Gunheads(科幻战争)-第1部分

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《Gunheads（科幻战争）》
作者：＇英＇Steve　Parker【完结】




Synopsis　（英文书籍文案）　

In　〃Gunheads〃　Sergeant　Wulfe　has　a　new　tank；　he　is　haunted　by　a　psychic　vision；　and　he　has　a　new　nemesis；　one　corporal　Lenck。　This　time　out　the　81st　Cadian　Armoured　is　dropped　onto　Golgotha；　a　death　world　inhabited　by　hundreds　of　thousands　of　Orks。　Their　mission　is　to　retrieve　the　〃Fortress　of　Arrogance；〃　a　battle　tank　that　belonged　to　Commissar　Yarrick；　hero　of　Hades　Hive。　Yarrick　is　an　Ork　fighter　extraordinaire　and；　in　fact；　is　one　of　the　only　humans　to　master　the　Ork　language。　








PROLOGUE
Calafran　Creides　had　stopped　believing　he　would　wake　up。　The　nightmare　was　real。　The　monsters
that　surrounded　him　were　solid；　living；　breathing　things；　he’d　found　out　just　how　solid　when　one　of
them　had　cuffed　him　for　not　working　fast　enough。　The　power　behind　the　blow　was　terrifying。　Cal
had　flown　backwards　and　smashed　into　one　of　the　ammunition　crates　he　was　supposed　to　be
loading。　He　was　sure　his　rib　was　broken。　Breathing　had　been　painful　ever　since；　and　sleep；　when　it
came　at　all；　was　more　of　a　struggle　than　ever。
What　was　a　broken　rib；　though；　compared　to　the　things　they　had　done　to　Davran？　Or　to　poor
crippled　Klaetas？　Or　to　old　Jovas；　the　pilot；　when　he’d　collapsed　from　exhaustion？　Best　not　to　think
about　that。　Wasn’t　it　enough　that　he　saw　it　every　time　he　closed　his　eyes？　The　images　of　sickening
torment　were　practically　laser…etched　onto　the　backs　of　his　eyelids。　Most　nights；　after　he　and　the
others　had　been　pushed　and　kicked　into　an　empty　cargo　container　and　locked　there　to　rest　in　the
stifling　dark；　he　would　wake　up　screaming。　Quick　but　gentle　hands　would　reach　out　to　reassure　him
then；　one　always　closing　insistently　over　his　mouth。　Nobody　wanted　the　monsters　to　return　and
investigate　the　noise。
Living　in　such　a　constant　haze　of　fear；　pain　and　misery；　Cal　had　lost　count　of　the　days。　How　long
had　it　been　—　ten？　twenty；　perhaps？　—　since　the　monsters　had　boarded　The　Silverfin。　She　and　her
crew　had　been　contracted　to　scavenge　naval　wrecks　from　old　war　zones　on　the　periphery　of　the
Maelstrom。　That　hadn’t　lasted　long。　Early　in　the　first　leg　of　the　operation；　a　bizarre　ship；　its　prow
constructed　in　the　likeness　of　a　grinning；　nightmarish　beast；　had　ambushed　her；　shooting　out　her
main　thrusters　and　ramming　her　from　the　side。　Captain　Benin　had　recognised　the　profile　of　the
attacking　craft　immediately。　Aliens；　he　said；　man…haters。
Cal　never　imagined　he　would　see　the　captain　so　afraid。　Benin　kept　calling　them　greenskins；
though　their　massive；　leathery　bodies　were　varying　shades　of　brown。　When　they　stormed　the　ship；
the　captain　had　ordered　everyone　onto　the　floor。　“Don’t　look　up！”　he　had　told　them。　“No　eye
contact！”　he　had　said。　“Fighting　back　will　only　get　us　killed。”
It　was　the　first　time　Cal　had　ever　heard　a　quaver　in　the　big　man’s　voice。　Poor　Nameth；　never　the
sharpest　tool　in　the　box；　looked　up　anyway；　and　died　horribly　for　it。　A　glance　was　all　it　took　—　the
briefest　instant　of　gaze　holding　alien　gaze　—　before　one　bellowing　brute　charged　straight　at　him；　its
roar　deafening　in　the　tight　confines　of　the　ship。　It　tore　Nameth’s　head　from　his　neck　with　a　single
huge　hand。　Cal　had　been　lying　close　by。　His　friend’s　hot　blood　had　splashed　over　his　back；　soaking
his　clothes　while　the　rest　of　the　crew　screamed　and　cried　out　for　mercy。　The　monsters　laughed　at
that；　then　bound　the　crew’s　hands；　fixed　metal　collars　around　their　throats；　and　chained　them　all
together。　Minutes　later；　the　captured　humans　were　locked　tight　in　one　of　the　lower　holds　and　the
journey　to　this　Throne…forsaken　place　had　begun。　They　had　been　brought　to　this　world　to　live　and
die　as　slaves；　and　Cal　wished　now　that　he　and　the　crew　had　fought　back。　Most　of　them　had　already
been　worked　or　beaten　to　death　anyway。　What　was　the　point　of　drawing　it　out　like　this？
There　was　no　hope　of　escape。　Where　would　he　go？　The　slavers’　settlement　sat　high　atop　a
plateau　of　solid　black　basalt。　Beyond　the　plateau’s　sheer　sides；　red　sands　stretched　to　the　wavering
horizon　in　every　direction。　There　were　a　few　sloping　paths　down　to　the　desert　floor；　but；　even　if　he
got　to　the　bottom；　there　was　nowhere　to　hide　out　there。　He　would　be　spotted　and　slain　in　short　order。
He　didn’t　have　the　energy　to　run　anymore。　His　aching　body　felt　so　heavy。　Every　motion；　even　the
mere　act　of　drawing　breath；　seemed　to　take　so　much　more　effort　on　this　world。　Why？　Did　anyone
6
even　know　which　planet　this　was？　He　had　asked　around；　but　none　of　the　other　human　slaves　seemed
to　have　the　slightest　idea。
There　were　hundreds　of　them。　Some　had　arrived　shortly　after　Cal；　others　had　been　here　longer；
but　not　by　much。　No　one；　it　seemed；　survived　for　very　long。　Those　who　had　arrived　before　him　had
a　dead　look　in　their　eyes；　as　if　their　souls　had　already　departed；　unwilling　to　stay　locked　within
bodies　forced　to　endure　so　much。　Sometimes；　though；　when　the　monsters　in　charge　were　too　busy
fighting　amongst　themselves；　or　when　the　thick　afternoon　heat　put　them　to　sleep；　a　little　glimmer　of
light　would　return　and　some　of　the　older　slaves　would　speak　to　the　newcomers　in　hushed　voices。
They　told　of　how　they　had　been　taken；　their　ships　rammed　and　boarded　just　like　The　Silverfin。　They
told　of　those　who　resisted；　and　the　cruel　slaughter　that　followed。　There　were　children　here；　too；　they
said；　dozens　of　them　starving　to　death　in　tiny　cages。　The　monsters；　communicating　to　their　human
slaves　through　crude　mime；　regularly　threatened　to　devour　them　if　their　parents　didn’t　work　harder。
Children？　Cal　didn’t　want　to　believe　it。　He　hoped　never　to　see　those　cages。　He　didn’t　think　he
could　bear　it。
A　furious　roar　snapped　him　back　to　his　senses；　and　he　realised　that　his　legs　had　stopped　moving。
He　was　so　exhausted；　he　could　no　longer　feel　the　festering　cuts　and　scratches　that　covered　his　limbs。
Not　for　the　first　time；　he　had　almost　fallen　asleep　on　his　feet。
There　was　a　sharp　crack　like　a　gunshot；　and　blazing　pain　lanced　across　his　back。　One　of　the
brutish　slave　masters　—　a　sadistic　monster　that　the　slaves　called　Sawtooth　—　stood　ten　metres
behind　him；　bellowing　hoarsely　and　brandishing　a　long；　barbed　whip。
The　whip　cracked　again。
Drowning　under　a　wave　of　sudden；　intense　agony；　Cal　felt　the　last　of　his　strength　dissolve。　His
legs　buckled　and　gave　way。　He　collapsed；　dropping　the　crate　of　fat；　gleaming　bullets　he　was
carrying。　His　back　hit　hard；　dry　rock。　Bullets　spilled　from　the　broken　crate；　rolling　to　a　stop　against
his　body。　Some　of　the　smaller；　skinnier　aliens　nearby　—　hideous　creatures　with　leering　faces　and
long；　hooked　noses　—　pointed　down　at　him　from　atop　a　pyramid　of　stacked　fuel　barrels。　They
laughed　and　chittered　to　each　other；　eyes　wide　with　anticipation。
Cal　felt　the　rock　tremble　under　his　body　as　Sawtooth　stomped　over；　growling　with　rage。　The
alien’s　massive；　steel…booted　feet　halted　on　either　side　of　Cal’s　head；　and　Cal　knew　that　the　greatest
pain　of　his　short　life　was　about　to　follow。　He　remembered　the　terrible　screams　of　Davran　and　the
others。　He　could　hardly　breathe　with　panic。　His　heart　galloped。　Distantly；　he　felt　a　warm　wetness
spreading　through　his　ragged　trousers；　and　realised　that　he　had　loosed　the　contents　of　his　bladder。
Fear　overwhelmed　any　sense　of　shame。
Sawtooth　bent　over　him；　assessing　him；　studying　him　closely　with　unsympathetic　red　eyes。　Was
this　pathetic　little　human　still　capable　of　work；　or　only　fit　to　be　tortured　and　pulled　apart　as　another
warning　to　the　rest？
Thick　strands　of　saliva　dripped　from　the　monster’s　jaws　onto　Cal’s　face。　Its　hot　breath　stank　like
vomit。
Cal　gagged。　Bile　burned　his　throat。　This　is　it；　he　thought。　This　is　how　my　life　ends。
He　had　never　been　a　strong　believer　in　the　Imperial　Creed。　He’d　attended　weekly　services　with
his　parents；　and　learned　the　mandatory　prayers　and　hymns　under　the　stinging　tutelage　of　a　priest’s
cane；　just　like　every　other　resentful　boy　and　girl　in　the　Imperium　of　Man。　But　he　had　never　really
believed；　not　in　any　of　it。　The　God…Emperor　was　just　another　old　legend　among　so　many。　No；　he
was　even　less　than　that。　He　was　a　legend　of　a　myth　of　a　legend。
All　the　same；　as　Sawtooth　straightened　and　began　bellowing　to　the　other　monsters　nearby；
calling　them　over　for　a　bit　of　fun；　it　was　to　the　Ministorum’s　precious　God…Emperor　that　Cal　prayed
and　pleaded。
Lord　of　all　Mankind；　Beacon　in　the　Darkness；　Master　of　Holy　Terra　and　all　the　galaxy；　let　me
die　quickly；　I　beg　you。　Don’t　let　met　suffer　as　Davran　and　the　others　did。　I’ve　sinned；　I　know　it；　and
held　no　faith。　But；　in　humble　prayer；　I　ask　this　of　You　now。
7
He　expected　no　answer。　It　was　terror　alone　that　made　him　pray；　but　what　happened　next　was　a
striking　example　of　those　coincidences　that　the　faithful　so　often　claim　as　proof　of　the　Divine。
Calafran　Creides　could　not　have　known　that　a　fleet　of　Imperial　ships　held　position　in　high　orbit
directly　above　him。　They　had　arrived　that　very　day。
Laughing　at　thoughts　of　the　torture　to　follow；　Sawtooth　grasped　Cal’s　arms　and　hauled　him
roughly　into　the　air。　Cal’s　limp　feet　dangled　above　the　bullet…strewn　rock。　His　undernourished　bones
cracked　and　splintered　in　the　monster’s　iron　grip；　but　he　didn’t　scream。　He　didn’t　even　whimper。　His
attention　was　locked　on　the　sky　above。
In　it；　Cal　saw　a　glorious；　blazing　light　that　shunted　the　thick　clouds　aside。　It　was　so　bright　that　it
hurt　to　look　into　it；　but　he　couldn’t　turn　away。　Tears　of　joy　rolled　down　his　cheeks。　Could　it　truly
be？　Yes！　The　Emperor　was　real！　He　had　heard　Cal’s　prayer；　and　He　had　answered　it！
“Ave；　Imperator；”　Cal　gasped。　Gratitude；　relief；　love；　contrition：　all　these　feelings　and　more
swept　over　him。　He　took　a　deep　lungful　of　hot；　stinking　air　and；　with　everything　he　had　left；　shouted
upwards；　“Ave；　Imperator！”
The　confused　greenskins　looked　up；　too；　but　there　was　nothing　they　could　do。　The　blazing　light
struck　the　plateau；　scouring　it；　purging　it；　erasing　ork　and　human　alike　as　if　neither　had　existed　there
at　all。
Soon；　hundreds　of　Imperial　drop…ships　would　begin　their　descent。
Operation　Thunderstorm　had　begun。
8
CHAPTER　ONE
Imperial　spaceships；　massive　and　ornate；　comparable　in　size　and　baroque　beauty　to　the　largest
cathedrals　of　Holy　Terra；　hung　together　in　the　infinite　dark。　They　had　slid　from　the　warp　almost
forty　days　earlier；　bisecting　the　orbits　of　the　outer　planets　on　trails　of　blazing　plasma　until　finally
closing　on　their　ultimate　goal。　That　goal　lay　somewhere　below；　on　the　world　that　spun　beneath　them；
a　world　that　glowed　bright　in　the　glare　of　the　system’s　harsh　sun。
Golgotha：　a　planet　shrouded　in　thick；　choking　cloud；　all　reds；　yellows　and　browns　that　swirled
and　bled　together　like　so　many　spilled　paints。　In　memoirs　dating　back　thirty…eight　years　to　the　last
Golgothan　War；　the　celebrated　Terraxian　Guardsman…poet；　Clavier　Michelos；　had　remarked　on　the
planet’s　ominous　beauty；　and　with　good　reason。　From　high　orbit；　at　least；　it　was　a　stunning　sight；　but
that　beauty　masked　an　uncompromising　nature；　for　Golgotha　was　not　a　world　that　welcomed　men。
Michelos　had　died　here；　captured　and　tortured　to　death　by　orks。　He　wasn’t　alone　in　that。　The　war
had　been　a　costly　and　embarrassing　disaster。　The　orks　had　crushed　everything　in　their　path；　and　even
Commissar　Yarrick；　the　lauded　Hero　of　Armageddon；　had　been　unable　to　turn　the　tide　of　battle。　He
left　Golgotha　in　bitter　defeat　with　very　few　survivors　at　his　side。
That　was　almost　four　decades　ago。　Yarrick；　now　an　old　man；　still　fought　for　the　glory　of　the
Imperium。　The　war　with　his　nemesis；　the　ork　warlord　Ghazghkull　Mag　Uruk　Thraka；　had　taken　him
back　to　Armageddon；　the　world　that　had　made　his　reputation；　while　Golgotha　remained　firmly　in　the
hands　of　the　enemy；　a　dark　stain　on　his　record　that　could　never　be　expunged。
So；　why　had　men　returned？　The　small　fleet　that　hung　above　the　orange　sphere　lacked　even　a
fraction　of　the　power　required　to　take　it　back　by　force；　but　that　was　not　their　mission；　not　this　time。
There　was　something　else　down　there　besides　orks；　something　important　that　had　been　lost　on
Golgotha　during　the　last　war；　something　that　the　Imperium　wanted　back。　It　was　a　holy　relic；　a
symbol　so　potent　that　it　might　turn　the　tide　of　Yarrick’s　new　war。　Its　name　was　The　Fortress　of
Arrogance。
The　fleet　sent　to　recover　it　was　a　mixed　force。　In　the　centre；　a　ship　far　larger　than　any　of　the
others　dominated　the　formation。　This　was　the　Scion　of　Tharsis；　a　Reclamator　craft　of　the　Adeptus
Mechanicus；　the　ancient　and　inscrutable　tech…priesthood　of　Mars　without　whom　none　of　the　ships
present　would　have　existed　at　all。　The　Scion　was　flanked　on　either　side　by　the　Imperial　Navy’s
Tyrant…class　heavy　cruisers；　the　Helicon　Star　and　the　Ganymede；　around　which　swarmed　myriad
smaller　escort　ships　and　armed　transports。　It　was　on　one　of　these　transports；　an　unassuming　craft
called　the　Hand　of　Radiance；　that　the　men　of　the　81st　Cadian　Armoured　Regiment；　known　less
formally　as　Rolling　Thunder；　prepared　for　war。
*　*　*
“Form　up；　you　greasy　pukes！”　roared　an　ugly；　skin…headed　sergeant　with　a　pockmarked　face。　“You
know　the　bloody　drill。　By　the　numbers；　damn　your　eyes！”
The　floor　of　the　starboard…side　hangar　clanged　with　the　sound　of　men　snapping　to　attention。　The
troopers　stood　in　formation；　company　by　company　from　the　first　to　the　tenth；　while　their　sergeants
prowled　back　and　forth　like　hungry　wolves；　eyes　sharp；　hunting　keenly　for　the　slightest　signs　of
sloppiness。　Hulking　drop…ships　sat　behind　the　ordered　ranks　of　men；　their　boarding　ramps　lowered；
internal　lights　glaring　yellow　inside　dark；　gunmetal　hulls。
9
A　loud；　hydraulic　hiss　sounded　on　the　right　of　the　massive　chamber；　and　a　thick　door　split　down
the　middle；　each　half　sliding　backwards　into　the　wall　with　a　cough　of　oily　steam。　The　metal　floor
rang　with　the　crisp；　pleasing　tattoo　of　dozens　of　booted　feet　marching　briskly　into　the　hangar。
“Officers　on　deck！”　yelled　another　of　the　sergeants。　Thick　veins　throbbed　at　his　temple　with　the
effort　of　projecting　his　voice　unaided　to　almost　two　thousand　men。
When　the　officers　had　halted　and　turned　to　face　the　assembled　troops；　the　oldest　of　the　sergeants
—　a　stocky　man　with　lumpy　scar…tissue　in　place　of　his　left　ear　—　strode　forwards　and　proudly
stated；　“All　men　present　and　accounted　for；　sir。　Vehicles　already　onboard；　lashed　and　locked。　Flight
and　tech…crews　ready　for　the　go。　Companies　one　to　ten　awaiting　permission　to　load。”
Colonel　Kochatkis　Vinnemann　stood　at　the　centre　of　the　group　of　officers；　hunched　as　ever；
leaning　heavily　on　his　cane；　but　resplendent　nonetheless　in　a　smart　uniform　of　deep　green　with
glittering　golden　epaulets。　Today　was　the　last　day　that　he　would　be　able　to　wear　the　regimental
colours　for　a　while。　The　duration　of　the　campaign　would　see　everyone　clothed　in　camouflaging
fatigues　of　rust…red。
Vinnemann　nodded　at　the　sergeant　in　front　of　him　and　was　about　to　issue　the　boarding　command
when　Captain　Immrich　—　tall；　dark　and　broad…shouldered　—　leaned　close　and　whispered　a　few
words　in　his　ear。　Vinnemann　frowned　a　little　at　first　but　finally　nodded　his　agreement。　He　stepped
forward；　accepted　a　vox…amp　receiver　from　the　adjutant　on　his　left；　held　the　mouthpiece　in　front　of
his　lips；　and　cleared　his　throat。　The　sound　echoed　back　at　him　from　the　vast　bulkheads。
“Those　of　you　with　me　long　enough　know　that　I　dislike　long　speeches；”　said　Vinnemann。
“Something　best　left　to　your　commissars　and　confessors；　I　think；　to　men　who　have　a　particular　talent
for　it。”
Commissar　Slayte；　the　regiment’s　widely　despised　political　officer；　dressed　as　ever　in　the　black
and　gold　of　his　office；　bowed　slightly　at　the　compliment。　Confessor　Friedrich；　on　the　other　hand；　a
flush…faced　priest　in　his　late　thirties；　merely　swayed　a　little　as　if　standing　in　a　strong　breeze　that　only
he　could　feel。
“However；”　continued　Colonel　Vinnemann；　“as　Captain　Immrich　has　rightly　reminded　me；　our
regiment　faces　something　unprecedented　in　its　history。　If　a　situation　ever　warranted　a　departure　from
my　typical　reticence；　it　is　this　one；　for　we　are　about　to　set　foot　on　a　world　firmly　and　completely　in
the　hands　of　the　hated　ork。”
It　was　Vinnemann’s　particular　habit　to　refer　to　the　old　foe　in　the　singular。　Some　of　the　men　did　a
pretty　good　impersonation　of　him；　though　never　with　any　malice。　There　was　tremendous　love　and
respect　for　the　old　colonel　among　those　who　had　served　under　him　for　any　length　of　time。　It　was
well　earned。　Those　men　whose　jibes　contained　an　edge　of　genuine　insult；　especially　those　that
mocked　his　physical　disability；　quickly　found　themselves　isolated；　cast　out　by　their　fellows。　Among
Imperial　Guardsmen；　such　exclusion　was　as　good　as　a　death　sentence。
Vinnemann’s　distinctive　posture　was　caused　by　his　augmetic　spine。　Twenty…four　years　earlier；
while　just　a　captain；　he　had　undergone　a　life…saving　augmentation　procedure　following　the
destruction　of　his　Vanquisher　battle　tank。　His　body　had　never　fully　accepted　the　implant。　Regular
injections　of　immunosuppressants　and　painkillers　eased　things　a　little；　but　not　much。　The　injury
should　have　killed　him；　and　so；　too；　the　subsequent　operation；　but　his　indomitable　spirit　had　kept
him　alive；　that　and　the　care　of　the　Medicae　nurse　he　later　married。　During　his　slow；　painful　recovery；
his　superiors　had　offered　him　the　option　of　an　honourable　discharge。　It　seemed　to　them　the　only
logical　choice。
Vinnemann　had　rejected　it　without　hesitation。　“A　rear　echelon　position；　then；”　they　had
suggested；　but　the　old　tanker　had　rejected　that；　too。　“My　duty；”　he　had　insisted；　“is　to　lead　my　men
from　the　front；　no　matter　what；　and；　so　long　as　I　am　able；　that　is　exactly　what　I　intend　to　do。”
Twelve　years　later；　he　had　risen　to　the　rank　of　colonel；　taking　command　of　the　entire　81st
Armoured　Regiment。
10
He　studied　them　now；　his　brave　troopers；　during　a　short　pause　in　his　speech。　A　slim　lieutenant　at
the　rear　coughed　quietly　behind　his　hand。　The　sound　was　magnified　in　the　relative　silence。
Vinnemann　drew　a　deep　breath。
“Some　of　us　have　fought　the　ork　before；”　he　continued；　“and　with　notable　success。　Our　victories
on　Phaegos　II；　Galamos　and　Indara　stand　us　in　good　stead；　though　many　of　you；　I　suppose；　had　yet
to　be　born　at　the　time　of　the　latter。　Still；　the　point　is　this：　we　know　the　ork。　We　know　that　together；
man　and　machine；　tanker　and　tank；　we　are　stronger　than　the　ork。　We　know　that　we　can　beat　the　ork。
We’ve　proved　it　time　after　time。”
He　found　himself　stunned　by　how　young　some　of　the　most　recent　reinforcements　looked　when
standing　next　to　their　more　experienced　peers。　By　the　blasted　Eye；　he　thought；　some　of　them　are
practically　children！　Was　I　ever　so　fresh…faced？
Thoughts　of　his　two　sons　bubbled　up　in　his　mind。　Both　were　serving　in　the　92nd　Infantry
Division　on　Armageddon。　They　had　grown　into　fine　soldiers。　Was　it　too　much　to　hope　for　their
safety？　Was　it　foolish　to　pray　for　them？　Millions　would　die　to　stop　the　foe　on　Armageddon；　tens　of
millions；　perhaps。　Yarrick’s　war　demanded　it。　The　very　heart　of　the　Imperium　was　at　stake。　Why
should　his　sons　be　spared　the　fate　of　their　comrades？　He　knew　that　glory；　victory　and　a　good　death
were　the　best　he　could　ask　for　them。　It　was　all　that　most　good　Cadians　asked　for　themselves。
Besides