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No Way Out

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For an explanation of various terms, see No Way Out/appendix.

I've always liked space.

It's quiet; peaceful. Even with all the wars unfolding in its expanse, all the devastation visited upon grieving families, it somehow still manages to appear serene. Even something as tremendous as a star exploding seems almost poetic in the vast tracts of space; like an epic drama playing out on a stage. It's almost as if something's stripped away the horror that you know should be there--but it isn't.

But however space does it--whether it's some special property of nothingness, or if I'm just going crazy--it doesn't matter.

I've got enough horror to deal with on my own.

--

We're losing. I can feel it. The pols keep telling their people everything's fine; that we're holding the Line, and even making progress. But they know. It's just a matter of time before the Line collapses. Where it does is anyone's guess, but it will happen, and soon.

They pushed us back from Solovei a week ago, and we counterattacked--took the system back. It wasn't necessary--Solovei's not that important of a system--but every system we lose is one that they have the chance to build up for themselves. We fought tooth and nail for every square kilometre in that system, and we celebrated kicking them out afterward. Big thing: singing, dancing, drinking.

But there was an undercurrent all along; palpable, if you stopped long enough. We were trying to forget all the other systems we'd lost; all the civvies that'd died--or worse--in them, and how we had no idea how much more strategic depth they had--but it was inevitably greater than the numbers of our own dwindling fleet.

A tin can came by the other day with some mail. Picked up some of our spirits, but it just reminded me that I'll probably never leave the Line. The sardines can at least run away--ground-pounders like me are stuck. Didn't really phase me, though.

After all, we're all going to die--it's just a matter of how and when. Hope I kill some more puppies before I go, though.

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