All You Need Is Kill

by Hiroshi Sakurazaka

  “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.

  Afterword

  I like video games. I’ve been playing them since I was a snot-nosed kid. I’ve watched them grow up along with me. But even after beating dozens of games on the hardest difficulty mode, I’ve never been moved to cheer until the walls shake. I’ve never laughed, cried, or jumped up to strike a victory pose. My excitement drifts like ice on a quiet pond, whirling around somewhere deep inside me.

  Maybe that’s just the reaction I have watching myself from the outside. I look down from above and say, “After all the time I put into the game, of course I was going to beat it.” I see myself with a shit-eating grin plastered on my face—a veteran smile only someone who’d been there themselves could appreciate.

  The ending never changes. The village elder can’t come up with anything better than the same, worn-out line he always uses. “Well done, XXXX. I never doubted that the blood of a hero flowed in your veins.” Well the joke is on you, gramps. There’s not a drop of hero’s blood in my whole body, so spare me the praise. I’m just an ordinary guy, and proud of it. I’m here because I put in the time. I have the blisters on my fingers to prove it. It had nothing to do with coincidence, luck, or the activation of my Wonder Twin powers. I reset the game hundreds of times until my special attack finally went off perfectly. Victory was inevitable. So please, hold off on all the hero talk.

  This is the sort of thing that went through my head while I was writing. Without the help of a great many people, this novel would never have made into this world. It’s a dark story, with characters dying left and right, but I’m happy with how it turned out.

  I’d like to thank Yoshitoshi Abe for so perfectly realizing the world of the novel in his illustrations; my chief editor, Miyuki Matsumoto, who went above and beyond the call of duty for the book; After Glow’s Takeshi Yamazaki for his wonderful design work; Jun Masuda and his incredible friends for their help checking all things military; and finally Chōhei Kambayashıi for his many insightful suggestions.

/>   Oh, I nearly forgot. Thanks to all the good little boys and girls out there sending me those jet-black feeds.

  —Hiroshi Sakurazaka

  About The Author

  Photo by Yoshihiro Hagiwara

  Hiroshi Sakurazaka was born in 1970. After a career in information technology, he published his first novel, Wizard’s Web, in 2003. His 2004 short story, “Saitama Chainsaw Massacre,” won the 16th SF Magazine Reader’s Award. His other novels include Slum Online and Characters (co-written with Hiroki Azuma).

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