06:00.
The digital clock on my gas mask had just turned to 06:00, but the sky over Castigar was still a crushing ash gray.
The promised supply transport's engines never came. From the communications vox mounted above the trench, only mechanical static and the sickening scrape of distorted radio signals drifted out at intervals.
"Krrsh... headquarters... request... krrsh..."
Sergeant Yakov roughly smacked the vox box, but there was no response. Fog soaked through with acid rain was rolling dully over the trench lip.
"The supply transport?"
Yakov asked, taking his hand from the vox.
"It hasn't come."
"Food?"
"Half a biscuit."
Yakov looked at me for a moment. With a crushed Lho-stick clenched between his teeth, he asked again with dull eyes.
"...Half?"
"I ate it."
"Good work."
Lazar, whose head rested against the trench wall, gave a faint snort through his mangled lips.
"Sergeant, tell him to eat mine too."
"You can eat your share once you're dead."
"That seems a little unfair."
"Then don't die."
At Yakov's indifferent reply, Lazar gave a dull, hollow laugh and closed his eyes again. Their exchange had sounded like a joke, but a small warmth passed through the trench's chill. At least the people standing here were still humans trying to survive.
Then Commissar Vorkov's black boots came down from above, trampling through the sewage.
The laspistol in his hand and the hilt of his sabre were kept smooth and spotless, without so much as a speck of dirt.
"The supply transport is delayed. Any unrest is grounds for immediate execution."
There was not the slightest tremor in Vorkov's voice. The loss of communication with high command and dwindling food supplies seemed like variables that simply did not exist within his chain of command.
"Once the line has been reorganized, Second Squad will maintain alert status in Sector 3. Wasting ammunition or power cells will be treated as treason."
After delivering his orders dryly, he looked down with cold eyes at Lazar, crumpled on the trench floor.
The black discharge seeping through the gaps in Lazar's flak armour now covered his entire right arm. Mangled flesh had mixed with blood and congealed into a black, sticky mass.
"What's that one's condition, Yakov?"
Vorkov's gun barrel slowly tilted toward Lazar's head.
"Trench fever, Commissar. The gas and sewage appear to have caused a fever. If you put a gun in his hand, he can still pull the trigger."
Yakov added the lie without a flicker of expression. Vorkov watched Lazar's mangled eyes for a moment, then withdrew his pistol.
"The moment he is judged unfit for combat, execute him. Make sure your squad is properly managed."
As the Commissar moved on to the next sector, I approached Lazar. Trembling with his right arm, he was barely clutching the barrel of his lasgun.
"Lazar, if your right arm won't move, switch the gun to your left hand and watch only the right side of the trench."
"Uh... understood... right side..."
Lazar nodded mechanically and muttered under his breath.
It must be the gas.
There was no need to consider another reason. On Castigar, there were any number of reasons for a person to start acting strangely.
Just then, a faint scraping sound came from No Man's Land beyond the fog.
Scrape... scrape...
I immediately braced my lasgun over the trench lip.
One.
Two.
Three.
The familiar rhythm burst into my mind again. The interval before the shells fell. But No Man's Land was silent. There was no blast, no ground-shaking vibration.
Was I going mad?
I thought so for a moment.
But I soon shook my head.
After enduring shelling for days, it was possible to develop a reflex like that.
I took my finger from the lasgun's frame.
"Sergeant. Targets approaching through the fog at eleven o'clock."
Shapes emerged beyond the fog.
But no order to fire came. They were not charging while shooting. Dozens of enemies had stopped in place barely fifty metres from the trench, swaying grotesquely. They took no tactical cover. Like dolls with unwound springs, they merely let their limbs hang straight down or opened and closed their mouths at the empty air.
One soldier had thrown himself into the barbed wire. His flesh was being torn apart, but he made no sound.
Lazar spoke quietly through his ruined eyes.
"...Isn't that strange?"
I watched the soldier for a moment.
"It is strange."
"What's wrong with them?"
"I don't know."
I checked the remaining charge in my lasgun's cell.
"But they aren't coming toward us."
"..."
"Then that's fine."
The enemy was destroying itself without costing us ammunition. That was enough.
Then a brief scream burst from the vox communicator above the trench amid the static.
"—Fourth Platoon sector! The defensive line is... krrsh... open fire! Commissar, wait—!"
Bang!
The transmission abruptly cut off with a single gunshot. It had clearly been Commissar Vorkov's pistol. Yakov closed his eyes with a weary expression, while I looked away indifferently.
I could hear Lazar breathing.
It was harsh and irregular.
I looked his way for a moment, then turned my eyes back to No Man's Land.
One.
Two.
Three.
"Sergeant."
"What?"
"The supplies won't come today either, will they?"
Yakov smiled like he was sighing.
"Probably not."
"...Then what about the biscuit?"
"Figure it out yourself."
I checked my pocket.
Half a piece.
And two power cells.
"Understood."
I looked into the fog again.
One.
Two.
Three.
I was still alive.
That was enough.
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