Gunheads(科幻战争)-第18部分

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You’ll　need　to　break　the　news　to　Holtz；　of　course。”
“That　won’t　be　pleasant；”　said　Wulfe　darkly。
“For　you？　Or　for　him？”　asked　van　Droi。　“Trust　me；　Oskar。　Holtz　will　light　up　like　Skellas　Plaza
on　Emperor’s　Day。　Think　about　it。　If　he　does　well；　he　could　make　sergeant　by　the　end　of　this　bloody
fiasco。”
Wulfe　had　never　considered　Holtz　particularly　ambitious；　but　most　troopers　aspired　to　having
sergeant’s　stripes　sewn　onto　their　sleeves。　It　was　more　to　do　with　the　perks　than　anything　else。　Holtz
would　certainly　enjoy　the　increased　alcohol　and　tabac　rations…　if　he　made　the　grade。
Having　finished　with　Wulfe　for　now；　Lieutenant　van　Droi　was　on　the　verge　of　dismissing　him
when　a　commotion　erupted　at　a　table　across　the　room。　A　short；　silver…haired；　red…faced　man　in　a
colonel’s　uniform　stood　and　slammed　his　palms　down　on　the　table’s　surface。　His　chair　crashed　to
the　floor　behind　him。　“I　will　not　hold　my　damned　tongue；　Pruscht。　You’re　not　my　senior　officer。　It’s
about　time　someone　spoke　his　damned　mind　around　here。”
There　were　five　other　men　seated　at　the　table。　Four　of　them　looked　desperate　to　be　somewhere
else。　The　fifth　was　Colonel　Pruscht；　commander　of　the　118th　Cadian　Lasgunners。　He　was　a　heavyset；
dark…eyed　man　with　a　neatly　trimmed　beard。　Calmly　and　quietly；　he　stood　and　addressed　his
angry　peer。
“Calm　down；　von　Holden；”　he　said；　hands　raised　in　placation。　“You　don’t　want　trouble。　Think　of
your　men。　You　don’t　want　them　to　see　you　like　this；　do　you？　Let’s　put　this　one　down　to　strong　drink
and　forget　about　it。　We　can’t　have　you　talking　like—”
“Like　what？”　exploded　von　Holden。　“Like　someone　with　a　bloody　brain？”　He　spun　and　cast　his
bleary　gaze　over　men　at　the　other　tables。　“Who　among　you　has　the　gall　to　deny　it？”　he　yelled。
“Where’s　your　damned　integrity？　You　all　feel　the　same。　I　know　you　do。　Armageddon　is　where　we
should　be；　fighting　where　it　counts；　where　we　can　do　some　bloody　good。　Not　out　here　on　this
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backwater。　Men　dying　of　dust　and　bug…bites　and　Throne　knows　what　else。　And　all　for　a　bit　of　scrap
metal　no　one　gave　a　flying　damn　about　until　now。　It’s　been　forty　blasted　years。　DeViers　should—”
“Should　what？”　demanded　a　sharp；　clear　voice　from　the　door　of　the　mess。
Wulfe　turned　his　head　and　saw　Major　General　Bergen　standing　in　the　doorway　flanked　by　two
commissars。　His　heart　skipped　a　beat　when　he　recognised　one　of　them：　Commissar　Slayte。
Crusher！
Some　men　in　the　regiment　boasted　that　they　were　afraid　of　nothing；　but　they　stopped　boasting；
all　of　them；　when　they　met　the　man　known　informally　as　Crusher。　He　was　the　commissar　attached　to
Wulfe’s　regiment；　and　to　say　he　was　unpopular　was　an　understatement　of　titanic　proportions。
By　the　Eye；　thought　Wulfe；　that　colonel　has　dropped　himself　right　in　it。　Open　dissent　in　front　of
commissars？　I　don’t　want　to　be　around　for　this。
“Please　continue；　colonel；”　said　Major　General　Bergen；　striding　into　the　room；　removing　his　cap
and　overcoat。　The　electric　lamplight　glinted　from　the　medals　on　his　chest　and　the　golden　boards　on
his　shoulders。　The　commissars　stalked　silently　forward　at　his　flanks；　like　a　pair　of　sleek　attack　dogs
just　barely　held　in　check。　“I’ll　be　happy　to　pass　on　any　recommendations　you　or　anyone　else　has
directly　to　the　general　for　his　consideration。”
Von　Holden；　his　face　turning　redder　by　the　second；　stuttered　and　looked　desperately　at　Pruscht
for　support。　Pruscht；　though；　seemed　to　know　better。　He　sat　back　down　in　his　chair　and　sipped　from
his　glass。
With　Major　General　Bergen　in　the　room；　Wulfe　felt　extremely　self…conscious。　This　was　no　place
for　a　noncommissioned　man；　despite　Captain　Immrich’s　earlier　welcome。　It　certainly　wasn’t　right
for　a　sergeant　to　see　a　decorated　colonel　like　von　Holden　being　dressed　down。
But　the　dressing　down　never　actually　came。　To　everyone’s　surprise；　Major　General　Bergen
walked　calmly　over　to　von　Holden；　picked　his　chair　up　from　the　floor；　and　politely　invited　the
colonel　to　sit　back　down。　Speechless；　perhaps　taking　this　for　the　calm　before　the　storm；　von　Holden
did　so；　all　the　while　gaping　at　the　higher…ranking　man。
Wulfe　glanced　discreetly　at　Commissar　Slayte　while　this　was　going　on；　but　the　man’s　face　was
emotionless　and　his　gaze　was　fixed　straight　ahead。　If　he　had　noticed　Wulfe　and　van　Droi；　he　didn’t
let　on。　Perhaps　he　was　waiting　for　a　cue　from　the　major　general；　some　sign　at　which　he　would
pounce　on　Colonel　von　Holden　and　drag　him　away。　The　sign　didn’t　come；　and　the　only　movement
Crusher　made　was　the　flexing　of　his　metal　fingers　back　and　forth　into　fists。　Wulfe　knew　that　the
action　was　habitual。　The　man　probably　did　it　in　his　sleep。
Van　Droi　turned　his　attention　back　to　Wulfe　and　said；　“Best　get　yourself　away　now；　Oskar。　Go
about　the　business　we　discussed。”
“Right；　sir；”　said　Wulfe。　“Be　glad　to。”　As　he　rose；　he　offered　a　quiet　farewell　to　the　other　men　at
the　table；　“Have　a　good　evening；　sirs。”
A　few；　Captain　Immrich　among　them；　smiled　and　nodded　back。　Wulfe　saluted；　turned；　and
walked　out　of　the　door；　relieved　to　be　away　from　the　officers’　mess　and　the　tension　inside　it。　He
knew　there　were　some　good　men　in　the　upper　ranks；　but　they　made　everything　so　bloody
complicated　sometimes；　not　like　the　grunts。　You　could　speak　your　mind　among　the　rank…and…file。
There　might　be　the　odd　punch…up　afterwards；　but　you　didn’t　have　to　worry　about　bloodlines；　family
honour　and　all　that　career　lark；　and　the　bond　of　brotherhood　shared　between　the　men　of　the　lower
ranks　was　one　of　those　things　that　made　life　in　the　Guard　more　bearable。　Wulfe　had　always　thought
so；　until　Lenck　had　shown　up。
Wulfe　was　torn　over　that　one。　The　bastard　had　saved　his　life；　but　he　was　the　antithesis　of
everything　Wulfe　valued　and　respected。　He　was　a　boaster　and　a　manipulator。　Wulfe　could　almost
smell　the　cruelty　within　him。　Sooner　or　later；　there　would　be　a　reckoning　between　them。　It　was
inevitable。
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Wulfe　turned　his　mind　to　the　new　gunner；　Beans。　Was　he　as　good　a　shot　as　van　Droi　said？
Would　he　fit　in　with　Metzger　and　Siegler？　The　lieutenant　had　a　point；　they　weren’t　the　most　typical
of　tank　crews。
He　walked　towards　C…barracks；　muttering　to　himself。
“Beans。　I　hope　it　doesn’t　mean　what　I　think　it　does。”
Wulfe　found　Beans　waiting　for　him　outside　C…barracks　with　his　belongings　already　packed　into　a
canvas　bag。　He　was　sitting　on　a　concrete　step；　smoking　a　lho…stick；　and　examining　the　red　dust　that
had　gathered　under　his　fingernails。　Wulfe　automatically　assessed　him　as　he　drew　closer。　Judging　by
his　smooth；　open　facial　features；　Beans　was　young；　no　older　than　twenty　standard　most　probably。
His　fatigues　hung　loose　on　a　skinny　frame。　He　had　rolled　the　sleeves　of　his　red　field…tunic　up　to
reveal　heavily　tattooed　forearms　but；　if　any　of　the　tats　were　hive…ganger　symbols　from　his　life　back
on　Cadia；　Wulfe　didn’t　recognise　them。　That　didn’t　mean　much；　of　course。　There　were　literally　tens
of　thousands　of　gangs　in　the　vast；　crowded　fortress…hives　where　the　men　of　Exolon　had　been　raised。
“You’ll　be　Beans；”　said　Wulfe　as　he　stopped　in　front　of　the　trooper。
“Are　you　Wulfe？”　Beans’　voice　was　high　and　he　spoke　with　the　soft；　drawling　vowels　of　a　Kasr
Feros　man。
“I’m　Sergeant　Wulfe；　and　you　can　call　me　sergeant；　or　sarge。　If　you　call　me　anything　else；　I’ll
break　your　teeth。”
Beans　stood　up；　dropping　his　smoke　at　the　side　of　the　step　and　crushing　it　under　a　booted　foot。
He　was　a　good　head　shorter　than　Wulfe　and　had　to　look　up　at　an　angle　to　meet　his　gaze。　“All　right；
sergeant。　Throne　above。　I　didn’t　mean　any　disrespect；　did　I？　Don’t　want　to　get　off　on　the　wrong　foot。
I’m　nervous　enough　already；　by　Throne。”
Wulfe　nodded。　At　least　the　trooper　was　frank。　“Why　do　they　call　you　Beans？”
“It’s　my　name；　isn’t　it？　Mirkos　Biehn。　Beans。　See？”　Wulfe　let　the　relief　show　on　his　face。
“What？”　said　Beans。　“Thought　I　was　going　to　stink　up　the　air　in　your　turret？　Nah；　it’s　nothing
like　that；　sergeant。　Then　again；　I　can’t　promise　I’ll　be　forest　fresh　all　the　time。　I’m　only　human。”
“I’ll　make　sure　the　rest　of　the　crew　don’t　shoot　you　for　your　first　offence；”　said　Wulfe。　“To　be
honest；　it　stinks　so　bad　in　there　when　we’re　on　manoeuvres　that　no　one　would　notice。　You’ll　learn　to
breathe　through　your　mouth　pretty　quickly。”
Beans　looked　horrified　and　Wulfe　couldn’t　help　but　laugh。
“As　for　being　nervous；　Beans；　don’t　be。　My　lot　look　out　for　each　other。　It’s　the　first　rule。　You’ll
be　seeing　proper　combat　on　my　crew。　Make　no　mistake　about　that。　But　the　lieutenant　tells　me　you’re
a　good　shot；　and　he　thinks　you’ll　fit　in　well。”
Beans　brightened　up　on　hearing　this；　as　Wulfe　had　intended。　“The　lieutenant　said　that？”
“He　hasn’t　picked　out　a　bad　gunner　for　me　yet。　Both　of　my　last　two　went　on　to　command　tanks
of　their　own。　That　could　be　you　in　a　few　years　if　you　do　right　by　me。　Now；　if　that’s　your　bag　there；
pick　it　up　and　follow。　We’ll　drop　it　off　at　A…barracks　on　the　way。”
Beans　hefted　his　bag　over　his　shoulder　and　fell　into　pace　at　Wulfe’s　side。
“On　the　way　where；　sarge？”　he　asked。
“On　the　way　to　see　some　orks；”　Wulfe　answered。
Quite　a　crowd　had　gathered　around　the　cages　by　the　time　Wulfe　and　Beans　arrived。　Troopers　were
jostling　each　other　to　get　closer　to　the　front　where　a　couple　of　lieutenants　from　the　303rd　Cadian
Fusiliers　were　trying　to　keep　order；　largely　in　vain。　Wulfe　couldn’t　see　Metzger；　Siegler　or　Holtz
among　the　crowd；　so　he　and　Beans　hung　back　until　two　other　sergeants　arrived　and　began　shouting
at　their　men。　“Playtime　is　over；　ladies！”
“Back　to　the　barracks！　Double…time　it；　you　lot！”
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About　twenty　grumbling　men　pushed　their　way　to　the　back　of　the　mob　and　split　off　from　it。　With
their　sergeants　leading　them；　they　jogged　off　down　dark；　sand…filled　streets。　Now；　with　fresh　gaps
opening　in　the　crowd；　Wulfe　and　Beans　pushed　forward；　using　their　elbows　and　shoulders　to　gain
ground。
What　a　lot　of　fuss；　thought　Wulfe；　to　see　monsters　I’ve　had　more　than　enough　of；　but　he　kept
pushing　all　the　same；　moving　as　if　on　autopilot。
A　few　rows　from　the　front；　he　found　himself　standing　next　to　Siegler　and　Holtz。
“There　you　are；”　he　said。　“Where’s　Metzger？”
“Gone　for　a　walk；”　Siegler　answered。　“Said　this　was　bloody　stupid。”
Wulfe　turned　to　Beans　and　said；　“Which　should　tell　you　that　Metzger　is　the　smart　one。”
“I　resent　that；”　said　Siegler　looking　genuinely　insulted。
“Me；　too；”　protested　Holtz。
“Don’t　kid　yourselves；”　Wulfe　told　them　with　a　grin。
“Who’s　the　kid？”　Holtz　asked；　turning　a　scowl　on　Beans。
“This　is　Beans；”　said　Wulfe。　“He　farts　a　lot。”
“Hey！”　protested　Beans；　but　he　caught　a　look　in　Wulfe’s　eye　and　laughed。
“Holtz；”　said　Wulfe；　“you　and　I　need　to　have　a　word。　Come　with　me。　Beans；　stay　here　with
Siegler。”
“Right；　sarge；”　said　Beans。
Wulfe　and　Holtz　broke　from　the　group　around　the　cages　and　moved　off　to　stand　at　the　side　of　an
old　storage　building。　Together；　they　leaned　back　against　the　pitted　sandstone　bricks。　Holtz　reached
into　his　hip　pocket；　pulled　out　a　smoke　and　placed　it　between　his　lips。
Wulfe　decided　not　to　mince　words。　“You’re　getting　your　own　command；　Piter。　Effective
immediately。　Van　Droi　thought　I　should　tell　you　myself。”
The　lho…stick　fell　from　Holtz’s　gaping　jaw　to　the　ground　at　his　feet。
“You’re　pulling　my　leg！”　he　said。
“I’m　not。”
“By　the　Eye；”　gasped　Holtz。　“My　own　crate？　You　mean　that　Beans　kid　is　taking　over　on　the
main　gun？”
“Got　it　in　one；”　said　Wulfe。　“The　lieutenant　rates　him。　He　scored　high　in　the　standard　tests。
Apparently　he’s　a　good　shot。　But　that’s　not　the　point。　This　isn’t　about　Beans。　It’s　about　you。”
Holtz　barked　out　a　laugh。　“There’s　a　hell　of　a　difference　between　being　a　good　shot　on　the
practice　course　and　being　a　good　shot　in　combat。　What　if　he　gets　the　jinks？”
It　was　a　legitimate　concern。　Wulfe　had　known　other　crews　that　had　taken　on　a　new　man　only　to
have　him　suffer　the　jinks。　It　was　a　nervous　condition　characterised　by　sever　twitches　and　spasms；
and　it　seemed　to　be　brought　on　by　the　noise　of　the　main　gun　or　the　impact　of　heavy　enemy　fire　on
the　tank’s　armour。　Once　a　trooper　contracted　the　jinks；　he　was　as　good　as　useless　on　the　battlefield。
It　took　some　men　years　to　recover。　Others　never　did。
“You’re　not　listening；　Holtz。　Forget　about　Beans。　I’ll　deal　with　him。　He’ll　be　fine。　We’re　talking
about　you。　We’re　talking　about　commanding　a　tank。”
“What’s　to　say？”　said　Holtz。　“Show　me　a　man　in　this　regiment　who　doesn’t　want　his　own　crate！”
Something　in　Holtz’s　voice　didn’t　manage　to　convince　Wulfe。
“Come　on；　Piter；”　he　said。　“Some　men　are　happier　taking　orders　than　giving　them　out。　I
sometimes　wish—”
“Which　crate？”　asked　Holtz；　talking　over　him。　“And　why　now？”
“It’s　Rhaimes’　tank；　Old　Smashbones。　She’s　a　good；　solid　machine。　Hell　of　a　service　record。
Rhaimes　is　sick　with　the　fines。　It’s　serious。　Van　Droi　is　treating　this　as　permanent。　Says　you　might
make　sergeant　if　you　do　your　duty。”
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Holtz　bent　down；　picked　up　the　lho…stick　at　his　feet；　blew　red　dust　off　it；　and　popped　it　back
between　his　lips。
Talking　around　it；　he　said；　“Rhaimes。　Damn。　I’d　rather　be　replacing　someone　else。　His　crew
aren’t　gonna　like　this　much。　Don’t　expect　I’ll　get　a　very　warm　welcome。”
“They’re　a　young　crew。　New　meat。　They　didn’t　have　much　time　with　Rhaimes；　so　you　should　be
all　right。　Besides；　they　need　someone　with　plenty　of　combat　experience　and　the　stones　to　get　them
through　whatever’s　coming。　If　not　you；　then　who？”
Holtz　had　no　answer　for　that。　He　was　too　busy　processing　it　all。
“Anyway；”　said　Wulfe。　“Your　new　crew　is　in　A…barracks；　so　you　won’t　need　to　move　your　stuff
far。　General　deViers　is　supposed　to　arrive　tomorrow。　You　won’t　have　much　time　to　get　to　know
them　before　we　roll　out；　so　you’d　best　start　now。”
Holtz　nodded；　unable　to　hide　a　degree　of　nerves。　The　side　of　his　face　that　looked　like　hashed
grox　barely　moved　anymore；　and　showed　little　emotion；　but　Wulfe　had　had　enough　practice　in
reading　the　other　half　to　know　that　Holtz　saw　the　announcement　for　the　mixed　bag　it　was。
“Just　remember；”　Wulfe　told　him；　“you’ve　been　through　much　more　than　they　have。　You’re　in
charge。　Tank　men　live　or　die　by　the　decisions　of　their　commander。”
“No　pressure；　then；”　Holtz　replied　with　literally　half　a　grin。　“Only　joking；　sarge。　I　appreciate
your　confidence。　If　it’s　all　the　same　to　you；　though；　I’ll　head　to　the　motor　pool　first。　Make　a　bit　of　a
farewell　to　Last　Rites　II　and　introduce　myself　to　the　new　girl。”
“Sounds　like　a　plan；”　said　Wulfe；　clapping　his　friend　on　the　shoulder。　He　returned　Holtz’s　brief
salute；　and　then　watched　him　walk　off　in　the　direction　of　the　motor　pool；　wishing　him　all　the　luck　in
the　galaxy。　Command　was　hard　on　any　man；　but　far　harder　on　those　new　to　it。　The　lives　of　the　crew
and　the　survival　of　each　precious　war　machine　were　heavy　burdens　to　bear。　Sometimes；　Wulfe
envied　the　men　under　his　command。　He　remembered　the　freedom　that　came　with　being　on　the
bottom　rung　of　the　ladder；　of　having　someone　else　make　most　of　your　decisions　for　you。　It　was　a
good　place　to　be　when　you　had　good　officers。　Wulfe　trusted　van　Droi　that　way；　and　knew　that　van
Droi；　in　turn；　trusted　Colonel　Vinnemann；　but　the　chain　of　command　went　much　higher　than　that。
Major　General　Bergen　had　a　good　reputation；　but　was　it　justified？　It　was　hard　to　tell。　Officers　at
such　a　senior　level　were　so　distant。
All　Wulfe　could　say　for　sure　was　that　command　would　be　hard　on　Piter　Holtz。　At　least　in　the
early　days。　He　would　sink；　or　he　would　swim。　It　was　as　simple　as　that。
Wulfe　walked　back　over　to　the　soldiers　jostling　around　the　cages；　noting　how　the　crowd　had
thinned　further　now　that　others　had　begun　drifting　away。　It　took　much　less　effort　to　get　to　the　front
of　the　crowd　where　he　found　Siegler　and　Beans　talking　animatedly　about　the　creatures　in　front　of
them。
The　ferocity　of　the　imprisoned　orks　was　impressive　given　their　pitiful　condition。　The　two
monsters　sat　in　their　steel　cages；　legs　reduced　to　tattered　stumps；　bellowing　and　spitting　at　the
smaller；　weaker　humans　that　surrounded　them。　Beans　was　stepping　in　towards　the　cages　to　get　a
closer　look　when　Wulfe　grabbed　him　by　the　back　of　the　collar　and　said；　“No　you　don’t；　trooper。　This
is　close　enough。”
The　new　gunner　looked　disappointed　and　perhaps　a　little　angry；　but　he　said　nothing；　merely
stepping　back　into　line　with　all　the　other　men。　From　the　same　distance；　Wulfe　eyed　the　greenskins
coldly。　One　was　larger　than　the　other；　though　not　by　much。　Its　skin　was　a　darker　brown；　too。　Both
had　the　nightmare　features　that　had　been　burned　into　Wulfe’s　brain　since　his　first　encounter　with
their　kind：　tiny　nose；　deeply…sunken　red　eyes；　wide　jaws　rimmed　with　razor…sharp　fangs。　Their　hides
looked　as　hard　and　coarse　as　an　adult　carnotaur’s；　covered　in　red　dust；　lined　with　cracks。　On　their
massive　shoulders；　great　patches　of　dead　skin　were　peeling　away。　They　looked　as　dry　as　the　desert。
So　Golgotha　is　not　being　particularly　kind　to　them　either；　Wulfe　thought；　though　I　notice　the
blasted　ticks　don’t　bother　them。　I　wonder　why。
98
Wulfe’s　first　deployment　as　a　tanker　had　been　as　part　of　the　operation　to　defend　Phaegos　II
against　ork　incursions　from　the　Ghoul　Stars。　That　was　more　than　twenty　years　ago；　a　different　time；
a　different　segmentum；　and　here　he　was　still　fighting　the　same　foe；　still　losing　more　friends　to　them
each　time　they　clashed。　It　sometimes　seemed　as　if　all　mankind’s　efforts；　all　the　blood　spilled；　all　the
battles　won；　all　of　it　might　count　for　nothing　at　all。　In　galactic　terms；　had　anything　really　changed？
Had　anything　he　had　done　ever　made　a　blind　bit　of　difference？
Dangerous　thoughts；　he　cautioned　himself。　If　every　Guardsman　doubted　the　necessity　of　his
actions；　the　Imperium　would　crumble　and　die。　Of　course　he　had　made　a　difference。　He　had　killed
thousands　of　mankind’s　foes　in　his　time。　If　every　man　in　the　Guard　accounted　for　the　same　number；
the　green　tide　would　surely　be　overcome　someday。
Wulfe　wanted　to　believe　that；　he　really　did；　but　it　was　a　struggle。　For　every　victory　in　the　history
books；　how　many　losses　went　unpublicised？
As　he　studied　the　darker　of　the　two　orks；　his　eyes　locked　with　the　creature’s。　Immediately
perceiving　a　challenge；　it　began　roaring　at　him　and　hammering　its　head　against　the　bars　of　its　cage。
It　grunted　and　hissed　and　bellowed　at　him　in　what　Wulfe　supposed　was　the　orkish　language。
Commissar　Yarrick；　the　stories　said；　could　understand　this　bestial　gibberish；　but　Wulfe　had　never
met　anyone　else　who　could。　No　one　ever　admitted　as　much；　anyway。　It　was　a　horrible　sound；
something　wild　canids　might　make　as　they　guzzled　meat　from　a　fresh　kill；　but　there　was　definitely　a
syntax　in　there；　however　unrefined。　Wulfe　instinctively　knew　that　he　was　hearing　language。
With　the　force　of　its　violent　motions；　the　dark…skinned　ork’s　wounds　had　begun　to　bleed　again；
but　the　flow　was　slow。　The　blood　that　oozed　out　was　thick　and　sticky。　Wulfe　thought　he　understood
why。　It　was　the　low　availability　of　water　here。　It　changed　the　blood　of　those　that　lived　in　the　desert；
making　it　clot　far　more　quickly：　a　water…conservation　mechanism；　a　survival　mechanism；　and　that
wasn’t　the　only　gift　the　hard　desert　life　had　given　the　greenskins。　These　two　orks　were　d