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the Point , like little flies flitting about a carcass. More ships seem to leave than ever come back , I thought. All manner of vessels were assembled; from small military cutters, to enormous warships, through to sleek experimental craft. This was the Alliance Navy – the combined efforts of the remainder of the United Americas, Europe, and much of the Western world.
    I stopped, pressing a hand up against the cold glass of the view-port. I watched as the light cast by the Maelstrom glinted off the gathered fleet. For just a moment, I felt strangely patriotic, before I remembered where I was headed.
      
    The Memorial Hall wasn’t really a hall or even a chamber, but more like a wall in the station’s outer ring. I reached it at about midday by the station day-cycle, and as expected it was empty.
    Words scrolled along the top of the wall: TO ALL OF THOSE WHO HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES IN THE FURTHERANCE OF THE KRELL WAR, AND FOR THE CONTINUED EXISTENCE OF THE HUMAN RACE. Millions of names were laser-etched onto the wall; in chronological order, updated automatically as new casualties were reported. The list already occupied a significant portion of the outer ring for this particular deck.
    Small shrines – offerings of flowers, incense burners or other little sentimental trinkets – had been left at the foot of the wall. I reverently avoided them as I found the spot, and crouched to read her name.
    I needed that drink more than ever.
      
    Liberty Point was on the very frontier of Alliance space. The nearest friendly outpost was several parsecs away and with a decent Q-drive it’d still take a good couple of weeks to reach. In any event, that was only a remote mining base. The Point had to be self-sufficient and, as well as housing an enormous military contingent, it was also home to a sizeable civilian population.
    That was where the District came in. Sprawling and ramshackle, drunken and noisy, it was an inevitable evil. Although officially designated as a civilian recreational zone, so long as you had the credits the District was open to all. A trooper could get anything he wanted down here – from illegal narcotics, to any sort of sex, through to every type of alcohol. It was like a miniature Las Vegas, before the Directorate had dropped the bomb: all neon signs, casinos, bars, strip joints.
    The officers on the Point had a dedicated mess hall, but I preferred something rawer and always drank with my squad. Our favoured drinking-spot was a rundown, old-style bar called the Depot. It was the favourite of most sim operators – the slogan YOU MIGHT DIE ONCE, BUT TRY DOING IT EVERY DAY was painted above the entrance. But it wasn’t exclusive, and also catered for regular Army, Navy, and other assorted military.
    We occupied our usual table, not far from the bar. There was an unspoken rule among the regulars that this was our territory. I sat with my head hung over a half-empty pitcher of cheap beer. The table was already heavy with empty glasses. I felt comfortably fuzzy – just drunk enough to blot out the pain from my last op.
    Blake and Jenkins sat with me, not far off my condition. Blake was continually eyeing a topless blonde dancer, who was obviously looking to make his pocket a little emptier. Unlike me, Blake was young enough to feel at home in his real body. He could’ve had any woman in the place, except for Jenkins.
    She was having her own trouble; she’d already told a Navy ensign to go away several times, and was currently trying to avoid making eye contact with him from across the room.
    “This always happens when I make an effort,” Jenkins said. “More hassle than it’s worth.”
    Jenkins wore a tight red dress; but no matter what she wore, she still looked like a soldier. My whole squad did – it was a state of mind, the look in the eyes.
    Martinez and Kaminski were elsewhere in the crowded bar – last I had seen them, Martinez was trying to pick a fight with some off-duty Navy boys, Kaminski