Gunheads(科幻战争)-第4部分

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kilometres　to　the　northeast；　spread　across　two…and…a…half　kilometres　of　desert。　All　hands　lost。　Do
you　wish　to　hear　a　list　of　the　individual　elements？”
“Of　course　I　do；”　snapped　deViers。　“Seven　drop…ships　on　the　first　day。　By　the　Eye　of　Terror！”
Major　General　Bergen’s　voice　didn’t　waver　as　he　read　off　the　list；　but　his　tone　was　heavy　and　his
face　betrayed　a　grim　mood。　“Drop…ship　E44…a；　the　116th　Cadian　Lasgunners；　companies　one　and
two；　killed　on　descent。　Drop…ship　G22…a；　the　122nd　Tyrok　Fusiliers；　companies　one　to　four；　missing。
Drop…ship　G41…b；　the　88th　Mobile　Infantry；　companies　three　and　four；　missing。　Drop…ship　H17…C；
the　303rd　Skellas　Rifles；　companies　eight　to　ten；　missing。　Drop…ship　H19…a；　the　98th　Mechanised
Infantry；　companies　one　to　six；　missing。　Drop…ship　K22…C；　the　71st　Caedus　Infantry；　companies
eight　to　ten；　missing。”　Bergen　paused　for　a　split　second　before　reading　the　final　listing。　The　missing
ship　had　been　carrying　some　of　his　own　tankers。　“Drop…ship　M13…J；　the　81st　Armoured　Regiment；
10th　Company；　missing。　No　contact　whatsoever　from　any　of　those　listed。”
General　deViers　listened　quietly　to　all　this；　staggered　by　the　blow　his　forces　had　taken　just　from
landing　on　this　damned　rock。　Thousands　of　men　gone。　It　was　outrageous。　The　last　listing　was　a　tank
company？　By　the　bloody　Golden　Throne！　An　entire　tank　company；　lost　somewhere　out　there　in　the
desert；　most　probably　killed　in　the　crash。　Filthy　orks　were　probably　looting　the　site　even　now。　Men
were　one　thing；　and　their　loss　was　to　be　lamented；　of　course；　but　life　was　cheap　in　the　Imperium　of
Man。　There　were　always　more　soldiers　to　be　had。　That’s　what　the　reserves　were　for。　But　tanks？
Tanks　were　another　matter　entirely。　There　were　no　replacements　waiting　in　the　wings　for　the　war
machines　that　had　been　lost。　Each　tank　put　out　of　action　left　a　gap　that　nothing　else　could　fill。　The
strength　of　his　armoured　regiment　was　absolutely　critical　given　the　itinerant　nature　of　the　operation。
With　his　mind　firmly　fixated　on　the　negative；　the　general’s　anger　got　the　better　of　him。　He　leapt　to
his　feet；　throwing　his　chair　backwards　and　banging　his　fists　down　on　his　desk。
“It’s　a　damned　fiasco！　How　could　we　lose　seven　drop…ships　on　the　first　day？　Was　it　orks？
Storms？　What　the　heck　are　our　naval　liaisons　saying　about　this？　What　about　the　Mechanicus？　I　want
answers；　damn　it！”　Veins　bulged　in　his　neck　and　his　eyes　looked　ready　to　pop　out　of　his　head。
The　three　officers　seated　before　him　remained　as　still　as　statues　while　their　general　raged。　They
had　seen　it　all　before；　and　with　increasing　regularity　of　late。　They　knew　better　than　to　interrupt　him
before　his　tirade　had　ended。　Attempting　to　soothe　him　was　just　asking　for　trouble。　When　deViers
finally　did　stop　spewing　fire　and　sank　slowly　back　into　his　chair；　it　was　Killian；　the　shortest；
stockiest　and；　in　the　general’s　eyes；　least　likeable　of　the　three；　who　spoke　up。
“The　tech…priests　have　a　team　out　in　the　desert；　sir。　They’re　studying　the　drop…ship　in　the　northeast
for　the　cause　of　the　crash。　No　word　yet；　of　course；　since　they’re　out　of　vox　range。”
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Killian　winced　as　soon　as　he　said　this；　realising　immediately　that　he　had　just　poured　fuel　on　the
fire。　Predictably；　deViers　pounced。
“Out　of　bloody　vox　range？”　he　roared；　and　launched　into　an　entirely　fresh　diatribe。　Imperial
communications　equipment；　unreliable　at　the　best　of　times　in　the　general’s　long　years　of　experience；
was　almost　useless　on　Golgotha。　According　to　the　tech…priests；　there　were　profound　levels　of
electromagnetic　interference　from　the　constant　storms　that　cloaked　this　world。　The　Mechanicus
contingent　attached　to　the　mission　had　promised　a　solution　in　due　course；　but；　for　now；
communications　at　any　range　greater　than　a　dozen　kilometres　simply　degenerated　into　white　noise。
Clear　communication　at　even　half　that　distance　required　the　expenditure　of　significant　amounts　of
electrical　power　—　more　than　was　required　to　light　the　base　for　a　whole　day　—　and　contact　with　the
fleet　in　orbit　was　kept　to　an　absolute　minimum　by　sheer　necessity。　DeViers　cursed　and　bellowed　like
a　madman　until　he　had　spent　himself　again。　It　didn’t　take　long。
Despite　external　appearances；　he　was　still　an　old　man；　and　the　intensity　of　his　outbursts　quickly
exhausted　him。　He　knew　he　should　work　harder　to　control　his　temper。　He　knew；　too；　that　it　had　been
getting　far　worse　in　recent　months。　There　was　a　time；　he　thought；　when　nothing　fazed　me。　What
changed？　Why　do　I　respond　so　violently　these　days？　I　can’t　let　the　pressure　get　to　me　like　this。
He　knew　that　shouting　at　his　divisional　commanders　was　poor　therapy；　and　achieved　very　little。
He　would　be　relying　on　these　men　above　all　others　in　the　days　ahead。　They　would　help　him　secure
his　prize；　his　legacy；　his　place　among　the　good　and　the　great。　No；　shouting　at　them　didn’t　help
anyone。　He　forced　his　voice　back　down　to　normal　levels。　Ten　minutes　later；　after　a　brief　review　of
the　schedule　for　their　coming　deployment；　he　dismissed　them　so　that　they　might　dress　for　the
banquet。　As　the　three　senior　officers　stood　and　saluted　him；　deViers　briefly　considered　apologising
for　his　earlier　explosiveness。
No；　he　told　himself。　Let　my　anger　stand　as　a　message　that　I　expect　far　better。　I　won’t　have　them
thinking　me　weak。
Weakness　in　any　form　was　something　Mohamar　Antoninus　deViers　could　not　abide；　especially
his　own。
*　*　*
The　general　stole　an　hour　of　sleep　after　the　briefing；　though　it　seemed　to　him　that　only　seconds　had
passed　before　his　adjutant　shook　him　gently　awake　so　that　he　might　wash　and　dress　for　the　banquet。
Two　hours　later；　he　found　himself　standing　at　the　head　of　a　long　krell…wood　table　in　a　bright；　highceilinged
room；　ringing　his　goblet　with　a　silver　fork　and　asking　his　guests　for　their　undivided
attention。
“Officers　of　the　18th　Army　Group；”　he　began；　beaming　at　them　with　theatrical　magnanimity；
“and；　of　course；　my　other　honoured　guests；　I　thank　you　all　for　taking　the　time　to　attend。　It’s　only
right　that　we　celebrate。　Tonight；　we　mark　the　true　start　of　our　holy　quest　with　the　best　that　our
circumstances　allow。　Look　at　you；　the　Emperor　must　be　gazing　down　on　you　with　pride；　seated　here；
dressed　so　smartly；　so　ready　and　willing　to　be　about　His　divine　work。　He’ll　be　prouder　still　when　we
find　our　prize。　What　a　moment　that　will　be！　One　for　the　history　books；　indeed。　I’m　sure　you’ve　all
dreamed　of　it　as　much　as　I　have：　the　fame；　the　glory；　Army　Group　Exolon　recovering　the　legendary
Fortress　of　Arrogance　from　right　under　the　nose　of　the　old　foe。　Yes！　For　ever　after；　men　will　read　of
our　exploits　with　awe。　Let　none　of　you　doubt　that。　There　is　no　cause　greater　than　that　which　inspires
one’s　fellow　man。”
He　scanned　the　faces　around　the　table；　daring　anyone　to　pay　him　less　than　full　attention；　and　was
pleased　to　see　every　eye；　including　several　unblinking　mechanical　ones；　turned　in　his　direction。
“We　could　not　have　asked　for　a　higher　honour；”　he　told　them。　“I’ve　heard　mutterings　among　the
men；　just　as　you　have；　talk　of　wishing　to　join　Commissar　Yarrick　and　our　Cadian　brothers　on
Armageddon。　Such　talk　is　to　be　expected。　Exolon　is；　after　all；　a　fighting　man’s　army；　and　our　men
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want　to　make　a　difference。　I　appreciate　their　eagerness；　for　I　too　would　see　us　lend　Yarrick’s　forces
our　much…needed　strength　sooner　rather　than　later。　But　all　things　in　their　proper　time。　We　can　offer
so　much　more　by　claiming　victory　here。　Through　the　successful　recovery　and　restoration　of　The
Fortress　of　Arrogance；　this　army　will　provide　our　Imperial　brothers　—　not　just　Cadians；　but　all　men
of　the　Imperium　—　with　a　renewed　strength　of　purpose　and　determination　that　no　amount　of
reinforcement　could　possibly　hope　to　offer。　The　Fortress　is　not　just　another　Baneblade　battle　tank；
as　you　all　should　know。　She　is　a　symbol　of　everything　the　Guard　stands　for：　of　strength　and　honour；
of　courage　and　duty；　of　unbending　resistance　against　the　foul　traitors　and　alien　hordes　that　strive　to
wipe　our　race　from　the　face　of　the　galaxy。　I　say　her　recovery　is　long　overdue。　So；　join　me　in　a　toast。
Fill　your　glasses；　all　of　you。”
DeViers　waited　as　his　guests　sloshed　cool　golden　liquor　into　goblets　of　fine　black　crystal。　They
were　senior　officers　for　the　most　part。　His　three　divisional　commanders；　having　changed　out　of　their
field　tunics　and　into　their　finest　dress　uniforms；　all　looked　splendid。　The　gold　accoutrements　on　their
lapels　and　breast　pockets　gleamed　brightly　in　the　light　of　the　overhead　lamps。　The　other　officers
present　were　regimental　commanders　from　the　8th　Mechanised　and　12th　Heavy　Infantry　Divisions；
some　of　them　colonels；　the　rest　majors。　They　had　also　smartened　themselves　up　adequately；　though
more　than　a　few　bore　grisly　facial　scars　that　somewhat　ruined　the　overall　effect。
Even　with　their　battle…ravaged　features；　they　were　far　easier　on　the　eye　than　the　three　hooded；
red…robed　figures　that　sat　among　them：　Tech…Magos　Sennesdiar；　Tech…Adept　Xephous；　and　Tech…
Adept　Armadron；　the　three　most　senior　members　of　the　Adeptus　Mechanicus　present　at　Hadron
Base。
DeViers　had　felt　it　only　proper　to　invite　them；　absolutely　certain　that　they　would　decline。　He
would　not　have　asked　them　otherwise。　Propriety　had　backfired　on　him；　however；　as　all　three　had
come。　He　still　couldn’t　understand　why。　They　had　expressly　told　him　that　they　wouldn’t　be　able　to
eat　the　food　his　chef　prepared。　One　of　them　—　the　perpetually　wheezing；　twitching　Armadron　—
seemed　to　lack　anything　that　even　approximated　a　functioning　mouth。　From　what　deViers　had
glimpsed　so　far　under　that　shadowy　hood；　it　appeared　that　the　adept’s　entire　head　was　encased　in
twin　hemispheres　of　steel；　absolutely　featureless　but　for　a　single　glowing　green　eye。　In　terms　of
aesthetics；　the　other　two　weren’t　much　better。
Sennesdiar；　the　highest　ranking　of　the　three　—　though　his　robes　bore　no　markings　to　denote　this
—　was　also　the　largest　figure　in　the　room；　his　misshapen　bulk　nearly　twice　the　mass　of　anyone　else
present。　His　robes　were　perforated　all　across　his　back；　allowing　a　number　of　strange　serpentine
appendages　to　fall　all　the　way　to　the　floor　where　they　coiled　around　the　legs　of　his　chair；　their　metal
segments　gleaming　in　the　light。　Sennesdiar’s　face　—　what　little　could　be　seen　of　it　under　his　cowl　—
was　grotesque；　the　flesh　pale　and　bloodless；　little　more；　in　places；　than　flaps　of　skin　stapled　over　dull
steel；　and　his　tiny　mouth　was　a　lipless　slash　that　reminded　deViers　of　nothing　so　much　as　a　fresh
stab　wound。　The　effect　was　a　mask　that　made　a　mockery　of　human　features。
The　last　of　the　three；　Xephous；　was　no　better。　In　some　ways；　he　was　actually　worse；　for　his
complex　arrangement　of　mandibles　and　visual　receptors　gave　him　the　aspect　of　a　nightmarish
biomechanical　crab；　and　the　intermittent　clacking　sounds　that　issued　from　him　only　added　to　the
effect。
By　the　Golden　Throne　of　Terra；　thought　deViers；　between　the　three　of　them；　they’re　enough　to
ruin　a　man’s　appetite。
The　more　human　guests　had　filled　their　glasses　and　were　pushing　their　chairs　back　so　that　they
might　rise　to　their　feet　for　the　general’s　toast。
DeViers　turned　his　eyes　away　from　the　tech…priests；　glad　that　the　ever…considerate　Gruber　had
seated　them　among　the　men　at　the　far　end　of　the　table。　Much　nearer　and；　thankfully；　much　easier　to
behold；　were　Bishop　Augustus　and　High　Commissar　Morten。
The　bishop；　seated　on　the　general’s　immediate　right；　was　a　tall；　almost　skeletally　thin　man　in　his
late　seventies　with　a　prodigiously　long　nose。　His　tanned　skin　shimmered　with　a　coating　of　the　most
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expensive　and　richly…scented　oils；　and　precious　gems　glittered　from　the　rings　that　graced　each　of　his
long　fingers。　Like　the　tech…priests；　Bishop　Augustus　wore　voluminous　and　finely　made　robes；
though　his　were　a　dazzling　white；　symbolising　a　spiritual　purity　far　beyond　the　grasp　of　other；　lesser
men。　That　was　worth　a　laugh；　thought　deViers。　If　rumours　about　the　bishop　were　true；　he　was
anything　but　pure。　On　Cadia；　he　would　have　been　publicly　executed　for　his　unorthodox
predilections；　but；　perhaps；　deViers　told　himself；　the　rumours　were　exactly　that：　idle　rumours。　The
bishop　was　a　fine　conversationalist；　already　winning　smiles　and　laughter　from　a　number　of　the
officers　as　they　had　listened　intently　to　his　anecdotes　before　being　seated　around　the　table。　It　was
much　more　than　could　be　said　for　his　Martian　counterparts。
The　high　commissar；　seated　on　the　general’s　immediate　left；　was　a　striking　figure　of　a　man；
clearly　of　fine　noble　stock；　dressed　immaculately　in　his　gold…braided　tunic　and　black　silk　shirt。　Such
were　Morten’s　good　looks　that　the　only　other　man　present　whose　features　stood　up　to　any　kind　of
comparison　was　Major　General　Bergen；　whom　deViers　always　thought　looked　just　as　if　he’d
stepped　straight　out　of　a　recruitment　poster。
As　was　only　proper；　High　Commissar　Morten　had　dispensed　with　his　stiffened　cap　while　at　the
table；　but　it　was　impossible　to　look　at　the　man　without　seeing　the　ghost　of　it　still　perched　firmly　on
his　head；　such　was　the　strength　of　his　identity。　He　was；　in　deViers’　opinion；　the　quintessential
political　officer。　Unswerving　and　utterly　uncompromising　in　his　duty；　he　had　served　with　the　18th
Army　Group　for　the　last　eleven　years　and；　though　he　and　deViers　had　never　developed　anything　that
could　be　called　a　friendship；　the　general　enjoyed　the　man’s　professional　respect　and　returned　it　in
kind。
The　absence　of　friendship　was　no　great　loss。　After　all；　deViers　told　himself；　one　must　be　careful
around　these　commissars。
All　his　guests　were　standing　now；　their　eyes　on　him；　goblets　filled　and　at　the　ready。　DeViers
lifted　his　straight　out　in　front　of　him；　took　a　breath；　and　projected　his　voice。
“To　success；　gentlemen；”　he　said。　“To　success　and　victory！”
“Success　and　victory！”　they　replied　with　fervour。　Excepting　the　Mechanicus；　each　of　the　guests
threw　back　his　glass　and　drank。　When　they　had　finished；　deViers　gestured　them　back　into　their　seats；
smiling　broadly　at　them。
Look　at　them；　Mohamar；　he　thought；　eating　out　of　your　hand。　To　success　and　victory；　indeed；
and　to　immortality；　for　I　will　have　the　glory　I　seek。　And　Throne　help　any　bastard　that　gets　in　my
way。
Major　General　Gerard　Bergen　looked　down　at　his　plate　with　absolute　revulsion。　What　the　devil　was
this　abomination？　The　starter　had　been　bad　enough　—　chilled　bladdercrab　with　ormin　and　caprium
—　so　obscenely　rich　that　he’d　felt　his　stomach　churning；　though　the　general’s　other　guests　had
seemed　to　enjoy　it　immensely　judging　by　their　praise　for　the　general’s　personal　chef。　Now　the　old
man’s　servants　brought　out　the　main　course　—　quivering　mountains　of　dark　red　meat　that　looked
dangerously　undercooked。
The　general’s　adjutant；　Gruber；　placed　himself　on　the　old　man’s　right　and　proudly　announced；
“Lightly　roasted　auroch　heart　stuffed　with　jellied　grox　liver　and　dogwort。”
Murmurs　of　appreciation　sounded　from　around　the　table；　but　Bergen　studied　the　thing　on　his
plate　as　if　it　were　an　alien　life　form。　It　sat　there　glistening　wetly　in　the　light　from　the　lamps；　its
pungent　aroma　clawing　at　his　nostrils。　He　hoped　the　expression　of　delight　he　was　struggling　to
maintain　was　enough　to　fool　the　general。　He　looked　up　the　table　involuntarily　and　immediately
wished　he　hadn’t。　DeViers　caught　his　eye。　Bergen　put　extra　effort　into　his　artificial　smile　and　saw
the　old　man　grin　back；　buying　into　his　act。
He　turned　back　to　the　food。　Maybe　it　tastes　better　than　it　looks；　he　thought；　but　I　doubt　it。
Bergen　considered　himself　a　down…to…earth　man　for　someone　of　his　breeding　and　rank　—　it　was；
in　fact；　the　thing　he　liked　best　about　himself　—　and　it　required　effort　on　his　part　to　maintain　the
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social　niceties　so　important　to　his　station　in　the　classist　upper　echelons　of　the　Imperial　Guard。
Whether　on　the　battlefield　or　off　it；　he　liked　to　live　as　his　men　did；　eating　standard…issue　rations　and
sleeping　on　a　standard…issue　bedroll；　washing　and　shaving　as　little　or　as　often　as　his　men　were　able
to。　Such　things　allowed　him　a　better　understanding　of　the　condition　of　his　troops；　of　how　far　he
could　push　them　before　they　would　start　to　come　undone。　Such　information　was　critical　to　a　good
commander。　Some　of　the　old…school　officers；　a　few　of　the　colonels　and　majors　seated　around　him
perhaps；　also　held　to　such　practices；　but　they　were　in　the　minority。　Bergen’s　regimental　commanders
—　Vinnemann；　Marrenburg　and　Graves　—　had　been　allowed　to　abstain　from　attending　the　dinner　so
that　they　might　continue　their　preparations　for　deployment；　a　concession　that　Bergen　greatly　envied
them。　DeViers　hadn’t　given　him　that　option。　The　old　man　had　been　adamant　that　all　his　divisional
commanders　attend。
Lifting　his　cutlery；　Bergen　began　slicing　bite…sized　chunks　from　the　undercooked　heart。　Spearing
one　with　his　fork；　he　lifted　it　towards　his　mouth。　Here　goes　nothing；　he　told　himself；　and　popped　it
in。　The　texture　was　highly　unpleasant；　but　he　was　forced　to　admit　that　it　tasted　a　lot　better　than　it
looked。
While　the　general’s　guests　concentrated　on　the　main　course；　the　level　of　conversation　dropped；
stifled　by　the　efforts　of　cutting　and　chewing；　and　of　chasing　each　mouthful　down　with　a　sip　of
amasec。　But　it　wasn’t　long　until　most　of　the　plates　lay　empty　save　a　smear　of　sauce　on　each；　and　a
flock　of　servants　emerged　from　the　side　corridors　to　clear　them　away。
Bergen　sat　back　in　silence　and　watched　the　others　interact。　His　stomach　was　threatening　to　rebel
against　him。
Bishop　Augustus　dabbed　at　the　corners　of　his　mouth　with　a　white　silk　napkin　and　said；
“Exquisite；　general；　but　quite　cruel；　don’t　you　think；　to　acclimatise　us　to　such　outstanding　fare？　I
suspect　Golgotha　offers　nothing　so　delicious　or　refined。”
General　deViers　faced　the　bishop；　but　gestured　down　the　table　to　Tech…Magos　Sennesdiar。
“The　honoured　magos；”　he　said；　“tells　me　that　most　of　the　animal　and　plant　life　on　this　world　is
fatal　if　ingested。　Is　that　not　so；　magos？”
The　blaring　voice　that　replied　was　like　a　vox…caster　unit　with　the　volume　turned　up　too　high。
Like　most　of　the　others；　Bergen　winced。
“If　you’ll　permit　me；　general；”　boomed　the　tech…magos；　each　word　toneless　and　harsh；　“the
probability　of　death　would　depend　on　the　amount　and　type　of　matter　ingested；　the　body…weight　and
constitution　of　the　individual　in　question；　the　availability　and　quality　of　medical　assistance—”
From　Bergen’s　left；　a　few　seats　further　down　the　table；　the　crab…faced　Tech…Adept　Xephous
emitted　a　sudden　burst　of　noise；　high…pitched　and　raw；　like　fingernails　scraping　on　a　blackboard。　His
superior　immediately　replied　with　a　similar　condensed　sonic　burst。　Bergen　knew　this　for　what　it
was。　The　tech…priests　were　communicating　in　Binary；　the　ancient　machine…language　of　the　Martian
priesthood。　When　Sennesdiar　reverted　to　speaking　in　Gothic　a　moment　later；　his　voice　was　pitched
just　right。　“My　apologies；　gentlemen。　My　adept　informs　me　that　my　vocaliser　settings　may　have
caused　you　some　discomfort。　Is　this　setting　acceptable？”
“A　great　improvement；　magos；”　said　General　deViers。
“Then　I　shall　continue　listing　the　variables　relevant　to　the　question　of　toxicity　in—”
DeViers　held　up　a　hand　and　cut　the　tech…priest　off　mid…sentence。　“Thank　you；　magos；　but　that
will　not　be　necessary。　A　simp