Ice Guard(科幻战争)-第1部分

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《Ice　Guard（科幻战争）》
作者：　＇英＇Steve　Lyons【完结】




Synopsis　（英文书籍文案）　

The　world　has　been　lost。　The　order　to　withdraw　has　been　given。　In　forty…eight　hours　Cressido　will　be　virus…bombed　from　orbit；　completely　sterilized。　Colonel　Stanislav　Steele　of　the　Valhallan　Ice　Warriors　has　one　last　task　to　perform。　Steele　handpicks　a　squad　of　nine　to　go　with　him　on　a　stealth　mission。　Their　task　is　to　find　and　rescue　a　stranded　Imperial　confessor。　The　chrono　is　already　ticking。

The　group　must　quickly　learn　to　trust　in　themselves；　as　well　as；　each　other　as　they　follow　Colonel　Steele　through　mutants；　Traitor　Space　Marines；　and　other　obstacles。





It　is　the　41st　millennium。　For　more　than　a　hundred　centuries　the　Emperor　has　sat　immobile　on
the　Golden　Throne　of　Earth。　He　is　the　master　of　mankind　by　the　will　of　the　gods；　and　master　of　a
million　worlds　by　the　might　of　his　inexhaustible　armies。　He　is　a　rotting　carcass　writhing　invisibly
with　power　from　the　Dark　Age　of　Technology。　He　is　the　Carrion　Lord　of　the　Imperium　for　whom
a　thousand　souls　are　sacrificed　every　day；　so　that　he　may　never　truly　die。
Yet　even　in　his　deathless　state；　the　Emperor　continues　his　eternal　vigilance。　Mighty　battlefleets
cross　the　daemon…infested　miasma　of　the　warp；　the　only　route　between　distant　stars；　their　way　lit
by　the　Astronomican；　the　psychic　manifestation　of　the　Emperor’s　will。　Vast　armies　give　battle　in
his　name　on　uncounted　worlds。　Greatest　amongst　His　soldiers　are　the　Adeptus　Astartes；　the　Space
Marines；　bio…engineered　super…warriors。　Their　comrades　in　arms　are　legion：　the　Imperial　Guard
and　countless　planetary　defence　forces；　the　ever…vigilant　Inquisition　and　the　tech…priests　of　the
Adeptus　Mechanicus　to　name　only　a　few。　But　for　all　their　multitudes；　they　are　barely　enough　to
hold　off　the　ever…present　threat　from　aliens；　heretics；　mutants　—　and　worse。
To　be　a　man　in　such　times　is　to　be　one　amongst　untold　billions。　It　is　to　live　in　the　cruellest　and
most　bloody　regime　imaginable。　These　are　the　tales　of　those　times。　Forget　the　power　of
technology　and　science；　for　so　much　has　been　forgotten；　never　to　be　re…learned。　Forget　the
promise　of　progress　and　understanding；　for　in　the　grim　dark　future　there　is　only　war。　There　is　no
peace　amongst　the　stars；　only　an　eternity　of　carnage　and　slaughter；　and　the　laughter　of　thirsting
gods。
3
CHAPTER　ONE
Time　to　Destruction　of　Cressida：　48。00。00
This　was　the　way　a　world　died。
Chaos　forces；　the　Lost　and　the　Damned；　had　penetrated　Alpha　Hive；　breaking　down　its　walls。
Hundreds　of　thousands　of　Guardsmen　had　given　their　lives　to　hold　them　back；　to　contain　them　in　the
outer　zones　at　least；　but　the　advance　was　relentless。
It　was　when　the　generators　had　blown；　when　production　had　ground　to　a　halt；　that　the　evacuation
order　had　been　signed。　The　civilians　had　been　lifted　out　first；　those　few　who　could　still　be　reached
and　who　hadn’t　been　slaughtered　or　turned　traitor。　Now　it　was　the　turn　of　the　Imperial　Guardsmen
on　the　ground。
Cressida　had　been　a　proud　world　once。　Its　mines　had　been　bountiful；　and　its　refineries　and
factories　the　most　efficient　in　the　sector。　Its　standard　of　living；　on　the　highest　hive　levels；　had　been
good；　and　even　the　underhives　had　enjoyed　a　far　lower　than　normal　attrition　rate。　Cressida’s　subjects
had　been　loyal　and　happy；　with　a　consequently　high　rate　of　population　growth。　They　had　been　in　the
process　of　building　their　thirteenth　hive；　and　Imperial　Guard　Command　had　advanced　plans　to　raise
another　Guard　regiment　from　their　numbers　within　ten　years。
It　had　taken　less　than　half　that　time　for　Cressida　to　be　invaded；　overrun；　lost；　and　finally
abandoned。
Colonel　Stanislev　Steele　stood　in　what　had　been　a　mine　overseer’s　office　on　Alpha　Hive’s　eightythird
level。　An　explosion　had　ripped　through　the　room　recently；　and　two　of　its　walls　had　been　torn
out。　Its　ceiling　hung　precariously　over　him；　and　every　few　seconds　the　vibrations　from　a　fresh　blast
below　travelled　far　enough　to　make　it　tremble　and　threaten　to　give　way。
From　this　uncertain　vantage　point　he　could　look　out　over　what　remained　of　the　outer　zones　—　at
the　ebb　and　flow　of　battle；　at　fire　and　smoke　and　metal；　and　the　bottle…green　lines　of　his　regiment；
the　Valhallan　319th；　marking　the　extent　of　the　enemy’s　progress　through　the　ruins。
It　made　sense；　of　course；　that　a　Valhallan　regiment　should　remain　on　the　front　lines；　fighting　a
rearguard　action　to　buy　time　for　the　evacuees。　Cressida’s　temperature　had　been　dropping　steadily　for
the　past　few　years　—　some　side　effect　of　the　Chaos　incursion；　although　no　one　had　been　quite　able
to　explain　it　—　but　the　men　of　Steele’s　world　were　well　used　to　the　freezing　cold。
The　Ice　Warriors；　as　they　called　themselves；　were　also　renowned　for　their　tenacity　in　defence。
Fighting　in　close　formation；　they　held　their　ground　long　after　the　men　of　most　other　worlds　would
have　given　way。
They　found　themselves　driven　back；　all　the　same。　Again　and　again；　blossoms　of　fire　erupted
within　their　ranks；　and　their　green　lines　were　broken　and　then　erased；　to　be　redrawn；　a　little　shorter
than　before　and　a　little　further　back；　but　as　firmly　as　ever。
Steele　drew　his　armoured　greatcoat　tighter　around　his　body；　tucked　his　gloved　hands　into　its
loose　sleeves。　He　could　have　sworn　that　the　temperature　had　dropped　another　two　degrees　in　the
past　day。　He　checked　his　augmetics；　but　they　didn’t　respond。　So；　he　chose　to　believe　his　own
instincts。
Streaks　of　light　scarred　the　overcast　grey　sky：　the　trails　of　spacecraft　carrying　more　troops　clear
of　Cressida。　They；　at　least；　would　live　to　fight　another　day；　albeit　in　a　different　theatre　of　war；　one　in
which　they　might　stand　a　chance　of　winning。
4
Steele　could　hear　footsteps　approaching。　His　augmented　ears　filtered　the　soft　sound　from　the
clamour　of　war　cries　and　the　crump　of　mortars。　He　turned　to　greet　Sergeant　Ivon　Gavotski；　a　tall；
thoughtful　man；　approaching　middle　age；　unflappable。
Gavotski　threw　up　a　crisp　salute；　and　announced；　“All　done；　sir。　Orders　have　been　sent　to　the
eight　men　on　our　list；　and　to　four　more；　in　case　some　of　the　first　eight　are　already　dead　or　can’t　be
located。　I　filed　a　requisition　order　for　a　Termite　with　the　Departmento　Munitorum；　and　I　mentioned
the　cardinal’s　name　as　you　suggested。　I　think　I　impressed　upon　the　quartermaster　the　importance　of
this　particular　request。”
Steele　nodded；　and　said；　“I　just　hope　the　men　we　have　chosen　are　as　good　as　their　records
suggest　they　are。　This　could　be　the　most　important　mission　the　319th　has　ever　undertaken；　the　one
that　will　decide　how　we　are　remembered。”
He　turned　back　to　the　battlefield；　on　which　an　array　of　Chaos…controlled　tanks　—　Leman　Russ
Demolishers　had　managed　to　gain　some　purchase　in　the　rubble　to　advance。　The　Ice　Warriors’　tanks
were　responding；　moving　cumbersomely　into　position；　trying　to　draw　a　fresh　defensive　line　across
this　new；　unexpected　front。
“At　any　rate；”　sighed　Steele；　“it　appears　it　may　be　the　last。”
He　wasn’t　exaggerating。　The　war　on　Cressida　had　been　long　and　hard；　and　his　men；　their　ranks
already　depleted　after　campaigns　on　Dellenos　IV　and　Tempest；　had　suffered　heavy　casualties。　He
had　heard　the　whispers；　heard　that　when　all　this　was　over　the　survivors　of　the　Valhallan　319th　would
be　absorbed　into　other　regiments；　that　their　glorious　history　would　come　to　an　end。
It　was　starting　to　snow　—　but　in　contrast　to　the　pure　white；　cleansing　falls　of　his　home　world；
these　snowflakes　were　a　dirty　grey　in　colour。
Trooper　Pozhar　squinted　down　the　sights　of　his　las…gun；　and　scowled　as　a　bone…biting　wind　whipped
up　a　flurry　of　grey　snow；　obscuring　his　view　of　the　enemy。
His　trigger　finger　itched　with　the　enforced　delay。　On　the　front　line；　a　man　could　be　dead　in　a
second；　without　even　seeing　what　had　hit　him。　Pozhar　was　determined　to　make　each　second　count。
Even　so；　he　didn’t　want　to　waste　power　—　not　just　because　that　would　be　a　sin　against　the　Emperor；
but　because　he　was　down　to　his　last　pack。　He　had　just　clicked　it　into　his　gun；　reciting　the　Litany　of
Loading　as　he　did　so　in　deference　to　the　machine…spirits。
So；　Pozhar　held　his　fire　until　dark　shapes　began　to　loom　through　the　haze；　and　then　he　thumbed
his　power　pack　setting　to　full　auto　and　squeezed　off　fully　a　quarter　of　its　charge　in　a　deadly；　lowlevel
barrage　across　the　rubble。
Many　of　the　shapes　crumpled；　but　as　always　there　were　more　out　there；　many　more。　They
clambered　over　the　bodies　of　the　fallen；　bearing　down　on　him。　They　were　greeted　by　the　percussion
cracks　of　a　hundred　more　lasguns；　Pozhar’s　comrades　following　his　lead；　and　a　score　of　frag
grenades　burst　and　filled　the　air　with　a　cloud　of　blood　and　dismembered　limbs；　but　still　they　came。
Pozhar　could　see　them　now；　and　he　felt　a　surge　of　rage　at　the　sight　of　their　tattered　uniforms。
They　were　the　worst　kind　of　foe：　Traitor　Guard。　He　didn’t　recognise　their　colours。　So　many
regiments　had　turned　on　Cressida　in　the　past　few　years　that　he　had　lost　track　of　them　all。
They　were　close　enough　for　the　Valhallans’　cover　to　mean　very　little。　The　traitors　raised　their
guns；　and　Pozhar’s　ears　popped　with　the　retorts　of　las…fire　from　both　fronts。　He　had　been　crouching
behind　a　half…demolished　wall；　but　it　had　been　all　but　chipped　away　by　las…beams。　A　lucky　shot
penetrated　the　fur　hat；　and　the　head；　of　the　trooper　beside　him；　and　Pozhar　was　left　exposed。
It　could　only　be　a　matter　of　minutes　now。　Soon；　the　order　would　come　to　fall　back　again；　to
surrender　a　little　more　ground　to　the　enemy。　But　Pozhar　was　a　Valhallan　Ice　Warrior；　and　until　that
order　came；　he　would　not　give　a　centimetre。
The　traitors　swept　over　him；　hardly　seeming　to　notice　that　he　was　alive　and　still　standing。
Perhaps　they　expected　him　to　fall　and　be　trampled；　but　instead　he　cannoned　into　the　stomach　of　the
nearest　of　them；　disarming　him；　sending　him　to　the　ground。　Two　more　traitors　rounded　on　Pozhar；
5
but　he　dropped　beneath　their　lunges　and　swung　his　gun　like　a　club；　scoring　a　pair　of　palpable　hits　to
a　chin　and　a　forehead。　Then　his　micro…bead　earpiece　crackled　into　life；　and　he　heard　the　urgent　voice
of　a　vox…operator；　instructing　him　to　fall　back　and　report　to　the　platoon　commander。
He　could　almost　have　laughed　at　the　timing　of　it。　The　traitors　were　pressing　in　all　around　him；
and　he　could　measure　the　rest　of　his　life　in　seconds。　It　didn’t　matter。　A　red　mist　had　settled　over
Pozhar；　and　he　felt　as　if　he　was　standing　outside　of　his　body　as　instinct　took　over　and　he　punched
and　kicked　and　swiped；　and　jammed　the　muzzle　of　his　lasgun　into　one　traitor’s　stomach　and　blew
out　his　guts。
It　was　over　too　soon；　of　course。　He　was　borne　to　the　ground　by　sheer　weight　of　numbers。　He
reached　into　his　greatcoat　for　a　frag　grenade　and　prepared　to　go　out　in　a　ball　of　fire　that　would
consume　ten　or　more　alongside　him。
“Do　you　hear　me；　Pozhar？　Get　your　sorry　carcass　back　here　fast。　Word　is；　you’re　being
reassigned；　by　order　of　Colonel　Steele　himself。”
The　explosion　deadened　his　ears；　heat　searing　his　skin；　and　he　thought　for　a　moment　that　his
senses　were　deceiving　him　because　he　hadn’t　yet　pulled　out　the　pin。
The　grenade　that　had　gone　off　had　not　been　his。　It　had　been　thrown　by　a　comrade；　evidently
unaware　of　Pozhar’s　position。　Friendly　fire　—　and　friendly　indeed；　because；　by　the　Emperor’s　will；
Pozhar　had　been　protected　from　the　force　of　the　blast　by　the　press　of　bodies　around　him。　He　lay　on
his　back；　drained　by　his　unexpected　escape；　almost　smothered　by　a　pile　of　corpses。　And　he　had　been
doubly　blessed；　because　for　now　he　was　hidden　from　the　rest　of　the　traitors。
They　were　advancing　past　him；　booted　feet　striking　the　ground　near　his　head；　more　bodies
falling　—　adding　to　the　pile　—　as　his　Valhallan　comrades　retrenched　and　a　fresh　burst　of　las…fire
scythed　into　their　foes。　The　voice　was　still　squawking　in　Pozhar’s　ear；　and　he　did　laugh　then；　a　nearhysterical
outburst　of　relief　and　fear　and　defiance　all　mingled　together。
It　took　him　a　minute　to　calm　down；　to　be　able　to　assess　the　situation　in　which　he　found　himself。
He　was　alone；　behind　the　enemy’s　front　line；　and　the　only　way　to　survive　in　such　a　position　was　to
stay　where　he　was；　to　play　dead。　Which　was　out　of　the　question　—　because　not　only　would　it　have
been　a　dereliction　of　duty；　but　there　was　also　the　matter　of　his　unexpected　summons　to　consider；　and
the　tantalising　prospect　that　he　had　been　chosen　to　receive　some　great　honour。
If　Colonel　Steele　had　asked　for　him　by　name；　if　he　had　a　mission　that　he　felt　only　Pozhar　could
undertake；　then　Pozhar　would　be　there。　Whatever　it　took。
They　had　taken　the　enemy　by　surprise。
The　Chaos　forces　had　pulled　their　artillery　from　this　flank；　believing　it　shielded　by　the　heaped
wreckage　of　a　city　street；　thinking　it　impossible　for　the　Imperial　tanks　to　break　through　here。　They
had　reckoned　without　an　Ice　Warrior　named　Grayle。
Grayle　knew　vehicles　—　not　like　a　tech…priest　knew　them；　from　the　inside　out；　but　he　had　an
instinct　about　them。　It　was　almost　as　if　he　could　bond　with　their　spirits；　and　push　them　to　incredible
new　heights　of　performance。　And　right　now；　he　was　at　the　controls　of　a　Leman　Russ　Annihilator
battle　tank；　and　its　sixty…tonne　chassis　was　heaving；　juddering　fit　to　tear　itself　apart；　and　yet　it　was
finding　traction；　finding　a　path　somehow　across　the　ruins。
Trooper　Barreski；　up　in　the　turret；　was　able　to　look　down　on　the　battlefield　—　and　as　a　knifesharp
blast　of　wind　parted　the　snow　curtain　for　a　second；　he　fancied　he　could　see　the　expressions　of
surprise　and　horror　on　the　masses　of　the　traitors；　cultists　and　mutants　as　they　saw　what　was　coming
their　way。
Then　the　debris　shifted；　and　it　felt　as　if　the　tank　had　dropped　out　from　beneath　him；　taking　his
stomach　with　it。
“Hey；　Grayle；”　he　yelled　out　over　the　engine’s　near…deafening　roar；　“steady　on　down　there。　You
keep　driving　like　that；　you’ll　get　this　crate　decorated　in　a　nice　shade　of　this　morning’s　rations！”
6
As　he　spoke；　the　tank　tore　through　the　fragile　remains　of　a　building；　its　dozer　blade　collapsing
the　walls　with　ease。　A　stone　beam　bounced　across　Barreski’s　turret；　and　he　ducked；　avoiding
decapitation　by　a　centimetre。　He　picked　himself　up；　filled　his　cheeks　with　air　and　expelled　it　slowly。
He　was　less　concerned　with　himself；　and　more　with　his　guns：　twin　lascannons；　objects　of　great
beauty　to　him。　It　would　have　been　a　shame　to　have　brought　them　this　far　and　not　put　them　to　their
intended　use。
By　the　Emperor’s　grace；　however；　there　was　no　real　damage　done。　The　beam　had　glanced　off　the
left　cannon；　put　a　dent　in　its　barrel；　and　the　calibration　had　been　thrown　off　a　little；　but　he　could
compensate　for　that。
Then；　with　another　great　bump　and　a　dip；　they　were　on　even　ground；　picking　up　speed；　and　the
enemy　was　in　Barreski’s　field　of　vision　again；　on　a　level　with　the　tank。　No　obstructions　remained
between　them。
The　Chaos　forces　were　undisciplined；　some　paralysed　in　the　face　of　the　approaching　juggernaut；
while　some　tried　to　fight　and　others　simply　turned　and　fled。　They　were　getting　in　each　other’s　way；
falling　over　each　other；　their　resistance　collapsing　before　Barreski　had　loosed　off　a　single　shot。
The　sponson　gunners　beat　him　to　it；　unleashing　heavy　bolter　fire。　Barreski　bided　his　time；　using
his　vantage　point　to　survey　the　scene；　seeking　his　optimum　targets　and　taking　aim；　knowing　that　the
lascannons’　slow　recharging　cycle　meant　that　he　had　to　make　every　shot　count。
He　aimed　for　a　giant　of　a　man；　towering　over　the　rank　and　file；　his　face　an　eruption　of　pustules；
his　hair　clinging　to　his　head　in　clumps。　Barreski　could　almost　smell　the　Chaos　stink　on　the　mutant。
He　gave　it　both　lascannons　and　let　their　recoil　reverberate　through　him；　through　his　bones；
invigorating　him　with　their　power。　The　twin　beams　seemed　to　dissect　the　sky　with　their　thunderous
cracks；　and　when　one　of　them　struck　true；　the　mutant　was　vaporised。
The　Leman　Russ　ploughed　into　the　Chaos　army；　pushing　its　soldiers　back　with　its　blade；
mowing　down　those　who　couldn’t　get　out　of　its　way；　powdering　their　bones　and　pulping　their　flesh。
Inevitably　a　few　heretics　survived　—　the　lucky　ones。　And　those　that　did　found　themselves
behind　the　tank；　in　the　sponson　guns’　blind　spots　—　and；　knowing　their　handheld　weapons　were
useless　against　its　plasteel　hull；　they　concentrated　their　fire　on　the　one　vulnerable　spot　they　could
see：　Barreski’s　head。
He　dropped　down　into　the　turret；　abandoning　his　lascannons　reluctantly；　like　the　sponson　guns；
they　only　had　a　forty…five　degree　arc　of　fire。　He　swung　the　pintle…mounted　heavy　stubber；　and　laid
down　a　discouraging　hail　of　bullets　in　the　tank’s　wake　even　though　he　couldn’t　see　to　aim　it
properly。
He　was　alarmed　when　a　head　appeared　over　the　turret’s　rim。
The　cultist　must　have　just　missed　being　crushed；　found　himself　alongside　the　tank；　behind　the
sponson　guns；　and　seized　the　opportunity　to　leap　on　board；　to　climb。　He　was　ill…equipped；　his　body
armour　salvaged　from　many　sources；　some　too　small　for　him；　some　too　large；　and　his　only　weapon
appeared　to　be　a　knife。　Still；　the　element　of　surprise　made　him　a　threat。
Barreski　managed　to　shoulder　his　lasgun　in　time。　The　cultist　was　leaping　for　him　with　a　snarl
when　a　beam　stabbed　through　his　heart。　His　momentum　kept　him　going；　but　by　the　time　he　hit　the
Ice　Warrior　he　was　already　dead。　Barreski　risked　raising　his　head；　peering　over　the　side　of　the　turret；
to　see　a　second　cultist　climbing　towards　him。　A　single　las…beam　was　enough　to　shake　the　man’s　grip
and　send　him　falling；　screaming；　beneath　the　tank’s　heavy　tracks。
The　Chaos　army　was　reacting；　slowly；　to　the　incursion　of　this　lone　Imperial　vehicle　into　its
midst；　starting　to　turn　its　war　machines　around。　This　was　what　the　Ice　Warriors　had　wanted；　of
course。　Their　attack　had　been　calculated　to　distract；　to　take　the　pressure　off　their　front　lines；　and　to
give　their　comrades　time　to　regroup；　to　renew　their　defence　of　a　stretch　of　land　that　would　otherwise
have　been　lost。
There　were　hundreds　of　foot　soldiers　in　the　path　of　the　Chaos　tanks；　but　their　operators　seemed
no　more　concerned　than　Grayle　had　been　about　who　they　might　crush　beneath　their　treads。
7
Explosive　rounds　burst　against　the　Leman　Russ’　armoured　hide；　but　this　was　where　its　lascannons；
with　their　superior　range　and　firepower；　came　into　their　own。　It　was　not　for　nothing　that　they　were
known　as　tank…killers。
Barreski　was　in　his　element　as　his　cannons　roared。　He　concentrated　his　fire　on　a　Chaos…held
Imperial　Salamander；　its　slight　form　surging　ahead　of　its　fellows；　its　autocannon　spitting　furiously。
He　scored　one　direct　hit；　two；　three；　four；　until　he　had　blown　it　apart。　In　the　heat　of　the　moment；　he
could　almost　have　forgotten　where　he　was；　seeing　only　his　targets　lined　up　in　front　of　him　as　if　on　a
range。
And　then　those　targets　were　close　enough　to　start　to　hit　back；　for　their　own　guns　to　do　some　real
damage；　and　Grayle　had　slammed　the　battle　tank　into　reverse；　but　Barreski　knew　he　couldn’t　go　far
with　the　ruins　still　piled　up　behind　him。
The　cannons　were　out　of　power。　Barreski　yelled　down　at　the　loader　below　to　work　faster；　to
chug　the　heavy；　new　cell　into　place；　to　give　him　more　shots　while　he　could。　The　Chaos　tanks　had
formed　an　arc　in　front　of　them；　closing　in；　the　port　sponson　gun　was　lost；　and　of