He and Bolus were on the Reach line. The broken city of Konor’s Reach was behind them and miles of shattered trees were in front of them, mist wrapped tight about them like a funeral shroud trapping maggots to a corpse. Death was everywhere. This was the War of the Flies, the Creeping Doom offensive. The war had been going on for over a century. The campaign on Espandor was but one of many enemy actions plaguing Ultramar. To Varens, it was the only one that mattered.

Greasy rain pelted them, not acid enough to burn the skin, but over time enough to degrade a uniform’s fabric and cause boots to disintegrate. Feet exposed to the mud rotted. Compromised bioseals in their masks let in disease. The enemy had a myriad ways to kill a man. The rain was only one. The mist, laced with infection and chemical poison, was another. It was thin enough today that Varens and Bolus risked leaving their respirators and goggles up for a while. Intense claustrophobia afflicted many of the troops on the line.

Varens twitched at a tickling sensation on his back. A moment later he felt it again, coming up over his shoulder and onto his neck, then brushing his ear. His skin crawled and he swatted at his head without thinking, mashing a fat fly against his helmet. With a grimace, he wiped the mess off onto his filthy uniform, adding pale, pussy smears to the crust covering his biogloves.

‘Even in the damn rain the flies don’t let up,’ said Bolus. ‘If there’s one thing I hate about this war, it’s the bloody flies,’ he added, waving more of them away from his face. ‘Suppose that’s why they call it the War of the Flies.’ He grinned.

The warriors either side of Bolus and Varens had tight faces, white with fear. One of them attempted to smile; the rest of them remained glazed.

‘Cheerful bunch,’ muttered Bolus.

‘Go easy on them, acting sergeant,’ said Varens. Another fly buzzed too close to his face. He blew out at it, disrupting its drunken, lazy flight.

‘I’ll go easy on you before I go easy on them.’

‘They’re in for a hard ride, then,’ said Varens. ‘I’d rather face the enemy than another scolding from you.’

Their exchange was inflated purposefully with bravado, but what they intended to be wry and sardonic came across as forced, and it had little effect on the morale of the new recruits. All their other squad members were new. Casualties were high. Of Varens’ last squad, only six were left, and they’d been split and incorporated into fresh units to stiffen the resolve of the fresh meat.

‘Fresh meat goes off quick in this war.’ That’s what Bolus had said about them. That didn’t make the rookies smile either.