painkillers the doctors give me don’t work at all. The prospect of these headaches accompanying me into every battle from here on out isn’t doing much for my morale.
KIA sixty-one minutes from start of battle.
7
Attempt #154:
Lose consciousness eighty minutes from start of battle. I don’t die, but I’m still caught in the loop. Whatever. If that’s how it’s gonna be, that’s how it’s gonna be.
8
Attempt #158:
I’ve finally mastered the tungsten carbide battle axe. I can rip through a Mimic’s endoskeleton with a flick of the wrist.
To defeat resilient foes, mankind developed blades that vibrate at ultra-high frequencies, pile drivers that fire spikes at velocities of fifteen hundred meters per second, and explosive melee weapons that utilized the Monroe Effect. But projectile weapons ran out of ammo. They jammed. They broke down. If you struck a slender blade at the wrong angle, it would shatter. And so Rita Vrataski reintroduced war to the simple, yet highly effective, axe.
It was an elegant solution. Every last kilogram-meter per second of momentum generated by the Jacket’s actuators was converted to pure destructive force. The axe might bend or chip, but its utility as a weapon would be undiminished. In battle, weapons you could use to bludgeon your enemy were more reliable. Weapons that had been honed to a fine edge, such as the katana, would cut so deep they’d get wedged in your enemy’s body and you couldn’t pull them out. There were even stories of warriors who dulled their blades with a stone before battle to prevent that from happening. Rita’s axe had proven its worth time and again.
My platoon crawled toward the northern tip of Kotoiushi Island, Jackets in sleep mode. It was five minutes before our platoon commander would give the signal for the start of the battle. No matter how many times I experienced it, this was when my tension ran highest. I could see why Yonabaru let his mouth run with whatever bullshit came out. Ferrell just let our chatter wash over him.
“I’m tellin’ ya, you gotta hook yourself up with some pussy. If you wait until you’re strapped into one of these Jackets, it’s too late.”
“Yeah.”
“What about Mad Wargarita? Y’all were talkin’ during PT, right? You’d tap that, I know you would.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a cool customer.”
“Yeah?”
“You haven’t even popped your cherry, and you’re calm as a fuckin’ whore. My first time I had butterflies beatin’ up a tornado in my stomach.”
“It’s like a standardized test.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Didn’t you take those in high school?”
“Dude, you don’t expect me to remember high school, do ya?”
“Yeah.” I’d managed to throw Yonabaru off what passed for his train of thought, but my mind was on autopilot. “Yeah.”
“Yeah what? I didn’t even say anything.” Yonabaru’s voice reached me through a fog.
I felt like I’d been fighting in this same spot for a hundred years. Half a year ago I was a kid in high school. I couldn’t have cared less about a war that was slowly drowning the earth in its own blood. I’d lived in a world of peace, one filled with family and friends. I never imagined I’d trade classrooms and the soccer field for a war zone.
“You’ve been actin’ funny since yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
“Dude, don’t go losin’ it on us. Two in a row from the same platoon—how would that look? And I been meanin’ to ask: what the fuck is that hunk of metal you’re carrying? And what the fuck do you plan on doin’ with it? Tryin’ to assert your ind’viduality? Workin’ on an art project?”
“It’s for crushing.”
“Crushin’ what?”
“The enemy, mostly.”
“You get up close, that’s what your pile driver’s for. You gonna tell me you’re better off with an axe? Maybe we should fill our platoon with lumberjacks. Hi ho, hi ho!”
“That was the dwarves.”
“Good point. Well made. Point for
KIA sixty-one minutes from start of battle.
7
Attempt #154:
Lose consciousness eighty minutes from start of battle. I don’t die, but I’m still caught in the loop. Whatever. If that’s how it’s gonna be, that’s how it’s gonna be.
8
Attempt #158:
I’ve finally mastered the tungsten carbide battle axe. I can rip through a Mimic’s endoskeleton with a flick of the wrist.
To defeat resilient foes, mankind developed blades that vibrate at ultra-high frequencies, pile drivers that fire spikes at velocities of fifteen hundred meters per second, and explosive melee weapons that utilized the Monroe Effect. But projectile weapons ran out of ammo. They jammed. They broke down. If you struck a slender blade at the wrong angle, it would shatter. And so Rita Vrataski reintroduced war to the simple, yet highly effective, axe.
It was an elegant solution. Every last kilogram-meter per second of momentum generated by the Jacket’s actuators was converted to pure destructive force. The axe might bend or chip, but its utility as a weapon would be undiminished. In battle, weapons you could use to bludgeon your enemy were more reliable. Weapons that had been honed to a fine edge, such as the katana, would cut so deep they’d get wedged in your enemy’s body and you couldn’t pull them out. There were even stories of warriors who dulled their blades with a stone before battle to prevent that from happening. Rita’s axe had proven its worth time and again.
My platoon crawled toward the northern tip of Kotoiushi Island, Jackets in sleep mode. It was five minutes before our platoon commander would give the signal for the start of the battle. No matter how many times I experienced it, this was when my tension ran highest. I could see why Yonabaru let his mouth run with whatever bullshit came out. Ferrell just let our chatter wash over him.
“I’m tellin’ ya, you gotta hook yourself up with some pussy. If you wait until you’re strapped into one of these Jackets, it’s too late.”
“Yeah.”
“What about Mad Wargarita? Y’all were talkin’ during PT, right? You’d tap that, I know you would.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a cool customer.”
“Yeah?”
“You haven’t even popped your cherry, and you’re calm as a fuckin’ whore. My first time I had butterflies beatin’ up a tornado in my stomach.”
“It’s like a standardized test.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Didn’t you take those in high school?”
“Dude, you don’t expect me to remember high school, do ya?”
“Yeah.” I’d managed to throw Yonabaru off what passed for his train of thought, but my mind was on autopilot. “Yeah.”
“Yeah what? I didn’t even say anything.” Yonabaru’s voice reached me through a fog.
I felt like I’d been fighting in this same spot for a hundred years. Half a year ago I was a kid in high school. I couldn’t have cared less about a war that was slowly drowning the earth in its own blood. I’d lived in a world of peace, one filled with family and friends. I never imagined I’d trade classrooms and the soccer field for a war zone.
“You’ve been actin’ funny since yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
“Dude, don’t go losin’ it on us. Two in a row from the same platoon—how would that look? And I been meanin’ to ask: what the fuck is that hunk of metal you’re carrying? And what the fuck do you plan on doin’ with it? Tryin’ to assert your ind’viduality? Workin’ on an art project?”
“It’s for crushing.”
“Crushin’ what?”
“The enemy, mostly.”
“You get up close, that’s what your pile driver’s for. You gonna tell me you’re better off with an axe? Maybe we should fill our platoon with lumberjacks. Hi ho, hi ho!”
“That was the dwarves.”
“Good point. Well made. Point for
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