Chapter 11: Tip of the Tongue

The same face, the one that had always stared back from the far side of the mirror, still gazed back from the reflection of the metal canteen tray. The bends of the metal distorted the image, but the game had added lean muscle to his neck and shoulders. Unlike Sylvester’s, the change wasn’t dramatic, but his body inside the game wasn’t quite the same as outside.

“Food is a luxury.” One of the mustachioed DIs marched along the lineup. “When you’re on the battlefield, you’ll not always have access to food. You will experience hunger, but you cannot starve on Existence Station. Enjoy your meal.”

“So, does that mean we’re physically unable to die of hunger?” Sylvester asked from behind. His forehead still sported the gauze bandage the medic had taped to it. After Sylvester woke up, the DI took Bravo Company on a run around the edge of the base. Despite the one fainting spell, Sylvester kept up. Their new bodies were dynamos of endurance. John had always kept himself fit, but he hadn’t ever pushed his heart like that. He hadn’t ever needed to.

John talked over his shoulder. “Why don’t you ask one of the DIs?”

“Naw. I’m good.”

Underneath the ache of John’s bruised and battered abdominal muscles, his stomach rumbled. The forced run had given him an appetite. Weird thing was, the run was almost fun like he had skipped the getting in shape phase.

John grabbed his utensils, balanced a cup of water on the tray, and moved down the line. The workers ladled piles of stew, curry, mashed potatoes, and vegetables into the tray’s indentations. Steam carried a flood of smells. His mouth watered. Perhaps his mouth dripped with saliva in the real world as well.

They better be taking care of me. Not that I’d know.

His back shuddered. John pushed that thought way down. The last thing he wanted was to imagine himself still stuck in that box. Rather than letting his thoughts get away from him, John scanned the canteen for a couple of empty places to sit. A face he recognized, Elroy’s, made eye contact. The guy gestured to the bench beside him. With Sylvester trailing behind, John made his way to the table.

Elroy held a full spoon of curry in front of his mouth. “Quite the day, huh?” He ate.

“The day ain’t done yet.” John stood at the end of the table. “These seats taken?”

The Native American guy sitting shrugged. “Plenty of room. Sit on down.” The guy was good looking, no doubt about it, with fine features even a model would be jealous of. He must have been popular with both the men and women before he got put in the game.

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John took the place beside Elroy, and Sylvester slid in across from him. They introduced themselves. John put out his hand.

“John?” The native guy closed his eyes. He must have checked John’s name with the WarFace. His spine straightened. “What?”

“Uh,” John blinked, his still empty hand outstretched, “have we met?”

“No, no. Sorry.” He took John’s hand. “Justice.”

John cocked his head. “Sorry?”

“That’s his name.” Elroy leaned in. “Justice.”

John checked the WarFace. The infobox said Justice Campbell. He had the most common polyname on Hadfield. Hard to tell even what caste he was from.

The native guy, Justice, winced. “Yeah. Sorry.” He tapped his forehead. “Been one of those days, you know?”

They all nodded in agreement.

“Speaking of,” John massage the back of his neck, “did it hurt when they put you in?”

Everyone sat up, tense. Their hands moved to the back of their necks as if the flesh held the memory.

“Hurt?” Elroy peered out from under his bowed head. “More like agony, it was.” He dropped his hand and flexed his bicep, admiring the flesh on his arm. “Still, a small price to pay. I was an old man, but now this youth,” he stabbed the hunk of beef in the stew with his fork, “won’t be wasted on the young.” With a wide grin, he devoured the meat.

“Lucky you.” John’s face twisted. “In all my days on Hadfield, I never felt torture like that. Never want—”

“Hadfield?” The grin on Elroy’s face disappeared. “You’re from Hadfield?”

Sylvester gestured between him and John. “We are.” He nodded towards Justice. “You?”

“Yeah.” Justice stirred his curry with a spoon while he talked to Elroy. “I’m assuming you’re not?”

Elroy shook his head. “Nope. Ride Station.”

John scanned the canteen for the DIs. There weren’t any close. He lowered his voice. “Where the hell are we? Our bodies, I mean.”

Sylvester put down his spoon and tapped the table. “How long is it been since we got locked away in those coffins?”

“Since we started this game?” Justice rubbed his chin. “Could have been five minutes or five hundred years. I don’t have a clue.”

“Sylvester and I,” John leaned on his elbows, “knew each other before,” his eyes turned upward, “this... whatever this is. We reckon the brain surgery was—what—six weeks after we last saw each other?” Since the beating, but John wasn’t about to bring it up.

“Yeah.” Sylvester cleared his throat. Seemed like he didn’t want to talk about it either.

Elroy dropped his curry back onto the tray. He focused far on the horizon. “Any of you remember the date you went in?”

John remembered remembering the date, but the info wasn’t there. Everyone shook their heads.

“How about the year? Just the year?” Again, John couldn’t remember.

Both Sylvester’s and Justice’s jaws hung agape.

“When were you born?”

There were memories of birthdays, presents from all his parents, blowing out candles on his cake, but the date itself tantalized a touch beyond his reach. The thought headed for where the date of his birthday should have been—perhaps the first day John ever remembered—and took a detour.

“It’s,” John massaged his forehead. “It’s...”

Elroy dropped his hands into his lap. “It’s on the tip of your tongue?”

None of them replied. Each one at that table understood. Those around them seemed to have similar conversations. One of the other recruits on the far side of the canteen noticed John. His movements were jittery, noticeable even from across the room. The man had his eyelids pulled back. Most likely the same look that John had on his face.

All the unanswered questions swirled around John’s addled mind. The world around him seemed to tilt askew.

“What sort of shitshow is this?”