking out, no middle fingers?"

The Japanese and U.S. troops met up just over two hours after the attack had begun. In the time it had taken the sun to climb out of the eastern sky and shine down from directly overhead, the soldiers on the ground had cobbled together something you could actually call a front. It was an ugly battle, but it wasn't a rout. There were plenty of men still alive, still moving, still fighting.

Rita and I ran across the remains of the base.

5

The front ran down the middle of Flower Line Base, cutting a bulging half—circle that faced the shoreline. U.S. Special Forces anchored the center of the ragged arc where the enemy attacks were most fierce. Soldiers piled sandbags, hid among the rubble, and showered the enemy with bullets, rockets, and harsh language when they could.

If you drew an imaginary line from the U.S. soldiers to Kotoiushi Island, the No. 3 Training Field would be smack dab in the middle. That's where the Mimics had come ashore. Generally, Mimics behaved with all the intellect of a piece of gardening equipment. Surprise attacks weren't in their military repertoire. And you could be sure that their weak point—the server calling the shots—would be heavily defended, surrounded by the bulk of the Mimic force. Missiles that dug under and shattered bedrock, cluster bombs that fragmented into a thousand bomblets, vaporized fuel—air bombs that incinerated anything near them. All of mankind's tools of technological destruction were useless on their own. Defeating the Mimics was like defusing a bomb; you had to disarm each piece in the proper order or it would blow up in your face.

Rita's Jacket and mine were a perfect match, blood and sand. One axe covering the other's back. We dodged javelins, sliced through Mimics, blasted holes in concrete with tungsten carbide spikes. All in search of the Mimic whose death could end this.

I knew the routine well enough: destroy the antenna and the backups to prevent the Mimics from sending a signal into the past. I thought I'd gotten it right on my 159th loop, and it wasn't likely Rita had screwed things up. But somehow everything had reset again. Getting to know Rita a little more intimately on this 160th loop had been nice, but in exchange Flower Line had taken it on the chin. There would be heavy noncombat personnel casualties and a lot of dead when the dust had finally settled.

I could tell that Rita had an idea. She'd been through more loops than I had, so maybe she saw something I didn't. I thought I'd turned myself into a veteran, but next to her I was still a greenhorn fresh out of Basic.

We were standing on the No. 3 Training Field, barbed wire barricade overturned to one side, chain link fence trampled flat along the other three. Mimics packed into the area, shoulder to shoulder—as if they had shoulders. Unable to support the massive weight of the Mimics, the concrete had buckled and cracked. The sun had begun to sink lower in the sky, casting complex shadows across the uneven ground. The wind was as strong as it had been the day before, but the Jacket's filter removed all trace of the ocean from its smell.

Then there it was, the Mimic server. Rita and I spotted it at the same time. I don't know how we knew it was the one, but we knew.

"I can't raise my support squad on comm. We won't have any air support."

"Nothing new for me."

"You remember what to do?"

I nodded inside my Jacket.

"Then let's do this."

The field was packed with ten thousand square meters of Mimics waiting for our axes to send them into death's oblivion. We advanced to meet them.

Four stubby legs and a tail. No matter how many times I saw a Mimic, I'd never be able to think of anything but a dead and bloated frog. To look at them, there was no telling the server from its clients, but Rita and I knew the difference.

They ate earth and shat out poison, leaving behind a lifeless wasteland. The alien intelligence that had created them had mastered space travel and learned to send information through time. Now they were taking our world and turning it into a facsimile of their own, every last tree, flower, insect, animal, and human be damned.

This time we had to destroy the server. No more mistakes. If we didn't, this battle might never end. I put all the inertia I dared behind my axe—a clean hit on the antenna. "Got it!"

The attack came from behind.

My body reacted before I had time to think. On the battlefield, I left my conscious mind out of the business of running my body. The cool, impartial calculations of my subliminal operating system were far more precise than I could ever be.

The concrete at my feet split in two, sending gray dust shooting into the air as though the ground had exploded. My right leg rolled to maintain balance. I still couldn't see what was attacking me. There was no time to swing my massive battle axe into play.

My arms and legs moved to keep pace with my shifting center of gravity. Shudders coursed through my nerves, straining to provide the necessary evasive response in time. If my spine had been hardwired to the armor plating on my back, it would have been clattering up a storm.

I thrust with the butt of my axe. Done right, it would pack a punch similar to that of a pile driver. With the possible exception of the front armor plating on a tank, there weren't many things that could withstand a square hit with 370 kilograms of piercing force.

The blow glanced off. Fuck!

A shadow moved at the edge of my vision. No time to get out of the way. I held in the breath I'd taken before the jab with the axe. The hit was coming. There. For an instant my body lifted off the ground, then I was rolling, my vision alternating between sky and ground, sky and ground. I came out of the roll and regained my feet in a single, fluid motion. My axe was at the ready.

There, with one leg still lifted in the air, stood a gunmetal red Jacket. Rita!

Maybe she had knocked me out of the way of an attack I hadn't seen coming, or maybe I'd gotten in her way. But she had definitely been the one who sent me careening across the ground.

What the hell…?

The red Jacket crouched and charged. The axe blade was a gleaming razor's edge. I surrendered my body to the battle. One hundred fifty—nine loops had trained it to move with ease, and it did. The first strike came from the side, missing me by a hair's breadth. I deflected the second, a vicious overhand swing, with the haft of my axe. Before the third swing could come, I leapt out of harm's way and put some distance between us.

I caught my breath and the reality of the situation sank in.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Rita walked slowly toward me, battle axe swinging low, almost brushing the ground. She stopped, and her voice crackled over the comm link. Her high, delicate voice, so out of place on the battlefield:

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're trying to fucking kill me!"

"Humans perceive Mimic transmissions as dreams. Our brains are the antennas that receive those transmissions. But it's not just one—way. Our brains adapt—we become the antennas. I'm not even looping anymore, but I'm still connected; I can still sense the server Mimic because I am still an antenna myself. The migraines are a side effect. You've had them, haven't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That's why the loop repeated last time, even though you destroyed the backups. You didn't destroy the antenna—that was me."

"Rita, I don't understand."

"It works both ways. If you become an antenna, the Mimics will still be able to loop. I'm an antenna. You're trapped in a loop. You kill me, the loop doesn't propagate. I kill you, it's for real. Forever. Only one of us can escape."

None of it made any sense. I'd been a new recruit trapped in a time loop I didn't understand. I'd prayed to become as strong as the Valkyrie I saw striding the battlefield. I'd gotten myself turned into a corpse countless times trying to follow in her footsteps, and after 160 tries, I'd finally earned the right to stand at her side. We'd fought together, laughed together, eaten lunch and talked bullshit together. I'd dragged myself through Hell to get near her, and now the world was going to tear us apart. It didn't get much more fucked up than that. The same loop that had made me into the warrior I had become was going to kill me.

"If humanity is going to win, we need someone who can break the loop." Rita's voice was cool and level.

"Wait, there has to be—"

"Now we find out whether that someone is Rita Vrataski or Keiji Kiriya."

Rita charged.

I threw down my rifle; the time needed to take aim and squeeze the trigger was time I didn't have against the Full Metal Bitch. I gripped my battle axe with both hands.

Our fight unfolded across the entire base. We moved from the No. 3 Training Field to the field we'd used for PT, trampling the remains of the tent the general had used to take shelter from the scorching midday sun. We passed the smoldering remains of the 17th Company barracks and crossed axes in front of the hangar. Our blades slid past each other. I ducked to avoid the strike and kept running.

The other soldiers stopped and stared as we passed. Their helmets hid their expressions, but not their shock. And why not? I couldn't believe this was happening either. My mind was in denial, but my body continued to function, oblivious, like the well—oiled machine it had become. With movements honed to perfection, I pressed the attack.

As we approached the U.S. troop line, a green light on my HUD winked on—incoming comm for Rita. The link between our Jackets relayed the transmission to me.

"Chief Breeder to Calamity Dog." A man's voice. Rita slowed almost imperceptibly. I took the opportunity to widen the space between us. The voice continued, "Enemy suppression near ops successful. You look a little busy, need a hand?"

"Negative."

"Any orders?"

"Keep the Japanese out of this. I won't be responsible for what happens if they get in my way."

"Copy that. Good hunting. Chief Breeder out."

The channel closed, and I screamed at Rita. "That all you got to say? Hello? What the fuck!" There was no reply. Rita's red Jacket closed on me. No more time to talk. I was too busy fighting for my life.

I didn't know whether Rita was really trying to kill me or only testing me. I was a precision fighting machine without processing cycles to spare on extraneous information. Rita and anything more complicated than run/parry/dodge would have to wait. Whatever her intentions, her attacks were deadly real.

The base's main gate was to my right. We were on the path I'd taken all those times to sneak into the U.S. side of the base to steal one of Rita's axes. The line U.S. Special Forces held extended right across the spot where the two beefy sentries had stood.

Rita swung her weapon with no regard for who or what it might hit. I didn't see any reason to bring anyone else into this, so I started backing us away from the line. Cafeteria No. 2 was about one hundred meters ahead. The javelins had taken their toll on the structure, but against all odds, it was still standing. It was a good distance from the line—it would do. A heartbeat later I'd covered the hundred meters and was making my way inside through the door on the far side of the building.

It was a dim twilight inside, just light enough to see. Tables lay on their side, piled into a makeshift barricade in front of the entrance opposite the door I'd come through. Food and half—empty soy sauce bottles lay scattered on the concrete floor. There was no sign of anyone—dead or alive—in the entire room.

This was where I'd spent countless lunches watching Rita eat. Where I'd fought that overgrown ape from 4th Company and played culinary chicken with Rita and a tub full of umeboshi. What better place for Rita and me to decide our lives in a duel to the death?

Orange light shone through a hole in the west wall. When I glanced at the chronometer beside my display I could hardly believe eight hours had elapsed since the battle started. It was already dusk. No wonder I felt like my Jacket was lined with lead. I didn't have the muscle for this. My batteries were drained and systems were about to start shutting down. I'd never been in a battle half this long.

Rita's red Jacket crept into the cafeteria. I blocked a horizontal swing with my axe; my Jacket's frame creaked. If I'd stopped it head on, the torque from the actuators would have torn my Jacket apart from the inside out. Fear of what Rita was capable of gripped me anew. Rita Vrataski was a prodigy in battle—and she had learned to read my every parry and feint.

Each move in battle happens at a subconscious level. This makes it doubly difficult to compensate when someone learns to read those moves. Rita was half a step ahead of me, already spinning to deliver a deadly blow to the space where I would be before I even got there.

It hit home. I instinctively stepped into the arc of her axe, narrowly avoiding the full brunt of the swing. My left shoulder plate went flying. A red warning light lit up on my display.

Rita kicked, and there was no way to avoid it. I sailed across the room. Sparks flew as my Jacket grated along the broken concrete floor. I spun once and crashed into the counter. A shower of chopsticks rained down on my head.

Rita was already moving. No time to rest. Head, check. Neck, check. Torso, right shoulder, right arm unit—everything but my left shoulder plate checked out. I could still fight. I let go of my axe. Digging my gloves into the counter's edge, I vaulted up and over. Rita swung, shattering the counter and kicking up a spray of wood and metal.

I was in the kitchen. Before me stretched an enormous stainless steel sink and an industrial strength gas range. Frying pans and pots large enough to boil entire pigs hung along one wall. Piles of plastic cutlery reached to the ceiling. Neat rows of trays still held uneaten breakfasts, now long cold.

I backed up, knocking platters to the ground in an avalanche of food and molded plastic. Rita was still coming. I threw a pot at her and scored a direct hit. It sounded like a gong as it bounced off her cherry—red Jacket helmet. Apparently not enough to dissuade her. Maybe I should have tried the kitchen sink instead. With a swing of her axe, Rita destroyed half the counter and a steel—reinforced concrete pillar.

I backed up further—into a wall. I dropped to the ground as a vicious horizontal swing sliced toward me. The bodybuilder's face, still grinning mindlessly down over the kitchen, took the hit in my place. I dove for Rita's legs. She sprang out of the way. I let the momentum carry me back to the ruins of the cafeteria counter. My axe was right where I'd left it.

Picking up a weapon you'd already thrown away could only mean one thing: you were ready to fight back; no one picked up a weapon they didn't plan on using. It was clear I couldn't keep running forever. If Rita really wanted to kill me—and I was starting to think she just might—there would be no running. Fending off one attack after another had left my Jacket running on empty. It was time to make up my mind.

There was one thing I couldn't let myself forget. Something I'd promised myself a long time ago when I resolved to fight my way out of this loop. Hidden beneath the gauntlet on my left hand was the number 160. Back when that number was only 5, I had made a decision to take all I could learn with me into the next day. I'd never shared the secret of those numbers with anyone. Not Rita, not Yonabaru, not even Ferrell who I'd trained with so many times. Only I knew what it meant.

That number was my closest friend, and so long as it was there, I had no fear of dying. It didn't matter if Rita killed me. I would never have made it this far without her anyway. What could be more fitting than redeeming my savior with my own death?

But if I gave up now, everything would be gone. The guts I'd spilled on that crater—blasted island. The blood I'd choked on. The arm I'd left lying on the ground. The whole fucking loop. It would vanish like the smoke out of a gun barrel. The 159 battles that didn't exist anywhere but in my head would be gone forever, meaningless.

If I gave it all I had and lost, that was one thing. But I wasn't going to die without a fight. Rita and I were probably thinking the same thing. I understood what she was going through. Hell, she and I were the only two people on the whole damn planet who could understand. I'd crawled over every inch of Kotoiushi Island trying to find a way to survive, just as Rita had done on some battlefield back in America.

If I lived, she'd die, and I'd never find someone like her again. If she lived, I would have to die. No matter how many different ways I ran it through my head, there didn't seem to be another way out. One of us had to die, and Rita didn't want to talk it through. She was going to let our skill decide. She'd chosen to speak with steel, and I had to give her an answer.

I picked up my axe.

I ran to the middle of the cafeteria and tested its weight. I found myself standing almost exactly where Rita and I had gone through the umeboshi. Ain't life funny? It was only a day ago, but it felt like a lifetime. Rita had beaten me at that, too. I think it was fair to say she had a gift for competition.

Rita's crimson Jacket advanced one step at a time, sizing me up. She stopped just outside of axe range, her gleaming weapon gripped tightly in her hand.

The sounds of the fighting outside intruded on the quiet of the cafeteria. Explosions were the beat of distant drums. Shells tearing through the sky were the high notes of flutes. Automatic rifles played a staccato percussion. Rita and I brought together raucous cymbals of tungsten carbide.

There were no cheering onlookers in the crumbling ruins of the cafeteria. Piles of tables and overturned chairs were our only spectators, silent observers to the deadly dance of our crimson and sand Jackets. We moved in a spiral, as Rita always did, tracing a pattern in the concrete floor. We were dancing a war ballet, wrapped in the pinnacle of mankind's technology, our crude weapons singing a thousand—year—old dirge.

My axe blade was notched and dull. My Jacket was covered in scars, its battery all but depleted. My muscles moved by sheer willpower alone.

A tremendous explosion shook the cafeteria. We jumped at the sound.

I knew her next strike would be a killing blow. There would be no avoiding it. No time to think—thinking was for training. Battle was all about action. The experience etched into my body through 159 battles would guide my movements.

Rita pulled her axe back for the swing. My axe would answer from below. The two giant blades crossed, shredding plates of armor.

There was only one real difference between Rita and me. Rita had learned to fight the Mimics alone. I had learned to fight the Mimics watching Rita. The precise moment she would swing, the next step she would take—my operating system had recorded it all. I knew what her next move would be. That's why Rita's swing only grazed me, and my swing tore open her Jacket.

A hole gaped in Rita's crimson armor.

"Rita!"

Her battle axe trembled in her hands. Rita's Jacket was doing its best to filter the unintended commands triggered by the convulsions in her muscles. The axe's tungsten carbide handle clattered noisily against her gauntlets. Blood, oil, and some unidentifiable fluids oozed from the newly opened split in her armor. The scene was eerily familiar to me, and I felt a renewed sense of terror. She extended her arm and fumbled for the jack on my shoulder plate. A contact comm. Rita's voice was clear in my helmet.

"You win, Keiji Kiriya." The crimson Jacket leaned hard against me. Rita's voice was dry and laced with pain.

"Rita—why?"

"I've known for a long time. Ever since I first got the Mimic signal. The battle always ends."

"What? I don't—"

"You're the one who makes it out of this loop." Rita coughed, a mechanical sputtering sound through the link.

I finally understood. When I met Rita yesterday, she had decided that she was going to die. I didn't recognize it for what it was at the time. I thought I'd accidentally tripped some sort of flag. I should have been trying to find a way to save her, but I let the day slip through my fingers.

"I'm sorry, Rita. I—I didn't know."

"Don't apologize. You won."

"Won? Can't we just… just keep repeating this? We may never leave the loop, but we'll be together. Forever. We can be together longer than a lifetime. Every day will be a battle, but we can handle battle. If I have to kill a thousand Mimics, a million, I will. We'll do it together."

"Every morning you'll wake up to a Rita Vrataski who doesn't know you exist."

"I don't care."

Rita shook her head. "You don't have a choice. You have to break out of the loop before what happened to me happens to you. End this goddamn thing while you still can."

"I can't sacrifice you to do it."

"The Keiji Kiriya I know wouldn't sacrifice the human race for himself."

"Rita—"

"There isn't much time. If there's something you want to say, say it now." The crimson Jacket slumped.

"I'll stay with you until you die. I—I love you."

"Good. I don't want to die alone."

Her face was hidden beneath her helmet, and I was grateful. If I'd been able to see her tears, I never could have ended the loop and left her forever. Light from the setting sun, red and low in the western sky, played across Rita's crimson Jacket, enveloping her in a brilliant ruby glow.

"Long fight, Keiji. It's already sunset."

"It's beautiful."

"Sentimental bastard." There was a smile in her voice. "I hate red skies."

It was the last thing she ever said.

6

The sky was bright.

Rita Vrataski was dead. After I killed the Mimic server and mopped up the stragglers, they threw me in the brig. They said it was for dereliction of duty. By recklessly ignoring the orders of a superior officer, I had placed my fellow soldiers in harm's way. Never mind that there hadn't been any superior officers to give any fucking orders. They were scrambling to find someone to pin Rita's death on, and I couldn't blame them for wanting a scapegoat.

The court martial took place three days after they locked me up; I was cleared of the charges. In the end, they decided to pin a medal on me instead.

A general, the one who had ordered up the PT, patted me on the back and told me what a fine job I'd done. He all but rolled his eyes when he said it. I wanted to tell him to shove the medal up his ass for all the good it would do, but I stopped myself. Rita's death was my responsibility. No point in taking it out on him.

The medal was the Order of the Valkyrie, awarded to soldiers who killed over one hundred Mimics in a single battle. An award originally created for one very special soldier. The only way to receive a higher honor was to die in battle—like Rita had.

I really had killed a lot of the fuckers. More than all of Rita's kills combined in just one battle. I don't remember much of what happened after I destroyed the server, but apparently I found a replacement battery for my suit and proceeded to single—handedly take out somewhere around half of all the Mimics that had attacked Flower Line.

Reconstruction of the base had been moving forward at a fever pitch. Half the buildings on the base had burned to the ground, and hauling off the wreckage was a monumental task in and of itself. The 17th Company's barracks were gone, and the mystery novel I'd never gotten around to finishing was nothing but ashes.

I wandered aimlessly as people hurried to and fro across the base.

"Fight like a mothefuckin' maniac? That how decorated heroes do?"

The voice was familiar. I turned just in time to see a fist flying straight at me. My left leg repositioned itself. I didn't have time to think. All I could do was decide whether or not to throw the counter attack switch in my head. If I flipped the switch on, the reflexes burned into me through 160 loops would kick in, taking over my body like a robot in a factory.

I could shift my weight to my left leg, deflect the punch with my shoulder, and grab my attacker's elbow as I stepped forward with my right foot and jammed my own elbow into his side. That would take care of the first punch. I ran the simulation in my head and realized I'd be shattering my assailant's ribs before I even knew who he was. I opted to just take the punch. The worst I would walk away with was a black eye.

It hurt more than I'd bargained for. The force of the blow knocked me back, and I landed hard on my ass. At least nothing was broken— all according to plan. It was good to know I had a career of being a punching bag ahead of me if the army didn't pan out.

"I don't know about you bein' a prodigy, but you sure as fuck are full of yourself."

"Leave him alone."

Yonabaru was standing over me. He looked like he wanted to keep throwing punches, but a woman in a plain soldier's shirt had stepped in to stop him. Her left arm was in a sling. The bleached white cloth stood in sharp contrast to her khaki shirt. She must have been Yonabaru's girlfriend. I was glad they'd both survived.

There was a light in the woman's eyes unlike any I'd ever seen before, as though she were watching a lion that had broken free of its chains. It was a look reserved for something other than human.

"Come strollin' in here like nothin' happened—makes me sick just lookin' at you."

"I said, leave him alone."

"Fuck him."

Before I could stand up, Yonabaru had walked off. I stood slowly and dusted myself off. My jaw didn't hurt too badly. It was nothing compared to the emptiness Rita had left inside me.

"He landed a good one," I heard from behind me. It was Ferrell. He looked the same as always, with maybe another wrinkle or two in his forehead to show for the fight.

"You saw that?"

"Sorry, I didn't have time to stop him."

"It's okay."

"Try not to hold it against him. He lost a lot of friends that day. He just needs some time to settle down."

"I saw Nijou—what was left of him."

"Our platoon lost seventeen men. They're saying three thousand casualties all together, but there's no official number yet. You remember that pretty young lady who ran Cafeteria No. 2? She didn't make it, either."

"Oh."

"It's not your fault, but that hardly matters at a time like this. You know, you gave Yonabaru's lady friend quite a kick. Among others."

"Others?"

"Others."

Add Ferrell to the list of people I'd walked all over in the battle. Who knew what else I'd done. I couldn't remember a damn thing, but it was clear I had been a homicidal maniac on the battlefield. Maybe I was the one who'd put Yonabaru's girlfriend's arm in that sling. No wonder he was so pissed. A kick from a Jacket would be more than enough to do that. Hell, you could liquefy internal organs with ease.

I hoped Yonabaru would remember that fear. It would help keep him alive in the next battle. He may not have thought of me as a friend anymore, but he was still a friend to me.

"I'm sorry."

"Forget it." Ferrell definitely wasn't angry. If anything, he seemed grateful. "Who taught you to pilot a Jacket like that?"

"You did, Sergeant."

"I'm serious, son. If we were talkin' formation drills that would be one thing, but there's not a soldier in the entire Japanese Corps who could teach you to fight like that."

Sergeant Bartolome Ferrell had more battles under his belt than almost anyone in the UDF. He knew what a warrior was. He understood that if I hadn't kicked him out of the way, he'd be dead. He knew that the green recruit standing in front of him was a better warrior than he could ever hope to become. And he knew that in battle, the only rank that mattered was how good you were.

Sergeant Ferrell was responsible for the foundation I'd built my skills on. But I couldn't begin to explain it to him, so I didn't try.

"Oh, almost forgot. Some mouse of a woman from the U.S. Corps been askin' for you."

Shasta Raylle. A Shasta Raylle I'd only met briefly in the Sky Lounge. We'd hardly spoken at all. The Shasta I'd borrowed a battle axe from was a figment of the loop now.

"Where are the 17th's temp barracks? And what about the hangar? I'd like to check on my Jacket."

"Just out of the brig and you want to check your Jacket? You're the real deal."

"I'm nothing special."

"The U.S. squad took your Jacket. Come to think of it, that mouse was one of the ones who came to take it."

"What do they want with my Jacket?"

"The brass has plans. Don't be surprised if you wind up in U.S. Special Forces."

"Seriously?"

"They need someone to take the Valkyrie's place. I'm sure you'll fit right in." Ferrell clapped me on the shoulder and we parted ways.

I headed for the American side of the base to find Shasta and my Jacket. The barracks and roads were so badly burnt it was hard to tell where the Japanese side ended and the U.S. side began. Even the sentries and all their muscles were gone.

I found my Jacket in Shasta's workshop. Shasta was there too. Someone had scratched the words "Killer Cage" into the breastplate. "Cage"—that was how the Americans pronounced my name. I guess I had a call sign of my own now. They didn't waste much time. It was a good name for a pig's ass who won medals by killing his friends. I'd have to thank whoever thought of it. What a fucked—up world.

Shasta saw me staring at the inscription. "I kept as close an eye on it as I could, but they got to it anyway. Sorry." I had the feeling she'd said something similar to Rita in the past.

"Don't worry about it. They told me you were looking for me?"

"I wanted to give you the key to the Sky Lounge."

"Key?"

"Like Rita asked me to. No one's been inside since you left. It wasn't easy keeping people out for three whole days, but I can be very resourceful." Shasta handed me a key card. "Just ignore the stuff by the entrance."

"Thanks."

"Glad I could help."

"Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Do you—do you know why Rita painted her Jacket red? It was hardly her favorite color. I thought you might know."

"She said she wanted to stand out. I'm not sure why anyone would want to stand out on a battlefield. Just makes for an easier target."

"Thanks. That makes sense."

"I suppose you'll want horns on yours?" I must have frowned because she immediately added, "Sorry! I was only joking."

"It's fine. I need to learn to watch that scowl. Thanks again for the key. I'm gonna go check out that Sky Lounge."

"Before you go—"

"Yeah?"

"It's none of my business, but I was wondering…"

"What is it?" I asked.

"Were you an old friend of Rita's?"

I pressed my lips together into a wry smile.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's okay. Actually, we—"

"Yes?"

"We'd only just met."

"Of course. We'd only just come to the base. It was a stupid thing to ask."

I left Shasta and made my way to the Sky Lounge. I opened the door gently, even though I knew I wouldn't be disturbing anyone.

Yellow tape with the word "BIOHAZARD" printed at regular intervals crisscrossed the entryway. There was a fire extinguisher near my feet, and a grainy residue covered the floor. I guessed this was Shasta being resourceful. The base was still covered in conductive sand from the Mimics, and decontaminating non—vital facilities like the Sky Lounge wouldn't rate high on the priority list. Clever.

I stepped inside. The air was stale. Rita's smell was already fading from the room. Nothing had been moved from where we'd left it. The collapsed vinyl bag, coffee grinder, and portable range underscored just how short her stay here had been. They were the only traces she'd even been here. Almost everything else she owned was military—issue. The coffee set was the only personal belongings she had. Of course she hadn't left me a note—that would have been too sentimental for the Full Metal Bitch.

The mug on the glass table still held the coffee Rita had made. I picked up the mug. The coffee was dark and still. It had cooled to room temperature days ago. My hands shook, sending tiny ripples across the jet black surface. This was how Rita had faced her solitude. Now I understood.

You were just a piece on the board, and I was the piece that replaced you. Nothing more than the false hero the world needed. And now this good—for—nothing world was going to push me across the same bloodstained, smoke—filled battlefield. But you never hated the world for what it did to you.

So I wouldn't let the world lose. It could drop me into a field of Mimics with nothing but a tungsten carbide axe and a dying Jacket and I'd fight my way out. I'd march waist—deep in blood through more massacres than all the vets in the UDF had seen combined, and I'd emerge unscathed. I'd train until I knew the precise nanosecond to pull the trigger, the exact moment to take every step. I wouldn't let a javelin so much as scratch the paint on my Jacket.

While I live and breathe, humanity will never fall. I promise you. It may take a dozen years, but I will win this war for you. Even if you won't be here to see it. You were the only person I wanted to protect, and you were gone.

Hot tears threatened to fall from my eyes as I looked out through the cracked glass at the sky, but I wouldn't cry. Not for the friends I would lose in the battles ahead. The friends I wouldn't be able to save. I won't cry for you until the war is finally over.

Through the warped window I saw the sky, crystal blue, seeming to stretch forever. A cloud drifted lazily along. I turned to face the window, and like a bone—dry sponge soaking up water, my body absorbed the clear boundless sky.

You hated being alone, but you kept your distance from the barracks, slept and woke in solitude, because it was too hard to face the friends you knew were going to die. Trapped in a cruel, unending nightmare, your only thoughts were for them. You couldn't bear to lose even one of them, no matter who.

Red was your color, yours and yours alone. It should rest with you. I will paint my Jacket sky blue, the color you told me you loved when we first met. In a field of a million soldiers, I will stand out from all the rest, a lightning rod for the enemy's attacks. I will be their target.

I sat there for some time holding the last cup of coffee she'd ever made, for someone she'd barely known. Its thin aroma stirred in me an insufferable longing and sadness. A small colony of blue—green mold bobbed on the surface of the coffee. Raising the cup to my lips, I drank.