1.

Oxidised mounds of mystery metal litter the surrounding battle-zone. Machines mangled into useless alloys by concentrated Hi-Velocity orbital percussion rounds (H-Vopr) haunt derelict positions. That signature acidic smell mixed with gunpowder and the atmosphere, manufacturing a putrid fog encompassing those dead and alive, no highland or trench provided safety. No respite to be found on this rock. Mud mixed with rain mixed with metal mixed with blood mixed with silicone soles, clinging to every crevice until movement is rendered null. Networks of opposing trenches and dug-outs revolving across the scarred landscape like great crescents embittered against the soil, deeming any assault suicidal.

Vegetation and fauna long decimated, what remains is an endless surge of meat sacks clashing against insurrectionist defences like defiant waves, slowly corroding frontlines, ill-fated combatants pulled into the sludge of corpses. Fatbergs of flesh 'n tissue dot no man's land, formulating a biohazard that chars the lungs of those who inhale its gas. My seared nostrils fought against the putrid ferment of this latest struggle. North-westward, at the maw of the enemy, unlucky souls from the 105th Regiment covered every crater and cavity in sight, our mosh pit of violence, yielding little gain. I sigh, folding the binoculars into my left pouch and retreating back into the dug-out.

Resting on a stool, observing my surroundings, I take note. About five-six men in width, this circular foxhole is clearly the result of enemy fire, a crater, refurbished into our line. It's deep, deep enough to stand up in without worry. Lined with sandbags, it's a reliable firing position, although it's too steep to advance from. 'We'll need some ladders; these fire-steps won't do' I mumble, squinting my eyes into the floor. It's muddy. Bits of broken duckboard allow for limited mud-free movement, but ultimately it's muddy. Won't be an issue for us. Distant artillery strikes generate low rumbles, reverberating into my bones. I listen in on the duel, impacts mimicking the clashing of swords in the mind's eye. It's soothing, like birds in conversation.

Rain droplets splatter against my poncho, awakening me from isolation. It's only a little drizzle. We're nearing the precipice of a new season, away from this awful weather, hopefully towards a new offensive. I raise my wrist and check the time, scanning the 28 markings. It's nearing half eight, I should be getting back to Command. Arising from the short-lived throne, I take one last observant glance at the dug-out. Other than some provisional timber aligned against the walls, wrestling with the muck, there's not much else. No glimmer of spent rounds or blood-smeared banquette. It's unused, pristine by trench standards. Perfection.

Exiting, ducking lower to accommodate for the shorter tunnel, I begin the difficult manoeuvre back. Topology wise, our position isn't ideal. What started as grassland with occasional low, rocky hills and hexagon forests has transmuted into a deluge of battered earth and craters. Compounded with limited orbital bombardments, weather, supply shortages and chem-storms, our lines have been mutilated, akin to a corpse on barbed wire. What remains is our necrotised swamp, seeping into the dirt, splintering outwards in every direction. Hallways mimicking collapsed veins, too tight for men to walk side-by-side, narrowly enough to squeeze yourself into. Watery bile that reaches up to our ankles. Entire sections irrecoverable, left to fester, cut off before rot. Dead. Gone. Fucked. Nevertheless, we continue.

The corridor thins as I slow to a squat position. Grasping the left-most beam to steady myself, I progress towards the opposite support, swinging as if I were a cryptid from some forgotten Old Earth tale. The mud here is slushy, piles cake the duckboards, a consequence of blocked drainage channels. I curse the soil, creeping onwards. Conditions persist until finally a lull, an open section defended by a large sandbagged parapet. Having a rest here, I relax on the firing steps and take a peek at my boots. They are Standard RQ14 combat boots, albeit with a majority of the metal shielding stripped, leaving the shin-knee area bare. The metal material is too heavy for trench conditions, you'd sink too easily, so its protection is sacrificed for agility, the preferred trait in combat. Since it's modular, soldiers can determine what to keep for themselves, many retain their knee armour, for example.

Mud adorns each boot, a gradient of filthiness that reaches both mid-femurs. I hate it, the mud, that mushy gasping as you walk. 'Violates the mind', a comrade once diagnosed. Makes you double-check, when you're out there, over the line. We've had guys that swore they heard cries, barks, gasps, even whole words, bellowing from the mud. Of course, it's explainable, moisture escaping when the foot connects with the muck, generating noise. A cognitive distortion. This explanation hasn't persuaded everyone. When I confronted a true believer about what the mud told him, he responded with: 'Elephant.' I'm neutral on the phenomenon.

Following that prolonged examination, I jumped back into the engagement, my personal feud with the geography reactivated. Striding through the trench, the walls widen and mud lessens. Wooden beams stand out more proudly, sandbags more plentiful, distant chatter and busy-work is audible. I've entered our front lines proper, officially escaping the dead zone. An exhale of relief leaves me. Excursions into the abandoned areas usually aren't that uneventful, but I'll take the peace. I tune into the background noise; the artillery barrages have gotten louder, with some smaller blasts joining the chorus. Could be direct hits, or drones, hopefully neither. The rain continues at its steady pace. I keep walking, more calm. I gaze at the sky, an azure dome that envelops this planet, broad strokes of clouds populating it, finished by a tiny red dot. In ideal conditions, you might see our ships from orbit.

Strolling deeper I'm met by kindred souls, almost lifeless husks manning their positions, some watchful over the landscape, most huddled around their dugout, hands cupped over a portable thermal heater. A black tarp protects the latter from the elements, while the former cloaked figures observe, akin to two gargoyles. An air of seriousness permeates from the duo. Looking at the heater, I become conscious of my own lack of heat-source. I shake off the feeling, these past months have acclimatised me to the cold, I can handle it. Suddenly, a swirl of turbulence flows through the sandbags into the trench, as if I'm challenged. Momentarily losing balance, I put a defiant foot down, recovering. The statues remain unmoving. A giant, golem-esque man lifts one hand from the warmth, locking eyes with me, making a waving gesture. I can't discern a particular facial expression from under the poncho hood, only the faint hint of a possible smile.

Slightly embarrassed, I glide towards the group, making an effort to conceal my feelings. The others ignore my advance, too preoccupied by their own gossip. Now within close range, the soldier shed his hood, revealing the complexion underneath. A dark-skinned man with a broad face, supported by small brown eyes. He was, in fact, smiling—a toothy smile that exposed his gums, reminiscent of an old friend, or favourite uncle. The ethnic bulbous made the man's origin obvious; a resident of Dagon, one of those blossoming, frontier agriculture worlds. His build reinforced that observation, muscular forearms that connect to equally capable hands, a result of toil and labour. The last remarkable features were his stoic forehead, crowned by baldness and fading eyebrows. Behind that smile he looked tired, even for his age, which I estimated was between late 30s to early 40s. There were many Dagonese during the opening phase.

He opens up on me, 'Wind got you by the balls, son? Gotta be careful; it's really been picking up lately. Don't want you getting even more foul.' I become hyper-aware of my own state, feeling the dirt on my ass, snaking its way to the left lumbar region. I'm filthy.

Thinking quickly, I let out a retort; 'Not all of us can be so carefree, comrade. Some of us have to keep this war going.' A boyish smirk rises across my face. I was proud of that one.

A jolly laugh erupts from him. 'That is true! But don't forget, while the young go off to fight, the old stay behind, to till and wet the land.'

'And that's what you're doing right now, tilling the land?'

'In a proverbial sense, yes. These men are my field, to nurture and cultivate.' His tone turned earnest. During the course of our conversation, I sat down, facing him, finally able to get respite from the rain.

Despite his intimidating stature, I felt confident in grappling with him conversationally. 'So, uh, you could say that you're... "ploughing" your guys, right? Just proverbially, of course.' That garnered some chuckles.

He laughed again, but this time as more of a token gesture. 'No. You plough after harvest, to eliminate weeds and bring nutrients upwards. They are still seedlings, barely into the germination period; they need time to grow. It is a delicate process, you see.' He stared at me, completely serious.

I motion towards the two gargoyles. 'So they're getting germinated on, or whatever.'

He nods. 'Rain is the nexus to which all inner growth stems from. If you cannot stand the rain, which gives life and everything good in the world, then how can you stand in the face against shellfire? This is called self-cultivation.'

I look upwards, listening to the continual drum of rain droplets. 'Why aren't you out there getting pissed on, then?'

'If a plant is waterlogged, it cannot grow. We mustn't push ourselves too hard.'

At this stage, my hands were hovering against the heater, the previous bout of courage broken by the potential for warmth. The adjacent battery radiated a bluish-green at its core, surrounded by metal with exotic grooves. It was box-shaped, with fins jutting down across two opposite sides, acting as feet to shield the device from the ground. At the top-front a slope was milled, containing various knobs, buttons and a small screen. What caught my attention, causing me to pause the discussion, was the number displayed; 23%. '23...' I wrestled with the number on my tongue. A great sense of doom trudged its way upwards throughout my being. First I tapped my feet, then withdrew my hands to fiddle with. My insides dissolved into a buzzing, static sensation. My soul was commandeered by an malignant entity of uncompromising annihilation. I felt as if it was all over.

The sage coughed, my mind now captive to reality. I looked at him; he has a concerned expression. The eyes of the nameless soldiers etched into my skull. 'Ah sorry, deep in thought. About your philosophy I mean.' He looks unconvinced. I try to change topic; 'So, do all Dagonese believe in self-cultivation?'

'How'd you know I was Dagonese?'

I tap my nose. 'Unmissable schnoz'.

He reveals his signature smile. 'Yes, most of us do. It's a part of our "spiritual empire". We aren't just renowned for agritech ya know, Dagon is the land of scholars, a temple is as commonplace as any farm or field.' The pride in his heritage diffused from the Duchenne cheeks, displaying war-weary crow's feet.

Gripping my chin, I plot a new direction. Spiritual empire sounded interesting, but I'm tired of the corporeal. Let's take a materialist pivot. 'How'd you end up here, then? Why not just become a scholar, you seem philosophically equipped.'

He fixated on me, like I opened him up without anaesthetic. I stood my ground, zeroing on his eyes. This intensity lasted for a moment, until he relented with a deep sigh.

'I don't come from a scholar family. Contrary to our political Union, Dagon is deeply reactionary, with too many entrenched dynasties. The bourgeois raise their children to be vicious careerists, self-cultivation as cannibalism, consuming every opportunity at the expense of the working people. Further emboldened by the scholar-tutor apparatus, which can only be afforded by the bourgeois' vast wealth, leaves the proletariat defenceless. I tried all my life; I took the test countless times; I scored high, but not enough to surpass the wealthy candidates. I failed, over and over and over...'

At this point, the entire troop had stopped their ideal talk to listen. Even the ever vigintile gargoyles were taking pop-shots, moving their heads towards the Dagonese giant for a couple of seconds, then rhythmically returning to overwatch. It felt like being back in the Red Youth again.

'...until I was so overcome with melancholy that my spirit was shackled to my bed, images of a life I could never live torturing me, the concern of my family ignored. A life wasted on a fruitless pursuit, no lover, no kids, no estate, fuck all. Loser.'

Jumping from his seat, he clenched his fist, a look of manic determination swept across him. His eyes were wide, nostrils enlarged, the anger actually made him look youthful.

'But then, war. Knock from the conscription office, I'm being drafted, rebellion in the Vela Sector. The Party needs me. I don't need press-ganged, I'm a Party man now, fuck the scholars, welcome Fraus! Fight fight fight, don't stop fighting, blood and piss, ribs and gore, don't stop.'

The once calm stoic had transformed into the inverse, a frothing maniac, resolute on a red jihad. Clapping and hollering came from our band, I found myself rallying too. It had a stage-like quality to it all.

An overtuned berserker high on combat stims, he beat his chest and declared; 'After we're done here, we'll march upon the bourgeoisie and tear their entire wretched system asunder, with the Party by our sides! Kill all scholars, hang D'monte!' This solicited the loudest roars, a celebration of the future liquidation of bourgeoisie forces, soldiers united. Despite the celebrations, a sensible lobe of my brain protested. I've wind him up too much, better steer away from this talk.

After the cheers and slogans dwindled, he sat back down, his face flush, veins still protruding. 'Didn't take you for a Farmer-Soldier-Poet!' I joked. The soldiers returned to their ideal conversation, the statues regained concentration. They all seemed a bit more lively. 'Sorry if I brought up bad memories.'

He dismissed me. 'They are simply facts about my life, you'd be wise to internalise them.' He defaulted back to a sage, but the illusion of authority was broken. 'But enough about bitterness, how about you? Where you from, son?'.