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.