BATTER 69

Baron shifted his position, sitting up as he watched Mother move back and forth before his eyes. How had he acted back then? He remembered being so utterly confused by the situation that he’d ended up crying.

“Do not cry. That is an order. Do not cry. I order you to cease weeping.”

Sure enough, Mother started rattling off those nonsensical commands. When that didn’t work, she’d let out a sudden blast of her siren to shock him into silence—a memory that remained remarkably vivid for Baron.

He sat with his knees hooked over the edge of the cot and slowly counted the seconds. One, two, three. Right on cue, a piercing siren wailed through the interior, just like in his memory. Baron crossed his arms and let out a quiet laugh. Before long, the siren cut out, and Mother seemed satisfied.

“Good.”

He hadn’t understood it back then, but now he knew exactly what kind of “expression” Mother was making. Baron smiled back at her. A slight bitterness touched his tongue.

“Didn’t expect to run into you so suddenly like this.”

“Have you calmed down now, Soldier?”

“Life’s a real mystery. Though I guess this is basically just like having a dream.”

“What do you remember?”

Back then, he couldn’t remember anything. Found barely clinging to life among the rubble of a building completely leveled by shelling, five-year-old Baron had lost the left side of his head and every single one of his memories. It was possible the people who were his flesh and blood were still down there under the uncleared debris, but the only life sign Mother had detected on that spot was his.

As his fresh surgical wounds were beginning to knit together, the only thing Baron could conjure was fear. Now, Baron whispered as if flipping through a family album in front of a fireplace, tracing old memories. His tone was like a hand smoothing through hair.

“You’re my very first memory, Mother.”

“Do you remember nothing?”

“It was scary and it hurt, but even back then, I didn’t really care that my memories were gone.”

“The military database has been destroyed. This Squad Leader cannot access the soldier’s information.”

“They say a newly hatched duckling takes its master’s boot for its mother, right?”

A hazy, clouded smile spread across his lips, like a photograph taken centuries ago. Mother slowly circled the area. In her eyes, she would only be perceiving a sniveling Baron with an ugly, crying face.

“In that case, I shall give you a new call sign, Soldier.”

“And then Mother gave me a name.”

“You are Billrado.”

“I thought that would be my name forever.”

“It is the name of the most famous soldier in human history.”

It was an excessively religious name, but there was no way the Baron of that time could have known its meaning. Seemingly satisfied with her own imagination, Mother suddenly thrust her blue lens right up to Baron’s nose.

“Is it to your liking, Soldier?”

Baron blinked dryly. Even with his eyelids closed, the blue light emitting from the machine’s lens left an afterimage like a dancing heat haze. An alien blue—neither that of the sky, the sea, nor a flower petal—seeped into his optic nerves.

“So you had blue eyes too, Mother.”

He murmured in a voice that was barely audible. Even if he had spoken louder, there was no one there to truly hear him. Mother retreated all the way back to the opposite ceiling.

“The artificial skull transplant was a success. Descend from the cot and attempt to walk.”

Baron shrugged and stepped onto the floor below the bed. He felt only a fine, gentle vibration, as if the truck weren’t currently moving.

Since it was the Baron of nearly forty years ago who had suffered the aftereffects of the accident and surgery, the current Baron performed the task with ease. He walked a lap around the cargo hold—which felt neither wide nor narrow—and spread his arms triumphantly as if showing off to Mother.

“Ta-da. What do you think?”

“Good.”

The dialogue lined up perfectly. A strange sense of discomfort, like air being forced into his heart, tightened in his chest. Baron’s expression hardened for a moment as he looked at Mother. She tilted her head once more and continued in her perpetually mechanical tone.

“Are you famished, Soldier?”

Thinking about it again, it really was a peculiar way of speaking. After waiting for a brief interval, Mother held out a clenched hand toward Baron. As he stared at it, her fingers slowly unfurled to reveal two capsules.

“Distributing capsule-type rations. Consumption is possible without water.”

He took the pills Mother offered, holding them between his thumb and forefinger to inspect them. He tossed a white pill into his mouth. As the saliva-coated capsule dissolved, the unpleasant smell unique to cheap capsule rations stained his tongue.

Baron chewed like a herbivore, scowling. Even in a virtual space, the smell of capsule rations was consistently pathetic. Only after getting used to the smell did a salty and sweet taste flicker and then vanish.

“Are the rations to your liking?”

“Don’t even get me started.”

Baron replied, playfully feigning a gag. Regardless, Mother’s recognition software would only “know” the young Baron who gave an awkward nod.

“That is fortunate then. Eat well to maintain your strength.”

The stiff, monotonous voice utilized a sentence that sounded like encouragement. Baron looked at Mother, smacking his lips where the smell still lingered. Nowadays, he could bitingly critique the taste as absolute crap, but back then, all he could do was mumble a clumsy “thank you.” Having “heard” the unspoken response, Mother turned her head while hanging five paces away.

“Soldier is this Squad Leader’s sole subordinate.”

The blue-glowing lens met Baron’s gaze. A being born for loading processes and trained in waiting, yet knowing nothing of hesitation, she spoke.

“This Squad Leader will take responsibility for the soldier.”

And so, a combat boot resurrected a duck egg. The duckling decided to follow the boot. It wasn’t exactly a tragedy.

Baron watched the memories come to life with excessive detail before his eyes, finally breaking into a low laugh. Should he think of this farce of a dream as a surprise gift? So far, it felt more like watching a video of a birthday party filmed long ago.

Then, with a heavy thud, the vehicle shook violently. Baron, nearly rolling across the floor, grabbed the cot and stood his ground. The blue light from Mother’s lens flickered and turned red.

“Impact detected on the right. Impact detected on the right.”

The impact repeated amidst Mother’s warnings. In the dangerously swaying vehicle, Baron grabbed nearby objects to move forward. Something was pounding on the doors and walls as if to break them down. He snatched a rifle held by one of the lukewarm corpses and leaned against the wall right next to the door. Taking a breath, he kicked the cargo door open with all his might before a third impact could start.

There was nothing beyond the door. No door. No truck. Baron was simply lying alone in the pitch black.

He was still trapped in the coffin.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake…”

Baron’s face contorted at the realization that he’d been played. He wanted to wipe the scowl off his face, but he couldn’t even lift his arms. He pulled his knees in tight and kicked the low ceiling violently.

He felt everything—from the sound of his feet hitting something solid to the vibration that made his bones ache—but the darkness, like the inside of an eyelid, remained unchanged. After kicking the ceiling several times in a row, Baron let out a dry, hollow laugh. As the laughter died down, his ragged breathing and heartbeat grew loud as drumbeats in the cramped darkness.

Right, this is virtual reality. Since it’s not real, there’s no reason to waste energy. Getting worked up just means playing right into their hands.

His breathing gradually calmed, and silence returned. After tossing and turning for a bit, Baron lay flat on his back and thought it over. If the goal was torture or confinement, why show him this kind of stuff? Hallucinations of sawblades tearing flesh and crushing bone would be more suited for torture; a childhood memory was just a dessert with a slightly burnt aftertaste.