The gunner, Bergen, was sitting half in the open hatchway, one boot up on the roof plating, his chin resting on his bent knee. He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well. This is bleak,’ he said.

‘It’s better than being aboard ship,’ Orugi replied. He lay stretched out on the front decking, helmet drawn over his face.

The others were sitting with their legs dangling into the open rear cabin. Viktor passed a bottle of grog around.

‘So where is the island?’ Baine said.

Bergen pointed. ‘Due west.’

After a few swigs, he started up a sing-along.

Hours rolled by. The lights of Starport dwindled behind them. Far off in the distance the rolling thunder of a bombardment rose to a roar. Mile by mile, the flat grey was gradually replaced with cities of reserve emplacements. Temporary tent and prefab townships began to take on an air of permanence. There were broad medicae tents, latrine huts and dimly lit black-market camps, where the weary trooper could trade their pay for something resembling comfort on this benighted world.

They were onto their third rendition of Flowers of Cadia when Baine clambered forward to where Minka was sitting propped up against the turret, the spooled rolls of autocannon shells cushioned with her old kit bag.

‘Still not there yet?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘Looks like we’ll be going through the night,’ she said.

‘Why didn’t we land closer to this place?’

‘Brass says they’ve still got formidable and functional defence laser silos. We’re too precious to risk.’

Baine nodded. There was a long pause as he sat silently, rubbing his hands. At last he started, ‘Well, this is better than ice-world training.’

‘Yeah,’ she said.

He paused again. Minka could feel him thinking of something to say. She didn’t give him the chance. ‘Listen. About your nose. Sorry about that.’

‘Better you broke my nose than I yours,’ he said at last, and winked.

Four

FOUR

It was nearing dusk on that first day when they passed close to the first penal labour camp. Razor wire and watchtowers ringed its perimeter. The penal work-gangs were heading back, their armed guards walking behind them, lasrifles slung over their shoulders.

Dirty conscript faces stared up as the Cadians went by. Somewhere far ahead there was the lightning flicker of another bombard­ment, followed by the low thunder of ordnance. Lumens began to glow from the outer limits of the siege camp. Searchlights scissored the sky, lighting columns of smoke from within. Distant sirens rang out.

The Cadians looked on impassively. They passed long convoys of Munitorum cargo-20s, yellow hazard lights flashing. The semi-trailers creaked under their loads of replacement artillery barrels, crates of ordnance, giant rolls of razor wire, stacks of duck boards, medical boxes, powercells and kilolitre vats of sloshing blood plasma – all feeding the warfront with materiel on an industrial scale.

Hour after hour and still the front lines seemed no nearer than before.