Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第10部分

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information　before　him；　Delias　had　found　nothing　there　to　suit　his　purpose。
There　is　no　good　news　to　report；　he　thought　bleakly。　Today；　the　same　as　every　other　day；　there　is
only　bad　news　and　I　cannot　print　that。　The　commissar　would　have　me　shot　on　the　spot。
His　thoughts　drifted　back　to　the　day　two　years　previously　when　he　had　first　heard　the　news　that
he　was　being　posted　to　the　imposing　edifice　of　the　General　Headquarters　building　in　the　centre　of
Broucheroc。　At　first；　sure　he　was　going　to　be　rewarded　with　a　staff　assignment；　he　had　rejoiced。
Then；　when　they　brought　him　to　the　dingy　basement　print　room　to　tell　him　it　would　be　his　task　to
produce　a　twice…daily　newsletter　and　propaganda　sheet　for　the　edification　of　the　city’s　defenders；　his
heart　had　thrilled　even　more。　It　had　seemed　the　answer　to　all　his　prayers：　a　staff　and　an　office　of　his
own；　and　more　importantly　a　prestigious　assignment　that　would　keep　him　far　from　the　fighting。　He
had　soon　learned　however　that　the　lot　in　life　of　an　official　propagandist　was　rarely　a　happy　one。
Even　less　so　when　it　was　his　duty　to　put　a　brave　face　to　a　conflict　as　prone　to　sudden　reverses　and
unmitigated　disasters　as　was　the　war　in　Broucheroc。
We　are　losing　this　war；　he　thought；　so　lost　in　the　depths　of　his　own　misery　now　he　was　barely
aware　of　any　wider　implication。　We　are　losing　this　war。　That　is　the　reality　and　yet　I　have　barely　an
50
hour　to　find　some　small　piece　of　good　news　that　will　allow　the　newsletter　to　pretend　otherwise。　An
hour。　It　just　can’t　be　done。　I　need　more　time。
Hearing　the　sound　of　his　office　door　opening；　Delias　looked　up　to　see　Shulen　shuffling　through
the　doorway。　Mouth　working　soundlessly；　his　body　twitching　with　uncontrollable　palsies；　Shulen
tottered　towards　him　with　a　wastebasket　in　his　hands；　the　ugly　scar　left　by　the　ork　bullet　that　had
addled　his　brain　clearly　visible　at　his　temple。
“What　is　it；　Shulen？”　Delias　sighed。
“Cuh　cuh　cuh…　cleaning！”　Shulen　said；　stammering　out　a　spray　of　spittle　as　he　stooped　to　start
shovelling　the　papers　littering　Dellas’　desk　into　the　wastebasket。
Aggravated；　for　a　moment　Delias　idly　wondered　if　there　was　a　way　of　making　Shulen　bear　the
blame　for　his　problems。　I　could　tell　Commissar　Valk　it　is　all　Shulen’s　fault；　he　thought。　That　we
were　just　putting　the　finishing　touches　to　the　latest　edition　when　Shulen　blundered　into　the
typesetting　hoard；　knocking　it　to　the　floor　and　destroying　all　our　work。　If　the　commissar　decides　to
shoot　the　useless　oaf　in　retribution；　I　for　one　would　not　miss　him。　Just　as　quickly　he　realised　for　the
plan　to　work　the　other　members　of　his　staff　would　have　to　support　his　story。　Pheran　and　the　others
would　not　wear　it。　They　had　always　protected　Shulen；　coddling　him　like　some　idiot　child；　and　would
be　sure　to　oppose　any　attempt　to　make　him　the　sacrificial　goat。　Then；　abruptly；　Delias　caught　a
glimpse　of　the　words　written　on　one　of　the　crumpled　pieces　of　paper　in　Shulen’s　hand　and　knew　he
finally　had　the　answer。
“Stop　that！”　he　snapped　at　Shulen；　reaching　out　with　a　metal　ruler　to　rap　his　knuckles。　“Leave
the　wastebasket　here　and　go　tell　Pheran　I　will　have　the　copy　for　tonight’s　edition　ready　for　him　in
fifteen　minutes。”
“Fuh　fuh　fuh…”
“Fifteen　minutes；”　Delias　said；　retrieving　the　paper　he　had　seen　in　Shulen’s　hand　and　smoothing
out　the　creases　so　he　could　read　it。　“Now；　get　out　of　my　sight。”
It　was　a　contact　report；　reporting　an　ork　assault　in　Sector　1…13　two　and　a　half　hours　earlier。　What
interested　Delias　more　was　the　attached　account　of　the　event　that　had　presaged　the　assault。　A　single
lander　bearing　a　company’s　worth　of　battlefield　replacements　had　crashed　in　no…man’s　land。
Reading　it；　Delias　realised　it　was　exactly　what　he　had　been　looking　for。　Granted；　the　course　of
events　would　need　a　little　rewriting。　To　keep　Commissar　Valk　happy　what　had　been　an　entirely
futile　waste　of　human　life　would　need　to　become　a　resounding　victory。　All　the　basic　substance　of
what　he　needed　was　there　already：　he　would　only　have　to　change　the　details　and　the　events　in　Sector
1…13　should　suit　his　purposes　admirably。　Yes；　this　is　exactly　what　I　need；　Delias　thought；　quickly
running　through　a　series　of　potential　headlines　in　his　mind。　Enemy　Assault　Defeated　By　Landing
From　Space。　A　Sector…Wide　Breakthrough。　Orks　Retreating　in　Disarray。　Then；　the　hairs　rising　at　the
back　of　his　neck；　he　thought　of　a　new　headline　and　knew　he　had　cracked　it。
Orks　Defeated　in　Sector　1…13：　Jumael　14th　Victorious！
Smiling；　Delias　picked　up　a　stylus　and　began　to　write　a　glowing　report　of　the　battle；　carefully
embroidering　the　account　with　a　variety　of　the　stock　words　and　phrases　he　had　developed　over　the
years　in　the　course　of　his　duties。　Heroic　resistance！　Brave　and　resolute　defence！　A　triumph　of　faith
and　righteous　fury　over　Xenos　savagery！　Occasionally；　as　he　paused　to　construct　some　new　sentence
full　of　rhetorical　zeal　and　fire；　he　felt　the　vague　stirrings　of　his　conscience　troubling　him　but　he
ignored　it。　It　was　not　his　fault　he　was　forced　to　lie　and　twist　the　facts；　he　told　himself。　The　truth　was
always　the　first　casualty　in　warfare。　As　an　information　officer；　sometimes　it　was　his　task　to　be
creative：　to　do　otherwise　would　be　to　risk　offering　aid　and　comfort　to　the　enemy。　Yes；　it　was　a
matter　of　duty。
And；　after　all；　it　was　important　to　do　everything　humanly　possible　to　keep　up　the　morale　of　the
troops。
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“A　fire。”　Davir　said　as　they　sat　in　the　firing　trench。　“That’s　what　I　would　like　to　see。　A　fire　to　burn
down　General　Headquarters　and　torch　all　the　stupid　bastards　inside　it。　If　another　blaze　could
somehow　be　ignited　at　Sector　Command　as　well　then；　all　the　better。　It　wouldn’t　be　that　difficult。
Give　me　a　grenade　launcher　and　a　couple　of　phosphorus　rounds；　and　I　would　have　both　damn　places
on　fire　in　no　time。”
Appalled；　Larn　listened　in　disbelieving　silence。　In　the　last　half　an　hour　since　they　had　reached
the　trench；　Davir’s　constant　stream　of　complaints　had　slowly　given　way　to　extended　musings　in
which　he　openly　discussed　methods　of　killing　the　General　Staff　responsible　for　the　progress　of　the
Broucheroc　campaign。　Though　even　more　extraordinary　to　Larn’s　mind　was　the　fact　that　the　other
men　in　the　trench　had　simply　sat　there　and　listened　to　it；　as　though　it　was　the　most　normal　thing　in
the　world　to　talk　lightly　of　mutiny　and　sedition。　As　Davir’s　monologue　wore　on；　Larn　found　himself
with　fewer　and　fewer　doubts　as　to　the　reasons　why　the　war　in　this　city　seemed　to　be　going　so　badly
if　these　men　represented　a　representative　cross…section　of　the　city’s　defenders。
“Of　course；　I　accept　it　will　be　difficult　getting　close　enough　to　use　a　grenade　launcher；”　Davir
continued。　“What　with　the　security　perimeters　around　both　buildings　being　so　heavily　patrolled　and
defended。　But　I　have　already　foreseen　a　solution。　It　is　only　a　matter　of　stealing　the　right　credentials；
and　I　can　be　inside　the　perimeter　and　killing　the　members　of　the　General　Staff　before　you　can　say
poetic　justice。”
These　men　can’t　be　Guardsmen；　Larn　thought　as　he　looked　at　the　faces　of　the　four　men　sitting
around　him　in　the　trench。　Granted；　they　fought　off　the　ork　attack　well　enough　two　hours　ago。　But
where　is　their　discipline？　Their　devotion　to　the　Emperor？　It　is　as　though　all　the　traditions　and
regulations　of　the　Guard　mean　nothing　to　them。　How　can　they　just　sit　here　and　listen　to　this　man
spew　treason　without　taking　action？
“You　would　never　get　away　with　it；　Davir；”　the　Vardan　sitting　opposite　Davir　said。　A　tall　thin
man　in　his　mid…thirties；　his　name　was　Scholar。　Or　at　least　that　was　what　the　others　called　him。
Whether　it　was　his　profession　or　a　simple　nickname；　given　his　stoop…shouldered　build　and　the
owlish　cast　of　his　face；　the　name　seemed　to　fit　him。
“I　am　afraid　it　is　a　question　of　there　being　major　flaws　in　your　modus　operandi；”　Scholar　said；
fingers　playing　unconsciously　at　his　chin　as　though　stroking　a　nonexistent　beard。　“Even　granting
that　you　manage　to　obtain　the　necessary　credentials；　I　doubt　the　perimeter　guards　would　be　willing
to　stand　idly　by　while　you　shoot　grenades　at　their　generals　willy…nilly。　There　are　rules　in　the　Guard
against　the　wasting　of　ammunition；　after　all。　Besides；　even　if　you　could　somehow　elude　the　guards；
you　can　be　sure　that　the　buildings　housing　General　HQ　and　Sector　Command　have　both　been
extensively　fireproofed。　Not　to　mention　equipped　with　damage　controls　systems；　blast　shields；
extinguishing　devices；　and　so　forth。　No；　Davir；　I　think　you　will　have　to　find　some　other　method　of
getting　your　tally。”
Could　they　he　joking　somehow；　Larn　thought。　Is　that　it？　Is　this　all　some　kind　of　joke；　intended　to
do　no　more　than　help　them　pass　the　time？　But　they　are　talking　about　murdering　officers！　How　could
anyone　mistake　that　for　a　laughing　matter？
“Then　I　will　simply　have　to　seize　control　of　an　artillery　battery；”　Davir　said。　“A　few　high
explosive　rounds　aimed　at　the　GHQ　building　and　I　should　kill　a　few　generals　at　least。”
“But　you　wouldn’t　want　to　do　that　either；”　the　third　one；　Bulaven；　said　earnestly。　A　hulking
figure　with　a　thick　neck；　brawny　arms　and　a　broad　bearish　build；　Bulaven　was　the　fireteam’s　heavy
weapons　specialist。　He　also　seemed　the　only　man　among　the　group　to　harbour　anything　in　the　way
of　concern　for　the　lives　of　his　superiors。　“If　you　start　killing　generals；　Davir；　who　would　we　have
left　to　give　us　orders？”
“You　talk　as　though　that　is　a　bad　thing；　pigbrain；”　Davir　spat。　“It　is　thanks　to　those　arseholes　in
General　HQ　and　their　orders　that　we　are　in　this　mess　to　begin　with！　Not　that　I　expect　us　to　suddenly
starting　magically　winning　this　war　when　they　are　all　dead；　you　understand。　Killing　them　couldn’t
make　it　any　worse。　At　least　doing　it　would　give　me　some　small　moments　of　satisfaction。　Orders？
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Phah！　As　though　they　ever　achieved　anything　with　all　their　damned　orders　other　than　making　things
ten　times　worse。　You　want　to　know　about　orders？　Ask　Repzik。　If　it　hadn’t　been　for　some　fool
ordering　Battery　Command　to　withhold　artillery　support　during　the　last　attack；　he’d　probably　still　be
alive。　For　that　matter；　what　about　our　new　friend　here？　You　all　saw　what　happened　to　that　lander
earlier。　Ask　the　new　fish　what　he　thinks　of　the　orders　that　sent　him　halfway　across　the　galaxy　just　to
make　landfall　on　the　wrong　planet。”
Abruptly；　the　other　men　in　the　trench　turned　to　look　towards　him。　Fully　aware　he　must　have
looked　like　a　rabbit　caught　in　the　searchlights　of　an　oncoming　vehicle；　Larn　could　only　gawp　back　at
them；　unsure　of　what　to　say。
“Perhaps　he　is　still　in　shock？”　Bulaven　said；　his　tone　solicitous。　“Is　that　it；　new　fish？　Are　you　in
shock？”
“Wetting　his　pants　in　fear　more　like；”　Zeebers；　the　fourth　man　in　the　trench；　said。　Thin　and　wiry；
of　average　build；　Zeebers　looked　younger　than　the　others：　perhaps　in　his　mid…twenties　where　Davir
and　the　rest　were　in　their　early　to　mid…thirties。　Red…haired；　with　a　pitted　and　pockmarked　face；
Zeebers　looked　nastily　towards　Larn　and　sneered　at　him。　“Look　at　him。　If　his　skin　was　any　greyer
you　wouldn’t　be　able　to　see　him　against　the　mud。　You　ask　me；　he’s　afraid　if　he　says　what　he　really
thinks　some　commissar　will　hear　him　and　have　him　shot。”
“Hhh。　Not　much　to　be　worried　about　on　that　score。”　Davir　said。　“You　hear　me；　new　fish？　You
can　speak　freely。　Granted；　time　was　we’d　always　be　getting　commissars　coming　to　the　line　to　lead
attacks　and　so　forth。　Thankfully；　our　friends　the　orks　soon　put　paid　to　that。　Any　commissar　who　was
crazy　enough　to　want　to　join　a　frontline　combat　unit　got　himself　killed　off　long　ago。　The　commissars
left　now　tend　to　be　those　with　a　sharper　instinct　for　their　own　survival。　Sharp　enough　to　stay　away
from　the　front　at　any　rate。　So；　come　on；　new　fish。　You　must　have　an　opinion？　Let　us　hear　it。”
“Yes；　indeed；”　said　Scholar。　“I　for　one　would　be　fascinated　to　know　what　you　think。”
“Come　on；　new　fish；”　Zeebers　said；　his　tone　harsh　and　goading。　“What　are　you　waiting　for？
Gretch　got　your　tongue？”
“Don’t　rush　him；”　Bulaven　said；　more　kindly。　“Like　I　say；　I　think　he’s　still　in　shock。　I’m　sure
he’ll　tell　us　in　time。”
Faces　expectant；　the　Guardsmen　fell　quiet　as　they　waited　for　Larn　to　answer。　Uncomfortable；
painfully　aware　of　the　four　pairs　of　eyes　staring　at　him　in　silence；　for　a　moment　Larn　could　only　sit
there　with　his　mouth　open；　the　words　dying　on　his　tongue　before　he　could　even　say　them。　Then；
thinking　about　all　he　had　seen　and　heard　in　the　last　few　hours；　in　a　voice　thick　with　misery　he　gave
them　the　only　answer　he　had。
“I…　I　don’t　understand　any　of　this；”　he　said　at　last。　“None　of　it。　Nothing　that　has　happened　to
me　so　far　today　seems　to　make　any　sense。”
“What　is　there　to　understand；　new　fish？”　Davir　had　said。　“We　are　stuck　in　this　damned　city。　We　are
surrounded　by　millions　of　orks。　Every　day　they　try　to　kill　us。　We　try　not　to　let　them　succeed。　End　of
story。”
“A　concise　summary　granted；　Davir；”　Scholar　had　said　next。　“Though　you　omitted　to　mention
the　promethium。　And　the　stalemate。　Not　to　mention　some　of　the　wider　parameters。”
“Fine；　Scholar；”　Davir　had　shrugged。　“I　think　you’re　wasting　your　time；　but　you　tell　him　all
about　it　then。　While　you’re　at　it；　you　might　as　well　tell　him　how　to　go　about　brushing　his　teeth　and
wiping　his　backside。　After　all；　I　wouldn’t　like　to　see　the　consequences　if　the　new　fish　here　somehow
got　those　two　vital　functions　mixed　up。　Whatever　you　do；　do　it　from　the　firing　step。　It　is　still　your
turn　to　stand　watch。　And　remember：　just　because　we　have　to　nursemaid　a　war　virgin　doesn’t　mean
the　orks　have　forgotten　they　want　to　kill　us。”
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“You　see　them？”　Scholar　said　a　few　minutes　later；　standing　pointing　into　no…man’s　land　from　the
firing　step　next　to　Larn　while　Davir　and　the　others　sat　playing　a　card　game　on　the　trench　floor　below
them。　“That　dark　grey　ragged　line　about　eight　hundred　metres　away？　That’s　the　ork　lines。”
Looking　through　the　field　glasses　Scholar　had　lent　him；　Larn　followed　the　direction　of　the　tall
man’s　pointing　finger　to　stare　into　the　wasteland　before　them。　There。　He　saw　it。　A　sinuous　line　of
ditches　that　ran　the　entire　length　of　the　sector　on　the　other　side　of　no…man’s　land。　Watching　it；　from
time　to　time　he　saw　a　gretchin　or　ork　head　suddenly　come　into　view。　Only　for　the　head　to　then
swiftly　disappear　as　its　owner　dropped　out　of　sight　below　the　parapets　on　the　ork　side　once　more。
“I　don’t　understand　how　I　didn’t　see　it　before；”　Larn　said。　“Having　the　field　glasses　helps。　But　it
seems　so　clear　now。　How　could　I　have　missed　it？”
“It　is　a　question　of　perception。”　Scholar　said。　“You　have　noticed　how　grey　the　landscape　is？　The
mud；　the　rocks；　the　sky；　even　the　buildings？　When　a　person　first　arrives　here　the　details　of　the　world
about　them　can　easily　be　lost　in　the　same　monotonous　tone　of　grey。　But　there　are　subtle　differences。
Differences　you　become　slowly　aware　of　the　longer　you　spend　in　this　city。　You　have　heard　how
some　jungle…worlders　have　forty　different　words　for　green？　In　reality　of　course　those　forty　words
correspond　to　different　shades　of　green。　Shades　which　would　all　look　the　same　to　us。　But　to　them；
their　perceptions　heightened　by　living　their　entire　lives　in　a　green　environment；　the　difference
between　each　shade　is　as　obvious　as　the　difference　between　black　and　white。　It　is　the　same　here　in
Broucheroc。　Believe　me；　you’ll　be　amazed　how　acute　you　become　to　the　palette　of　greys　once
you’ve　been　in　this　city　a　few　months。”
“Of　course；”　he　continued；　delighted　to　finally　have　an　audience　willing　to　hear　a　lecture；
“normally　you　wouldn’t　be　able　to　miss　the　ork　lines　if　you　tried。　There’d　be　an　array　of　makeshift
walls；　dirt　ramparts　and　bosspoles　stretching　from　one　side　of　the　sector　to　the　other。　Or　piles　of
burned…out　vehicles　and　corpses　used　in　place　of　sandbags。　The　details　differ　from　sector　to　sector。
Up　to　a　month　ago　we　were　stationed　in　Sector　1…11。　There；　the　orks　used　these　large　jury…rigged
barricades　that　they　would　just　smash　their　way　through　whenever　they　attacked　us。　Then　they
would　rebuild　them；　smashing　their　way　through　them　again　whenever　there　was　a　major　assault；
and　so　on。　You　see；　the　orks　don’t　follow　a　centralised　command　structure　as　we　do。　Granted；　when
their　Warbosses　are　not　busy　fighting　it　out　amongst　each　other；　they　are　usually　united　behind　a
single　Warlord。　But　when　it　comes　to　the　disposition　of　any　particular　ork　sector；　the　local　Warboss
is　free　to　do　as　he　wants。　And；　as　it　happens；　this　particular　boss　seems　to　have　taken　a　leaf　out　of
our　book　—　ordering　his　followers　to　dig　camouflaged　underground　dugouts；　foxholes　and　trenches
rather　than　the　usual　ostentatious　fortress。　It　could　be　he　is　brighter　than　the　usual　ork　leader。　Then
again；　perhaps　he’s　just　aping　our　tactics　without　any　kind　of　clear　plan　in　mind。　Really；　it　can　be
hard　to　tell　with　orks。　Even　after　ten　years　here；　I　still　find　it　difficult　to　tell　the　difference　between　a
stupid　ork　and　a　clever　one。”
“You　have　been　here　ten　years　as　well？”　Larn　said。　“I　could　barely　believe　it　when　Repzik　said
he　had　been　here　that　long。”
“We　all　have；”　Scholar　said。　“Me；　Davir；　Bulaven；　Vladek；　Chelkar；　Svenk；　Kell。　All　the　men　in
the　company　have。　The　ones　from　Vardan；　anyhow。　Of　course；　there　are　plenty　of　replacements　like
you　and　Zeebers　who　have　been　here　considerably　less　time。”
“Zeebers　isn’t　from　Vardan？”
“Him？　No；　as　I　say；　he　is　a　replacement。　Joined　us　about　two　months　ago；　give　or　take。”
“What　about　the　rest　of　the　regiment？　Are　there　many　replacements　among　them　as　well？”
“The　rest？　You　misunderstand　me；　new　fish；”　Scholar　said　sadly。　“Company　Alpha　is　the
Vardan　902nd。　We’re　all　that’s　left　among　the　Vardans　here。　The　others　are　dead。”
“You　mean　your　regiment　was　wiped　out？”　Larn　said　horrified。　“Out　of　an　entire　regiment；　only
two　hundred　men　are　still　alive？”
“Worse　than　that；　new　fish。　There　were　three　Vardan　regiments　when　we　first　set　down　in
Broucheroc。　But　over　time　we　suffered　heavy　losses。　We　lost　the　Vardan　722nd　in　our　first　week
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here；　wiped　out　when　General　HQ　ordered　one　of　their　now　famous　all…out　assaults　on　the　ork　lines。
The　survivors　were　amalgamated　into　the　Vardan　831st；　who　in　turn　eventually　became　part　of　the
902nd。　Then；　over　the　years；　there　were　more　casualties　and　the　number　of　companies　in　the　902nd
were　reduced　and　amalgamated。　Until；　now；　only　Company　Alpha　is　left。　At　last　count　I　believe　our
current　fighting　strength　is　something　in　the　order　of　two　hundred　and　forty…four　men；　perhaps　threequarters
of　whom　are　from　Vardan。　Something　like　one　hundred　and　eighty　or　so　Vardans　then；　left
from　the　more　than　six　thousand　men　who　first　made　planetfall　in　this　city　ten　years　ago。　Really　it　is
not　so　different　from　your　situation　with　your　own　former　company。　It　is　a　matter　of　attrition；　you
see。　It’s　the　same　for　ever　other　Guard　regiment　in　this　city。　Of　course；　having　been　on　the　frontlines
so　long；　we’ve　had　it　worse　than　most。　I　doubt　there’s　a　regiment　left　in　this　city　that　is　at　any　more
than　thirty　per　cent　of　its　original　strength。　This　is　Broucheroc：　here；　everything　is　a　matter　of
attrition。　But　then；　given　the　name　of　the　place；　it　is　hardly　surprising。”
“The　name？”