The Time Loop

Private Kiriya -13

There was a woman there. Terrible timing.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right?”

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

“I . . . I think so.”

“Sorry about that. I can’t really see where I’m going when I’m pushing this thing.”

“Nah, it’s not your fault. I jumped out right in front of you.”

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

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

“I knew it! You’re the new recruit in the 17th.”

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

“I guess.”

“You ever see potatoes that round?”

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

“Shouldn’t take that long to grab them, if you help.”

“No—I mean, yeah.”

“Well, which is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I-I was pushing my cart, and—”

“This your mess, Kiriya?”

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

“S-Sir?”

“You’re hurt. Let me take a look.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

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

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

“Hmm. Nice, clean entry wound. What’d you hit it on?”

Rachel stepped in. “My cart fell over. I’m sorry.”

“Is that how it happened?”

“Actually, I’m the one who ran into her, but yeah, pretty much.”

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

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

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

“Who, me?”

“Well he’s not going to be picking anything up, is he?” Ferrell nodded in my direction.

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

“What’s the matter, don’t you want to help?”

“Don’t be silly! For you, I’d pick up anything. Potatoes, pumpkins, land mines—”

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

“That hurts, Sarge. You watch. I’ll bring the hardest workin’ men in the 17th.”

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

“PT? Who said anything about PT?”

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

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

“That’s an order, Corporal.”

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

“You really want to know?” Ferrell rolled his eyes.

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

6

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

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

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

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

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

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