Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第11部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


attrition。　But　then；　given　the　name　of　the　place；　it　is　hardly　surprising。”
“The　name？”　Larn　asked；　still　stunned　by　the　thought　that　the　men　he　saw　about　him　were　all
that　was　left　from　six　thousand　Guardsmen。
“Yes。　A　while　back　we　spent　a　month　dug　in　at　an　old　bombed…out　building　that　turned　out　to　be
a　storage　facility　for　some　of　the　city’s　oldest　archives。　I　managed　to　read　some　of　them　before
Davir　and　the　rest　used　them　for　toilet　paper。　In　the　days　before　it　became　a　city　the　name　of　this
place　was　Butcher’s　Rock；　or　Bouchers　Roc　in　the　local　planetary　dialect。　Over　time；　as　the　city
grew；　its　name　was　corrupted　to　the　pronunciation　we　know　now。　Broo…sher…rok。　As　for　the　origin
of　the　name；　apparently　the　first　settlement　to　be　founded　here　served　as　the　centre　for　the　planet’s
meat　trade。　Of　course　it　still　does；　in　a　manner　of　speaking。”
“Still　does？”　Larn　said。　“I　don’t　understand　what　you　mean。”
“He　means　that　this　whole　damned　city　is　one　big　meat　grinder；　new　fish；”　Davir　growled　from
the　bottom　of　the　trench。　“And　we　are　the　meat。”
“You　should　tell　the　new　fish　about　the　promethium；　Scholar；”　Bulaven　said　from　beside　him。
“It　is　better　if　he　knows　what　we　are　fighting　for。”
“Ah　yes。　The　promethium；”　Scholar　said；　taking　the　field　glasses　back　from　Larn　and　placing
them　in　a　case　on　his　belt。　“That　is　what　the　battle　here　is　about；　more　or　less。”　Then；　nodding
towards　Davir；　he　added：　“Of　course；　I’m　sure　if　you　asked　Davir　he　would　tell　you　the　war　here　is
only　about　survival。　Which　would　be　right　as　well。　But　you　cannot　understand　the　broader　issues　of
strategy　here　without　knowing　something　about　the　promethium。”
“Strategy；　my　broad　Vardan　arse；”　Davir　said。　“What　does　strategy　mean　to　us？　You　think　a　man
cares　about　strategy　when　he　feels　an　ork　blade　go　into　his　belly？　You　and　Bulaven　are　fooling
yourselves；　Scholar。　What；　you　think　if　it　wasn’t　for　the　promethium　the　orks　would　just　go　away？　If
that　were　the　case　I’d　have　found　some　way　of　giving　it　to　them　myself　by　now；　never　mind　all　this
fantasising　about　killing　generals。　You　make　things　too　complicated；　Scholar。　The　orks　want　to　kill
us　for　one　simple　reason。　They　are　orks。　That　is　all　there　is　to　it。　Though　by　all　means　tell　the　new
fish　about　your　grand　theories。　I’m　sure　they’ll　come　in　very　handy　next　time　the　bullets　start　flying
and　he　finds　himself　face　to　face　with　a　horde　of　screaming　green…skins。　Though　from　what　I’ve
seen　already；　you　might　be　doing　him　more　of　a　favour　if　you　told　him　to　tie　a　string　around　his　belt
and　tie　the　other　end　to　his　las…gun　so　he　doesn’t　lose　it　again。”
Grimacing　in　dismissive　annoyance　Davir　returned　his　attention　to　the　card　game；　leaving
Scholar　to　go　on　with　his　lecture。
“The　promethium；　new　fish；”　Scholar　said。　“That’s　why　the　orks　are　here　and　that’s　what　makes
the　city　important　to　both　us　and　them。　Remember　I　told　you　this　city　started　off　as　a　centre　for　the
meat　trade？　Well；　that　was　thousands　of　years　ago。　In　more　recent　times　Broucheroc　became　a
centre　for　the　planet’s　promethium　industry。　Time　was　when　this　city　was　little　more　than　one　giant
refinery；　where　crude　promethium　would　be　brought　from　the　drilling　fields　further　south　to　be
refined　into　fuel。　Even　though　the　pipelines　that　brought　that　crude　here　were　cut　long　ago；　this　city
55
is　still　rich　in　promethium。　Billions　of　barrels’　worth；　stored　in　massive　underground　tanks
underlying　most　of　the　city。”
“But　what　do　the　orks　want　with　it？”　Larn　asked　him。
“Fuel；”　Scholar　said。　“Ten　years　ago；　just　as　we　first　made　landfall　here；　it　looked　like　the　orks
were　going　to　conquer　this　entire　planet。　Until　they　started　to　run　out　of　fuel　for　their　armour。　When
that　happened　they　laid　siege　to　Broucheroc；　hoping　to　seize　the　city’s　fuel　reserves。　But　we
managed　to　hold　out；　and　without　fuel　the　ork　assault　elsewhere　on　the　planet　simply　ground　to　a
halt。　Ever　since　then　it　has　been　a　stalemate；　with　us　trapped　inside　the　city　and　the　orks　outside　it
trying　to　get　in。　A　stalemate　that　shows　no　sign　of　ending　anytime　soon。”
“But　what　about　the　Imperial　forces　in　other　parts　of　the　planet？”　Larn　said。　“Or　even　Imperial
forces　from　off…world？　Why　haven’t　they　tried　to　relieve　the　siege？”
“As　for　the　Imperial　forces　elsewhere　on　this　planet；　it　could　be　they　have　tried　to　relieve　us；
new　fish；”　Scholar　said。　“Certainly；　if　you　asked　General　HQ　they　would　tell　you　the　city　is　on　the
verge　of　being　relieved。　However；　seeing　as　they　have　been　saying　the　same　thing　for　ten　years　now；
no　one　much　believes　them　anymore。　You　will　find　that　here　in　Broucheroc　our　commanders　tell　us
a　lot　of　things。　That　we　are　winning　the　war。　That　the　orks　are　leaderless　and　on　the　verge　of
collapse。　That　the　big　breakthrough　they　have　been　promising　us　for　the　last　ten　years　is　finally
imminent。　You　will　find　that　after　a　while　hearing　the　same　old　things；　day　after　day　after　day；　you
simply　learn　not　to　listen。　For　myself；　I　suspect　that　our　brother　Guardsmen　in　other　parts　of　this
Emperor…forsaken　world　are　in　no　better　shape　than　we　are。　Not　that　I　can　say　definitely　whether　or
not　this　is　the　case　you　understand；　given　that　the　only　part　of　this　planet　I’ve　ever　seen　is
Broucheroc。　As　theories　go　however；　it　seems　no　worse　than　any　other。”
“But；　of　course；　that　doesn’t　fully　answer　your　question；”　Scholar　said；　fully　lost　now　in　the　flow
of　his　own　erudition。　“As　to　why　Imperial　forces　from　off…world　don’t　intervene：　I　suspect　the　war
here　is　simply　not　important　enough　to　justify　a　full…scale　landing。　From　time　to　time　there　are
smaller　more　isolated　landings　—　by　a　lander　say；　or　a　single　dropship　—　but　nothing　that　could　be
mistaken　for　anything　even　resembling　a　real　attempt　to　break　the　siege。　Sometimes；　as　in　the　case
of　you　and　your　company；　these　landings　turn　out　to　be　simple　mistakes。　Other　times；　it　is　as　though
some　distant　bureaucrat　has　finally　decided　to　send　us　a　few　more　troops　or　supplies　in　order　to
reassure　us　we　have　not　been　forgotten。　For　the　most　part；　these　occasional　drops　are　as　pointless
and　ridiculous　as　every　other　aspect　of　life　here　in　Broucheroc。　In　the　past　we　have　been　sent　entire
pods　full　of　supplies；　only　to　find　when　we　fight　our　way　to　them　the　boxes　inside　the　pods　are　full
of　the　most　useless　things　imaginable：　paperclips；　mosquito　netting；　laxatives；　boot　laces；　and　so
on。”
“Remember　when　they　sent　us　an　entire　drop…pod　full　of　prophylactics？”　Davir　said　from
nearby。　“I　never　could　decide　whether　they　wanted　us　to　use　them　as　barrage　balloons；　or　simply
thought　the　orks　must　have　a　fear　of　rubber。”
“A　good　example　of　what　I　was　talking　about；”　Scholar　said。　“But　anyway；　I　think　that　pretty
much　covers　everything　for　now；　new　fish。　Do　you　have　any　questions？”
“Never　mind　his　questions。”　Zeebers　said；　suddenly　looking　up　from　his　cards　to　gaze　at　Larn
with　a　sly　and　malignant　smile。　“You　didn’t　quite　cover　everything　for　the　new　fish；　Scholar。　There
is　still　one　thing　you　forgot　to　tell　him。”
“Forgot？”　Scholar　said。　“Really？　I　don’t　think　there　was　anything　else　of　importance…”
“Yes　there　is；”　Zeebers　said；　staring　hard　at　Larn　now　with　cold　malice。　“You　forgot　to　tell　him
why　it　was　Davir　said　you’d　be　wasting　your　time　telling　the　new　fish　anything。　Why　all　the　things
you　told　him　already　are　probably　totally　useless　to　him。　Why；　come　tomorrow；　there’s　likely　only
going　to　be　four　men　in　this　trench；　not　five。　Oh　yes；　I　think　you　forgot　to　tell　him　something；
Scholar。　You　forgot　to　tell　him　the　single　most　important　thing　of　them　all。”
56
For　a　moment　Zeebers　paused；　the　silence　growing　tense　and　ugly　as　he　stared　at　Larn　while　the
others　shifted　uneasily　in　their　positions　as　though　suddenly　uncomfortable。　Then；　the　corners　of　his
lips　rising　tightly　in　a　gloating　smile　of　victory；　Zeebers　smirked　at　Larn　and　spoke　once　more。
“You　forgot　to　tell　him　about　the　fifteen　hours。”
They　were　quiet　at　first。　Scholar　and　Bulaven　looked　down　at　the　ground　in　apparent
embarrassment；　while　even　Davir　avoided　Larn’s　eyes　as　though　feeling　the　same　vague　sense　of
discomfort　as　the　others。　Only　Zeebers　looked　his　way。　Staring　back　at　him；　Larn　found　himself
party　to　an　unwelcome　insight。　Zeebers　hated　him。　Though　why；　or　for　what　reason；　he　could　not
even　begin　to　guess。
“What　is　this　fifteen　hours？”　Larn　said　at　last　to　break　the　silence。　“Repzik　said　something　about
it　just　before　the　last　attack。　And　Corporal　Vladek　mentioned　it　as　well。　He　said　he　would　issue　me
e　back　to　see　him　again　in　fifteen　hours’　time。”
Long　moments　passed　and　no　one　answered。　Instead　there　was　only　more　silence　while　Davir；
Scholar；　and　Bulaven　looked　uneasily　at　one　another　as　though　mentally　drawing　lots　to　decide
which　of　them　would　perform　an　unwelcome　duty。　Until　at　length；　still　refusing　to　meet　Larn’s　eyes；
Davir　finally　spoke。
“Tell　him；　Scholar。”
In　response　Scholar　fidgeted　for　a　moment　before；　clearing　his　throat；　he　turned　to　face　Larn
directly。
“It　is　a　matter　of　statistics；　new　fish；”　Scholar　said　with　a　pained　expression。　“You　must
understand　that　in　many　ways　every　marshal　and　general　at　headquarters　is　as　much　a　bureaucrat　as
the　most　pedantic　scribe　in　the　Administratum。　To　them　war　is　not　just　a　thing　of　blood　and　death；
nor　entirely　a　question　of　tactics　and　strategy。　To　them；　it　is　as　much　as　anything　a　matter　of
calculation。　A　calculation　based　on　casualty　reports；　rates　of　attrition；　the　numbers　of　units　in　the
field；　estimates　of　the　enemy’s　strength；　and　so　on；　all　the　myriad　facts　and　figures　that；　together；
can　be　used　to　establish　a　mathematics　of　slaughter。　Every　day；　from　all　over　Broucheroc；　these
figures　are　recorded；　collated　and　sent　to　General　Headquarters　for　the　bean　counters　there　to　work
on　them。　As　for　this　fifteen　hours　that　Zeebers　mentioned；　it　is　one　of　the　products　of　these　daily
calculations。”
“You　are　over　complicating　things　again；　Scholar；”　Davir　said。　“It　does　no　good　to　sugar　the　pill
for　the　new　fish。　He　asked　a　direct　question；　you　should　answer　him　accordingly。”
“It　is　a　matter　of　life　expectancy；　new　fish；”　Scholar　sighed。　“Fifteen　hours　is　the　average　length
of　time　a　replacement　Guardsman　survives　in　Broucheroc　after　he　has　been　posted　to　a　combat　unit
at　the　frontlines。”
“A　replacement　Guardsman？”　Larn　said；　still　unsure　whether　he　fully　understood　what　Scholar
had　just　told　him。　“Like　me；　you　mean？　Is　that　what　you　are　telling　me？　That’s　how　long　you　expect
me　to　survive　here？　You　think　I　am　going　to　be　dead　inside　fifteen　hours？”
“Less　than　that；　new　fish；”　Zeebers　said；　his　tone　smug　and　mocking。　“You　must　have　been　here
at　least　three　hours　by　now。　Leaving　you　only　twelve　hours　left。　Maybe　less。　Why　do　you　think
Vladek　told　you　to　return　to　him　in　fifteen　hours？　He　didn’t　want　to　risk　wasting　a　lot　of　good
equipment　on　a　dead　man。”
“Shut　up；　Zeebers；”　Bulaven　rumbled。　For　a　moment　Zeebers　glared　back　at　him　until；　seeing
the　angry　expression　on　the　big　man’s　face；　he　dropped　his　eyes　to　look　down　at　the　mud　of　the
trench　floor　in　sullen　silence。　“Tell　him　that　isn’t　the　way　it　is；　Scholar；”　Bulaven　began　again；　his
expression　softening　and　his　voice　almost　pleading。　“Explain　it　to　him。　Tell　him　we　have　every　faith
he　will　still　be　alive　tomorrow。”
“What；　you　think　we　should　lie　to　him？”　Davir　said　to　Bulaven。　“Zeebers　here　may　be　an　evil
little　shit　with　a　big　mouth；　but　at　least　he　was　telling　the　truth。　You　think　we　should　treat　the　new
fish　like　a　child？　Tell　him　that　everything　will　be　all　right？　That　his　kindly　old　uncles　Davir；　Scholar
57
and　Bulaven　will　keep　him　safe　from　the　mean　and　nasty　orks？　Even　after　ten　years　of　your　fatheaded
stupidity；　you　never　cease　to　amaze　me；　Bulaven。”
“It　wouldn’t　be　lying；　Davir；”　Bulaven　said　sulkily。　“There　is　nothing　wrong　with　giving　a　man
some　hope。”
“Hope；　my　arse；”　Davir　spat。　“I　keep　telling　you；　fat…man：　hope　is　a　bitch　with　bloody　claws。
You’d　think　after　ten　years　in　this　damned　hellhole　you　would　have　learned　that　lesson　by　now　at
least。”
“All　the　same；　Bulaven　is　not　entirely　wrong；”　Scholar　said；　turning　towards　the　others　to　join
the　discussion。　“The　new　fish　does　indeed　have　some　small　cause　for　hope。　True。　General　HQ　may
have　calculated　the　life　expectancy　of　a　replacement　to　be　fifteen　hours。　But　that　is　only　an　average
figure。　Perhaps　the　new　fish　will　be　more　fortunate。　He　could　survive　longer。　He　has　already　beaten
the　odds　once　already　by　surviving　that　landing。”
“Phah。　Sometimes；　Scholar；　you　can　be　as　bad　as　Bulaven；”　Davir　said。　“But　where　he　witters　on
about　hope　and　optimism；　you　act　like　you　were　still　in　the　scholarium。　You　would　do　better　to
remind　yourself　we　are　in　the　real　world　here。　Your　talk　of　odds　and　averages　is　all　very　well；　but
this　is　Broucheroc。　It　doesn’t　matter　that　the　new　fish　survived　the　landing。　Any　more　than　it　matters
whether　or　not　you　and　Bulaven　try　to　coddle　him。　He　is　as　good　as　a　corpse　already。　A　dead　man
walking。　Trust　me；　the　orks　will　see　to　that。　There’s　nothing　they　like　better　than　a　new　fish；　still　wet
behind　the　ears　and　ready　for　the　gutting。”
“All　I　am　saying　is　that　we　are　perhaps　being　too　literal…minded　when　it　comes　to　talking　about
this　figure　fifteen　hours；”　Scholar　said；　all　three　of　them　so　caught　up　in　the　heat　of　their　argument
now　that　they　ignored　Larn　as　he　stood　there　listening　to　them。　“It　is　not　an　absolute　figure。　It　is　only
an　average。　Why；　for　all　we　know；　the　new　fish　might　end　up　surviving　days；　weeks；　even　years。”
“Years？”　Davir　said。　“You　know　you　really　are　a　wonder　to　me；　Scholar。　I’ve　never　seen　a　man
talk　so　eloquently　and　at　such　length　from　his　arse　before。　You　think　the　new　fish　is　going　to
manage　to　survive　years　in　this　place？　Next　you　will　be　telling　me　you　expect　Sector　Command　to
make　Bulaven　a　general！　You　obviously　haven’t　seen　the　new　fish　in　action—”
“Stop　it。”　Larn　said　quietly；　no　longer　willing　to　be　talked　about　as　though　he　were　invisible。
“I’ve　heard　enough。　Stop　calling　me　new　fish。　My　name　is　Larn。”
For　a　moment；　as　though　surprised　by　the　interruption；　the　other　men　in　the　trench　simply
blinked　and　turned　to　look　at　him　in　silence。
“What？　You　don’t　like　us　calling　you　new　fish；　then？”　Davir　said　after　a　time；　sarcastically。　“We
have　offended　you　perhaps？　Your　feelings　are　hurt？”
“No；”　said　Larn；　uncertainly。　“I…　You　don’t　understand。　I　just　think　you　should　use　my　name　is
all。　My　real　name；　I　mean。　Larn。　Not　new　fish。”
“Really？”　Davir　said；　gazing　at　him　with　cold　eyes　while　Zeebers　glared　at　him　in　hostility　and
Scholar　and　Bulaven　looked　at　him　in　sadness。　“Then；　it　is　you　who　does　not　understand　the　facts　of
life　here；　new　fish。　You　think　I　care　what　your　name　is？　I　have　enough　baggage　in　my　head　already；
never　mind　learning　something　that　will　likely　be　written　on　a　grave　marker　before　the　day　is　out。
You　want　me　to　remember　your　name？　Tell　me　it　again　in　fifteen　hours’　time。　By　then；　perhaps　it
just　may　be　worth　knowing。”
58
CHAPTER　NINE
15：55　hours　Central　Broucheroc　Time
A　Figure　Moving　Closer　Through　No…Man’s　Land　—　Standing　Watch　with　Bulaven　—　Matters　of
Gretchin　and　Human　Marksmanship　—　A　Splash　of　Colour　Amidst　the　Wasteland　—　Lessons　on
How　Best　to　Act　as　Bait
He　had　been　moving　slowly　now　for　hours。
Crawling　on　his　belly；　painted　from　head　to　hind　claws　in　grey　clay　with　the　long　kustom　barrel
of　his　blasta　wrapped　in　layers　of　grey　sacking；　he　crept　forward　a　centimetre　at　a　time　through　the
frozen　mud　of　what　the　humies　called　no…man’s　land。　Slow；　like　a　slaver　hunting　a　squig　with　a
grabba　stik；　he　moved　an　inch　and　then　waited。　He　moved　an　inch　and　then　waited。　He　moved　an
inch　then　and　waited。　Over　and　over　again；　always　careful　in　case　his　prey　was　watching。
Suddenly；　seeing　a　glint　in　the　distance　ahead　of　him；　he　stopped。　Sure　one　of　the　humies’
spotters　must　have　seen　him；　he　tensed；　expecting　at　any　moment　to　feel　the　pain　from　a　lasbeam　or
hear　the　sound　of　a　shot；　but　neither　of　them　came。　He　remained　motionless。　Until；　as　the　minutes
passed　and　he　became　convinced　he　was　none　the　worse　for　wear；　his　journey　began　again。　Moving
slowly；　inch　by　inch；　across　the　frozen　mud　toward　his　destination。
Finally；　perhaps　halfway　across　no…man’s　land；　he　reached　the　lip　of　a　shallow　shell　crater。　For　a
moment　he　looked　at　it。　Then；　responding　to　some　inner　instinct　he　could　have　never　named；　he
crawled　inside。　Out　of　sight　now；　he　moved　more　quickly；　crawling　up　the　opposite　slope　of　the
crater　to　look　through　the　sights　of　his　blasta　in　search　of　a　target。　At　first；　nothing。　Then　he　saw　a
head　in　a　fur…shrouded　helmet　peeking　out　of　a　hole　in　the　ground　some　way　away　and　he　knew　the
instinct　had　been　right。　He　had　found　his　kill。
Breathing　through　his　nose；　careful　not　to　make　any　sudden　moves　that　might　spook　his　prey；　he
aimed　at　it　through　his　sights；　his　finger　tightening　incrementally　on　the　blasta’s　trigger。　As　he　did；
he　felt　a　warm　sensation　rush　through　his　head　as　something　like　a　clear　and　coherent　thought
occurred　to　him。
If　he　made　this　shot；　the　boss　would　be　pleased…
“You　shouldn’t　take　it　too　much　to　heart　what　Davir　said　before；　new　fish；”　Bulaven　said。　“He
didn’t　mean　anything　by　it。　It　is　just　his　way　is　all。”
Bulaven　was　standing　on　watch　on　the　firing　step；　looking　out　into　no…man’s　land　with　Larn
beside　him。　Meanwhile；　in　the　firing　trench　below　them；　the　other　men　were　mostly　quiet。　Wrapped
in　an　extra　greatcoat　in　place　of　a　blanket；　his　muffler　pulled　forward　to　cover　most　of　his　face；
Davir　lay　dozing　with　his　back　against　some　spare　flamer　canisters。　Beside　him；　Scholar　sat　silently
reading　from　the　tattered　pages　of　a　battered　and　obviously　well…used　book。　Only　Zeebers　was
making　anything　much　in　the　way　of　noise。　Sitting　on　the　trench　floor；　he　could　be　seen　sharpening
the　blade　of　his　entrenching　tool　with　a　whetstone；　the　low　scraping　sound　of　the　stone　running　over
the　metal　added　a　malicious　counterpoint　to　the　occasional　hostile　glances　he　periodically　made　in
Larn’s　direction。
“Yes；　that　is　a　good　trick；　new　fish；”　Bulaven　said；　noticing　that　Larn　was　looking　at　Zeebers。　“If
you　sharpen　the　blade　of　your　entrenching　tool　it　makes　a　good　weapon　if　you　find　yourself　in　handto…
hand　with　an　ork。　Better　than　a　bayonet；　anyway。　Of　course；　you　need　to　be　careful　you　don’t
59
sharpen　the　edges　of　the　spade　head　too　fine。　Otherwise；　it　can　split　if　you　actually　have　to　dig　the
earth　with　it。”
“Does　it　happen　a　lot？”　Larn　asked　him；　giving　an　involuntary　shiver　as　he　remembered　his
earlier　encounter　with　the　gretchin。　“Going　hand…to…hand　with　the　orks；　I　mean？”
“Not　so　much　if　we　can　help　it；”　Bulaven　said；　tapping　the　imposing　bulk　of　the　heavy　flamer　by
his　side。　“For　myself；　when　it　comes　to　killing　orks　I　prefer　to　use　my　friend　here。　Sometimes
though；　the　orks　get　in　close　and　it　can’t　be　helped。　Then　you　just　have　to　kill　them　with　laspistols；
knives；　spade　heads：　whatever　comes　to　hand。　But　you　don’t　need　to　worry　too　much　about　that；
new　fish。　Stay　close　to　me；　Scholar　and　Davir；　and　you’ll　be　all　rig