The gas giant Delorth took up half the sky, the light from its rose and orange stormbands falling on the redoubt and rendering the temperate forest camouflage patterns of the squad’s uniforms shades of gray and black that stood out clearly against the surrounding flora. Some anonymous Munitorium official, working some impossible distance from the moons of Delorth, had cross-referenced entries from orbital climatological and environmental surveys with the topographical maps of the humped, forested hills where the 51 st Columbian was dug in, and issued the regiment kits suitable for the green forests of a Terra-class planet orbiting a yellow, Sol-class sun.
Of course, the body designated L23Q.11 on Imperial Navy charts and known as Advent by its secessionist natives was not a planet but a moon, and in those few hours of each standard day when the complicated orbital dance of the gas giant and its many moons let through light from Karacallia, the distant sun, the rays that fell were white, not yellow.
“You’re thinking about the uniforms again, aren’t you, Sarge?” Banksie asked. The slightly built woman was leaning against the trench wall beside him, picking her teeth with one of the tough, tubular weeds that sprouted between the cracks in the flakboard no matter how often they sprayed herbicide.
“Thinking about sunlight, Banksie,” Sergeant Trilby answered. “Trying to remember the last time it was dark.”
The scout shrugged and spat out a bit of tough cellulose. “Between Delorth and the other moons and the sun, they told us night only falls every few weeks, remember?”
Trilby sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, I remember.” Then his face brightened and he nodded down the hill. “Look, here comes Hopper with supper.”
The trench was one sided, built into the crest of one of the hills that were strung along a curving line that drew a U-shape on the tactical maps eighty kilometers across at its open, northward end. Trilby’s squad was bivouacked close to the left tip of the curiously regular geographical formation, with the bulk of the regiment spread out along the hills to their south. The 51 st Columbian was responsible for the whole westward half of the range. Some other poor bastards held the east.
Downslope, the hills gave way to a forested plain cut through with dozens of streams. The streams, or rather what lived in them, actually made this endless duty with its endless daylight bearable.
Private Hopper had his M36 carefully slung over his back. He carried another example of the local flora in his right hand, a long, segmented pole with a complicated bit of kit lashed to one end. In his left hand, he held a string of fish. Or something close enough to fish to make for an excellent mess, anyway.
“Let’s see them, let’s see them,” came a gravelly voice from the dugout that served as the squad’s gear depot, communications bunker, and sometime gambling hall. Robbit, as unkempt as ever, hustled down the hill toward Hopper, rubbing his fleshy hands together in anticipation. “Did you check their pouches for eggs this time? Those are fiendish difficult to get out without splitting, and if they split…”
“If they split it spoils the flesh, yes, Robbit, I know. I released any I caught that were laying,” said Hopper, handing over the string of xenos fish.
Standing side by side as they were, Trilby observed for the thousandth time what an unlikely pair the two troopers made, for all that they were as close as any two Guardsmen in the regiment. Hopper was well over two meters tall, achingly thin, skin as dark as a Columbia midnight, and well turned out in his camouflage. Robbit, on the other hand, barely topped 165 centimeters, was bulging out of his filthy uniform, and had a complexion he insisted on calling “a healthy pink.” Soldiers in some of the other regimental squads had been heard to use unflattering nicknames related to swine for Robbit, but never in Hopper’s hearing.
None of his squadmates would dream of so insulting Robbit either, but not because they feared Hopper’s wrath. No, not only were they used to him and his ways, but if he was insulted, he might not share what he cooked.
Those other troopers from the squad not detailed to positions along the wall were gathering to see what Hopper had caught down in the forest when Banksie cocked her head to one side and put her hand on Trilby’s arm. “Better get Robbit to ice down those fish, Sarge,” she said, “Sounds like the boys back at Division have decided to wake up the dominates.”
“**** it,” Trilby growled, though he heard nothing. He was as used to Banksie’s preternatural hearing as he was to Robbit’s lackluster shooting. “Echo Squad! Form up on the firestep, people, we got an unscheduled artillery barrage dropping!” He slapped Robbit on the back as hustled past the rotund cook. “Stow those for later and find your lasgun, it’s time to play soldier!”
There was a low, crumping noise and the ground shook briefly. Flashes of light began to appear in the southern sky. The atmosphere overhead was cloudless, though, for this was manmade thunder and lightning. The thunder and lightning of war.