We're Not Going to Catachan

Catachan was a cursed place. The plants and animals were the planet's true masters; Catachans were merely another link in Catachan's ecosystem.

If Tovens had to sum up Catachan in one sentence, he would surely repeat a joke circulating among the Catachans with both humor and respect.

"Catachan rocks: Damn, my head's itchy. I need to go kill something.

Catachans: I need to shoot a Commissariat officer to boost morale."

Of course, Tovens only told that second joke when asking Catachans for support from their jungle fighting regiments. He had no desire to catch the Commissariat's attention.

Tovens could never forget the difficult days he had spent stationed on Catachan, studying jungle warfare. Back then, he had been awed by Catachan's lush green appearance and puzzled by the loose defenses around its cities.

"Don't you have any planetary defense forces? If the enemy invaded, wouldn't this planet fall easily?" Tovens had asked. He remembered that the Catachan merely rolled his eyes and snorted in disdain.

"Those bastard enemies? It'd be great if they came! More food for Catachan to eat means an easier life for me."

The moment Tovens disembarked, pollen released by the plants ruined his air filter. A battle-hardened gunner in his regiment had his finger cut by a leaf, and within half a minute, the burly man had gone to meet The Emperor.

Every morning, Tovens had to carry a Promethium flamer to clear out the ever-spreading corrosive lichen beneath his bed. He also had to pilot a Sentinel fitted with a cutting saw and crushing claws, repeatedly driving back the forest as it crept closer.

When he entered the jungle for survival training, Tovens had to be wary of everything except himself. The verdant jungle teemed with predators, and even carrying a weapon gave him no