Major Luka was standing in the trench behind them. Counter bombardments were starting to rain down on the ground about the trench. Stone and shrapnel were hissing in the air above their heads. Yedrin already could tell the difference between a bombard and an Earthshaker shell. The dangerous ones were the mortar shells that went too slowly to be heard. But they were a hit or miss thing. Either they landed outside the trench or inside. And if they landed inside, it didn’t matter whether you heard them or not. There was no way you were going to survive.

The trooper on the other side of him was a small girl named Blanchez. She was a tough little camp brat. An orphan, as far as she knew, and a survivor. She’d taken three of Yedrin’s power­cells and swapped her lasrifle for a long-las that she’d found abandoned in the trench, a sniper’s weapon with long barrel and heavy stock. It looked taller than her. But she’d already racked up an impressive kill-rate.

She was treating this like a game.

‘Gotcha!’ she hissed as she ducked back down, flipped the spent powercell out and took another from Yedrin’s pile. ‘Come on, you bastard. Gotcha!’

Yedrin’s mouth was dry. He took a quick sip from his water bottle, unscrewing the lid one-handed so he could keep the other on his rifle. He just wanted to be the best. And he wanted to do everything right.

‘Here they come!’ Major Luka shouted.

The Whiteshields put up a furious fusillade. Major Luka laughed. ‘They think they’re facing mere cadets. They have no idea who they’re up against. Shoot them down! Aim, fire, reload!’

The world went silent. If the enemy artillery were still firing then Yedrin was oblivious. His cheek was pressed against the butt of his rifle. All he could hear was the hiss of his las-bolts and his own slow breaths. He could smell the overheated rifle barrels. Then he could hear curses and laughter from Zweden and Blanchez, Major Luka’s metal foot scraping on the rocky trench floor.

His cheek bone throbbed. His trigger finger ached. Each time he pulled the trigger the dull pain grew a little worse.

Major Luka’s voice was hoarse by the time the last traitor assault petered out. Yedrin’s shoulders and back were stiff. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them.

The day was almost upon them. Voices were shouting for more ammunition or powercells, or a medi-kit.

‘Well done! Get some water. Get some food,’ Major Luka was telling them all. ‘They’ll be back again soon enough.’