Gunheads(科幻战争)-第6部分

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towering　curtain　walls；　it　seemed　like　a　vast　number；　an　unstoppable　military　force；　but　Bergen
knew　it　was　nothing　of　the　kind。　Despite　the　difficulties　inherent　in　scanning　the　shrouded　surface　of
the　planet；　what　little　data　they　had　suggested　that　Golgotha　still　seethed　with　the　foe。　Those　few
probe…servitors　that　had　returned　safely　had　shown　that　the　more　temperate　regions　north　and　south
of　the　desert　were　dotted　with　vast　settlements　wherever　the　terrain　allowed。　Even　now；　thought
Bergen；　legions　of　orks　might　be　racing　through　the　darkness；　crossing　the　open　sands　towards　the
plateau；　following　grunted　reports　of　lights　in　the　sky　on　the　promise　of　a　good　blood…soaked　battle。
Vermin；　he　thought。　They’re　a　plague　on　the　galaxy；　the　damned　greenskins。
He　reached　the　foot　of　the　south　wall　and　began　to　climb　a　zigzagging　staircase　that　led　up　to　the
battlements。
There　was　a　powered　elevator　inside　the　nearest　tower；　but　he　opted　to　ascend　under　his　own
strength；　conscious　of　the　excess　of　calories　that　General　deViers　had　forced　on　him。　As　he　moved
from　step　to　step；　enjoying　the　steady　rhythm　of　the　exercise；　his　thoughts　dwelled　on　the　Golgothan
orks。
They’d　had　thirty…eight　years　of　freedom　to　spread　across　the　land；　turning　every　scrap　of
captured　or　abandoned　Imperial　technology　to　their　needs。　Even　taking　into　account　the
unprecedented　hordes　that　had　left　this　world　and　the　surrounding　systems　to　join　Thraka’s
onslaught　of　Imperial　space；　there　had　to　be　literally　millions　of　orks　still　present；　perhaps　billions。
Who　could　say　for　sure　how　many？
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Army　Group　Exolon　was　nothing　in　the　face　of　such　numbers　and　anyone　who　said　otherwise
was　either　a　propaganda　man；　a　fool；　or　both；　as　they　so　often　were。　Despite　the　general’s　grand
speech　about　the　importance　of　their　quest；　Bergen　still　shared　the　most　fervent　hopes　of　his　men
that　this　would　all　be　over　quickly　so　they　could　join　the　fight　on　Armageddon。　That　was　a　fight
worthy　of　his　beloved　armoured　division；　for　if　Armageddon　fell；　Holy　Terra；　the　sacred　Cradle　of
mankind；　would　be　under　direct　threat　for　the　first　time　since　the　divine　Emperor　had　walked　the
stars。
There　could　scarcely　be　a　greater　danger　to　the　preservation　of　the　Imperium　in　these　dark　times。
As　Bergen　reached　the　top　of　the　stairs；　breathing　heavily；　his　forehead　damp　with　sweat　and　his
quadriceps　burning；　he　stopped　and　turned　to　look　down　on　Hadron　Base。　It　ething；　he
admitted。　It　sat　shimmering　like　an　island　of　light　in　a　sea　of　absolute　darkness。　His　gaze　crossed　the
small　airfield　in　the　north…east　quarter；　its　hangars　nearing　completion　and　awaiting　the　arrival　of　the
Vulcan　gunships　that　the　commodore　had　promised。　To　the　south　of　it；　scores　of　water　towers　and
storage　silos　stood　in　tight；　ordered　rows　like　men　under　close　inspection。　On　the　east　side；　next　to
one　of　the　base’s　massive　reinforced　gates；　were　the　motor　pool　and　mustering　field。　Both　were
large　and　well　lit；　and　filled　with　red…robed　enginseers　busily　tending　to　row　upon　row　of　transports
and　war　machines。　There　were　hundreds　of　men　in　rust…coloured　fatigues　down　there；　too：　troopers
from　the　support　echelons　hefting　ammunition　and　supplies　back　and　forward；　working　hard　against
the　clock。　Large　Guard…issue　trucks　—　the　ever…reliable　Thirty…Sixers　—　were　being　driven　into
position　so　that　fuel　drums　and　supplies　could　be　hoisted　onto　them。　Scores　of　Sentinel　walkers
squatted　in　groups　like　flightless　birds　at　rest；　legs　folded　beneath　them　to　allow　for　oiling　and　final
weapons　checks。
To　Bergen；　all　this　was　a　beautiful　sight；　something　he　appreciated　every　time　he　saw　it；　and　he
stood　watching；　motionless；　for　long　minutes。　He　felt　lucky；　in　many　ways；　to　be　the　man　he　was。
From　the　age　of　six；　from　the　moment　that　his　mother　had　explained　his　destiny　to　him；　that　he　was
already　marked　for　military　service；　the　Imperial　Guard　was　the　only　thing　that　had　given　real
meaning　to　his　life。　It　was　the　Guard　that　had　shaped　and　defined　him。
He　turned　from　his　view　of　the　base　below　and　moved　to　the　parapet　wall；　looking　out　into　the
black　of　the　night。　To　his　left；　rows　of　Earthshaker　guns　sat　silent；　their　machine…spirits　resting　until
called　upon　to　commit　the　explosive；　long…range　slaughter　at　which　they　excelled。　Some　of　the　guncrews
were　absent；　sleeping　in　their　barracks　or　getting　fed；　most　likely。　Sirens　would　call　them
back　to　their　stations　in　the　event　of　an　attack。　Other　crews　had　to　remain　on　duty　shifts。　They　sat　by
their　guns；　smoking；　playing　cards；　a　few　of　them　sharpening　knives　or　practising　close…combat
techniques　with　their　fellows。　Others　moved　in　pairs　along　the　wall；　men　on　patrol　duty；
occasionally　lifting　night…vision　magnoculars　to　their　eyes　and　then　dropping　them　again。　Nothing　to
see　out　there。
Footsteps　sounded　behind　Bergen　and　he　turned　to　find　a　short；　scruffy　trooper　looking　up　at
him　with　a　pipe　of　styrene　cups　in　one　hand　and　a　green　flask　in　the　other。
“Care　for　some　hot　caffeine；　sir？”　asked　the　trooper　a　little　nervously；　eyeing　the　bright　golden
glyphs　on　Bergen’s　collar　and　the　bands　at　his　sleeve。
Bergen　smiled。
“Are　you　sure　it’s　hot；　son？”　he　asked。　There　was　no　steam　rising　from　the　flask’s　open　lid。
The　trooper　nodded　earnestly。　“My　sergeant　says　it’s　the　atmospheric　pressure；　sir。　Stuff　doesn’t
steam　here。　Not　at　normal　temperatures；　leastwise。　He　says　if　it’s　steaming；　it’ll　put　you　in　the　medblock
with　burns。　Can’t　pretend　as　I　understand　it　myself；　but　I’ll　take　his　word　for　it；　sir。　He’s　a
smart　one；　is　my　sarge。”
Bergen　smiled；　but　refused　a　cup　all　the　same。　Any　more　caffeine　tonight　and　he　wouldn’t　sleep
at　all。
“What’s　your　name　and　outfit；　son？”　he　asked。
“Ritter；　sir。　Two…one…five…three…five。　With　the　88th　Feros　Artillery。”
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“So　these　are　your　guns？”　said　Bergen；　jabbing　a　thumb　over　his　shoulder。
The　little　trooper　looked　proud。　“Sure　are；　sir。　Proper　beauties；　ain’t　they？　I’m　hoping　to　crew
eventually。　I’m　just　support　right　now；　though。”
“They’re　not　half　bad；　private；”　said　Bergen；　glancing　over　his　shoulder　at　them。　“Not　bad　at　all。
You　must　be　proud　that　your　regiment　is　part　of　this　operation。　One　for　the　history　books；　this。”
“I　suppose　so；　sir；”　said　Ritter。　“I　mean；　I　just　go　where　the　regiment　goes。　So　long　as　me　and
my　mates　are　together；　I　don’t　mind　where。　The　air　here　stinks　a　bit；　though。　And…　well；　there’s　no
girls　except　them　Medicae　nurses。　And　it’s　only　the　officers　have　a　devil’s　chance　with　any　of　that
lot；　isn’t　it？　Even　the　rough…looking　ones。”
Bergen　laughed。　“Glad　you’ve　got　your　priorities　straight。　A　man　has　to　keep　things　in
perspective；　eh？”
“Too　true；　sir。”
“Well；　you’d　best　get　back　to　it。　I　bet　some　of　your　mates　could　use　a　good　shot　of　caff　to　keep
them　awake。　Keep　your　chin　up；　soldier。”
“Right；　sir；”　said　Ritter。　“Thank　you；　sir。”　He　fumbled　with　the　flask　and　cups　for　a　moment　so
that　he　could　throw　up　a　stiff　salute　before　moving　off　to　serve　the　gun　crews　he　so　hoped　to　join。
Bergen　watched　him　go　and　then　started　walking　anticlockwise　along　the　wall　in　the　general
direction　of　his　quarters；　gesturing　for　the　men　he　passed　not　to　rise　on　his　account。　Talking　with
Ritter　had　lightened　his　mood。　There　was　an　undeniable　value；　he　believed；　in　taking　the　time　to　talk
with　the　rank…and…file。　Their　answers　were　often　refreshingly　honest；　unshaped　by　the　hidden
agendas　that　tightly　governed　the　words　of　most　career…minded　senior　officers。　Some　of　the　younger
troopers　were　blessed　with　a　shining　optimism　—　born　of　blissful　naivety；　he　supposed　—　that　he
couldn’t　ever　remember　having　possessed。　Perhaps　it　was　a　class　thing。　Until　the　day　he　entered
cadet　school；　his　family；　saints　rest　them；　had　worked　tirelessly　to　prepare　him　for　a　life　of　war。　The
old　phrase　“harder　than　a　Cadian　grandmother”　was　born　of　fact；　as　the　network　of　deep　scars　on　his
back　attested。
As　he　walked　further　along　the　wall；　his　thoughts　shifted　to　General　deViers；　and　the　upturn　in
his　mood　was　suddenly　reversed　again。　Mohamar　Antoninus　deViers。　Alarm　bells　had　been　ringing
in　Bergen’s　head　for　months。　There　were　no　two　ways　about　it；　the　general　had　been　swiftly　losing
his　grip　on　reality　since　the　destruction　of　Palmeros。
It　should　have　been　the　old　man’s　crowning　glory；　the　Palmeros　campaign。　He　was　long　overdue
for　retirement　and；　if　he　had　only　managed　to　turn　back　the　orks　and　save　the　majority　of　the
planetary　populace；　he　would　certainly　have　received　the　coveted　Honorifica；　and　would　probably
have　been　granted　an　Imperial　title。　Lord　General　Mohamar　deViers：　that　would　have　gone　some
way　towards　satisfying　his　lust　for　fame。　Instead；　Ghazghkull　Thraka　had　smashed　the　planet　apart
with　seventeen　massive　asteroids；　killing　billions　of　loyal　Imperial　citizens　and　wiping　a　civilised
world　from　the　star…charts。　DeViers　had　been　forced　to　pull　out　fast　with　none　of　the　everlasting
glory　he　had　anticipated。　Perhaps　he　had　imagined　that　the　Palmerosi　people　would　build　statues　in
his　honour。　Yes；　thought　Bergen；　he　would　have　been　looking　forward　to　that。
Without　victory；　there　were　no　statues。
Humiliated；　the　old　man　had　scrabbled　for　another　cause　and；　in　his　desperation；　had　settled　on　a
hopeless　one　that　other；　more　wily　generals　had　manoeuvred　carefully　to　avoid：　a　half…mad　recovery
mission　that　Sector　Command　promised　would　earn　the　general　his　place　in　the　history　books。
What　wouldn’t　the　old　man　sacrifice；　Bergen　wondered　grimly；　for　something　like　that？　He　was
the　last　of　his　line。　He’d　said　it　himself。　His　obsession　with　leaving　some　kind　of　legacy　had　put　the
entire　army　group　at　extreme　risk。
Bergen’s　steps　grew　heavier　as　he　began　his　descent　from　the　high　battlements　eager　to　return　to
his　quarters。　The　walk　had　done　its　job。　Tiredness　settled　over　him　like　a　heavy　blanket。　As　he
trudged　down　one　of　the　southeastern　stairwells；　boots　ringing　on　the　metal　steps；　he　cast　his　mind
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back　to　the　briefing　session　earlier　that　day；　and　the　words　the　general　had　offered　before　dismissing
his　three　divisional　commanders。
“Expect　a　fight　when　you　get　to　Karavassa；　Gerard；”　deViers　had　said。　“You　can　be　sure　that
every　damned　outpost　that　Yarrick　established　during　the　last　war　has　been　infested　with　the
buggers。　They’ve　had　plenty　of　time　to　dig　in；　by　Throne。　Let’s　hope　all　that　time　has　made　them
soft　and　complacent。　Regardless；　I　know　you’ll　get　the　job　done。　I　must　have　secure　supply　lines
before　I　set　out　to　claim　the　prize。”
“You　still　insist　on　taking　to　the　field　in　person；　sir？”　Bergen　had　asked；　knowing　that　it　was　as
futile　as　ever　to　argue；　but　ploughing　ahead　anyway。　With　a　glance　at　Killian　and　Rennkamp；　he’d
added；　“I　think　all　three　of　us　would　counsel　you　against　it。　It’s　an　unnecessary　risk；　to　say　the
least。”
“There’s　nothing　unnecessary　about　it！”　deViers　had　barked；　and　Bergen　had　thought　another
volcano　of　anger　was　about　to　erupt。　But　it　hadn’t。　Instead；　deViers　had　simply　shaken　his　head　and
said；　“Things　of　value　demand　risk。　If　the　damned　Munitorum　thought　I　was　too　precious　to　risk；
they　wouldn’t　have　sent　me　out　here；　would　they？　But　that’s　beside　the　point。　I’ve　prayed　for
something　like　this　to　come　my　way；　Gerard。　I　deserve　this　chance。　It’s　my　destiny　to　recover　that
Baneblade。　And　if　any　of　you　think　I’m　going　to　command　from　the　rear　on　this　one；　you’re　bloody
well　out　of　your　minds。”
Well；　one　of　us　is　definitely　out　of　his　mind；　Bergen　thought　as　he　recalled　the　conversation；　but
I’m　pretty　sure　it　isn’t　me。
He　reached　the　rocky　surface　of　the　plateau；　increased　his　walking　pace；　and　soon　spotted　his
quarters　up　ahead　—　a　low；　two…storey　prefab　that　he　shared　with　Colonels　Vinnemann；　Marrenburg
and　Graves。　He　was　looking　forward　to　slipping　between　cool　sheets。　Such　comforts　would　be　just　a
memory　once　he　was　on　the　move。
Tired　as　he　was；　though；　his　mind　still　churned。
He　knew　that　thousands　of　men　would　die　in　the　coming　days。　Given　the　unexpected　drop…ship
losses；　it　seemed　all　too　likely　that　over　two　thousand　already　had。　There　would　be　worse　to　come。
Golgotha　would　see　to　that。　Scores　of　men　had　already　reported　to　the　med…block　and　they　hadn’t
even　left　the　plateau　yet。　For　some；　it　was　the　fines　—　particles　of　red　dust　so　small　that　they　could
penetrate　the　cell　membranes　of　the　human　body。　The　medics　said　there　was　little　they　could　do
beyond　prescribing　anti…toxic　medication；　but　the　real　solution　was　to　get　off　this　blasted　planet。　The
medicines　induced　short…term　vomiting　and　cramps。　Then　there　were　the　dannih　—　small　chitinous
bloodsuckers　with　powerful　tripartite　jaws。　They　seemed　to　get　everywhere；　even　inside　machines。
If　a　man　tried　to　pull　one　from　his　skin　while　it　was　feeding；　only　the　fat　red　body　would　come
away。　The　detached　head　would　then　burrow　down　into　his　flesh　dispensing　anti…coagulant；　homing
in　on　major　arteries。　A　man　could　bleed　to　death　if　he　wasn’t　careful。　It　was　a　powerful　deterrent
against　interfering　with　the　creature’s　feeding　cycle。　The　only　way　to　get　rid　of　them　without　this
happening　was　to　douse　the　afflicted　area　of　the　body　in　strong　alcohol；　an　unhappy　solution　on　two
counts。　Firstly；　troopers　didn’t　much　like　the　idea　of　wasting　their　coveted　liquor　on　shifting
stubborn　ticks；　and；　secondly；　dousing　oneself　in　alcohol　was　never　a　good　idea。　A　handful　of　the
heavier　smokers　had　already　discovered　this　first…hand。
There　were　other　challenges；　too。　Aside　from　the　dannih　and　the　fines；　there　were　numerous
minor　conditions　related　to　atmospheric　pressure；　allergies；　the　unusual　but　breathable　composition
of　the　air；　and　all　the　problems　caused　by　living　at　a　constant　gravity　of　one…point…twelve　gees。　It
seemed　to　Bergen　that　Golgotha　was　waging　its　own　war　against　the　Cadians；　and　the　orks　hadn’t
even　got　started　yet。
Bergen　had　never　been　a　dour　man　by　nature。　Quite　the　contrary；　in　fact。　He　had；　in　his　days　as　a
cadet；　been　selected　to　feature　in　a　short　series　of　Cadian　propaganda　and　recruitment　films；　such
was　his　natural　warmth　and　appeal。　But；　as　he　opened　the　door　to　his　quarters　and　saw　Katz
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snoozing　in　a　chair　by　his　desk；　he　decided　there　were　three　things　about　which　he　was　depressingly
certain。
The　first　was　that　his　commanding　officer　was　coming　apart　at　the　seams。　DeViers　had　lost　his
way。　A　powerful　aura　of　desperation　hovered　around　him；　and　it　heralded　disaster　for　the　18th　Army
Group　and　everyone　attached　to　it。
The　second　was　that　Exolon　would　never　find　the　famous　Fortress　of　Arrogance。　Holy　icon　or
not；　the　orks　had　enjoyed　thirty…eight　years　in　which　to　strip　it　down　to　its　bare　nuts　and　bolts。　If
there　was　anything　left　of　it　at　all；　it　would　be　unrecognisable。　No；　The　Fortress　of　Arrogance　was
little　more　than　a　carrot　dangled　in　front　of　the　Munitorum’s　nose　by　the　Adeptus　Mechanicus。
Whatever　interest　they　had　in　returning　to　Golgotha；　Bergen　would　wager　it　had　little　to　do　with
finding　Yarrick’s　cherished　tank。
The　third　and　last　thing；　the　thing　that　worried　Bergen　most　of　all；　and　the　thing　that　he　was
convinced　of　above　all　else；　was　simply　this：　unless　the　Emperor　Himself　descended　from　the
heavens　to　offer　them　His　Divine　Protection；　not　a　single　man　in　his　beloved　armoured　division　was
going　to　make　it　off　this　blasted　world　alive。　The　cards　were　stacked　against　them　like　never　before。
Millions　of　men　had　died　in　the　Golgothan　War　all　those　years　ago。　Now；　like　those　men；　the　fate　of
Bergen’s　troopers　would　be　written　in　the　blood…red　sand。
He’d　fight　it　all　the　way　of　course。　He　swore　it。　He　had　been　born　and　raised　to　fight；　and　there
was　nothing　he　wouldn’t　do　to　see　his　men　through　this。
I’ll　go　over　the　old　man’s　head　if　I　have　to。　Killian　and　Rennkamp　will　back　me　up。　Together；
we’ll　go　to　Morten　and…
The　thought　went　unfinished。　Tiredness　crashed　over　Bergen　like　a　tidal　wave　and　he　fell　back
onto　the　bed；　asleep　before　his　head　hit　the　pillow。
*　*　*
Elsewhere　on　the　base；　about　a　kilometre　west　of　Bergen’s　quarters；　the　three　senior　agents　of　the
Adeptus　Mechanicus　had　returned　to　their　apartments　and　were　being　attended　by　a　flock　of　child
like　slaves。　True　children　would　have　perished　very　quickly　in　such　a　place　—　the　pungent
chemicals　that　misted　the　air　would　have　dissolved　the　tissue　of　their　lungs　—　but　these　were　not
true　children。　They　had　once　been　so；　long　ago；　before　extensive　surgeries　had　converted　them　into
ageless　amalgams　of　flesh　and　metal　like　the　tech…priests　they　served；　though　far　less　sophisticated。
Their　brains　had　been　cruelly　cut；　rendering　them　incapable　of　independent　thought；　and　their　voices
had　been　silenced　forever。　Their　only　function　was　to　obey　and；　as　such；　they　were　beyond　sin；
beyond　mischief　or　evil。　Perhaps　in　recognition　of　this；　their　creator　had　crafted　bronze　masks　for
them；　faces　frozen　in　beatific　smiles；　like　half…living　sculptures　of　holy　cherubim。
They　clustered　around　their　masters；　disrobing　them；　removing　peripheral　devices；　pulling　dataplugs
from　flesh…sockets。　Then　they　helped　the　tech…priests　into　a　deep　circular　tub　filled　with　a
thick；　glowing；　milky　substance　that　cast　its　light　up　to　the　metal　ceiling。　When　this　was　done；　the
cherub…slaves　retreated　to　shadowy　alcoves　set　in　the　walls。　There；　they　deactivated；　and　became
like　dolls　at　rest　in　upright　coffins。
Apart　from　the　area　lit　by　the　glowing　pool；　the　Mechanicus　quarters　were　dark　and　foulsmelling。
To　the　tech…priests；　these　things　mattered　not　at　all。　The　darkness　hid　nothing　from
augmetic　eyes　that　could　see　in　many　spectrums　of　light。　The　smells　registered　only　as　lists　of
airborne　compounds　in　varying　concentrations；　neither　pleasant　nor　unpleasant；　simply　there。
Wading　to　the　far　side　of　the　small　pool；　Tech…Magos　Sennesdiar　submerged　his　misshapen；
patchwork　body　all　the　way　to　his　neck。　Adepts　Xephous　and　Armadron　followed　suit；　and　the
glowing　liquid　within　the　tub　bubbled　and　churned　like　hot　soup。
It　was　Armadron　who　broke　the　silence。　His　words；　when　he　spoke　them；　were　delivered　in　the
same　chalkboard　screech　he　had　used　at　the　general’s　table。　
The　tech…magos　answered　with　his　own　condensed；　high…pitched　burst。　
Armadron　did　not　reply；　a　sign　that　he　was　reflecting　on　his　superior’s　words。
　said　Xephous。　His　mandibles
clacked　together　loudly　at　the　end　of　his　burst；　something　Sennesdiar　considered　an　unworthy　habit。