The Palisades
Beer in hand, feet up, Michael sat in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun, the only sound the comforting buzz of one of the security drones that watched over him day and night. The last thing he had wanted was leave, but Fleet had been emphatic, so here he sat, alone, slowly getting drunk and trying not to think about all the promises he had made, promises that a posting as captain in command of Redwood rendered nearly impossible to keep. What difference could he make, tucked away in orbit around Nyleth-B? Goddamnit, what a waste of three good dreadnoughts.
Dispirited, Michael tossed the empty beer bottle into the bin and commed the drinkbot for another.
For the umpteenth time, he went through it all. After the Hammers staged their big push in May, the war settled down into a pointless series of tit-for-tat exchanges, none of which made any difference to the overall strategic situation, a badly stretched Fed Fleet holding the Hammers at bay: just. The brutal truth was that neither side had the wherewithal to force the war to a conclusion, and neither would until one side or the other won the race to get antimatter warheads onto their missiles in large enough numbers to pave the way for a successful invasion. Michael had no way of knowing when that day might come, but it sure as hell would not be soon.
It was ironic. The Feds had the resources to weaponize antimatter but not the know-how. The Hammers had the know-how but not the resources. Either way, it was going to be years before the strategic balance shifted, and to whom it shifted … well, talk about the big question. One thing was for sure, though: The Hammers had as good a chance of winning the race as the Feds did.
Michael could not wait for years, he just could not. Leaving Anna to rot in some damn Hammer prison camp while he lived the rest of his life? Not a chance. Forgetting all those whose deaths he had sworn to avenge? Not a chance. Sitting around scratching his ass waiting for the Hammers to win the antimatter race? Not a chance. Sitting around praying the Feds did? Not a chance.
There was a way, he promised himself as he drained his beer. There had to be. Problem was, he had no idea what. What could he do, stuck on Nyleth-B with three dreadnoughts? A lot of nothing, that was what.
In a sudden fit of frustration and anger, he hurled the empty bottle at the bin; catching the lip, it splintered into a hundred pieces. Much like his promises, Michael thought morosely as he commed the housebot to come clean up: empty vessels, easily broken, and once broken, impossible to put back together again.
He commed the drinkbot for another beer. Since he could not work out how to keep his promises, he would do the next best thing, what losers had done since the dawn of time. He would let ethanol weave its magic and get blind, stinking drunk.
Maybe the answer would come to him.