Clay sat in the corner of the mess, nursing an almost empty bottle of beer. It was late and he was tired, exhausted even, but he couldn’t face sleep yet. Sleep would mean the day was over. It would mean Leo belonged to the past rather than the present. Sleep would bring the service for Leo, and the other pilots who had been killed. He couldn’t face that yet.
The lights were low, dimmed for the night, which suited Clay’s mood. Officially he wasn’t supposed to drink while the ship was on combat alert, which was pretty much all the time now. One of the mess staff had handed Clay the beer without him having to ask. He’d nodded his thanks, then taken himself off to sit facing the corner, back to the rest of the room.
That had been two or three hours earlier. Since then the few people
