Death World(科幻战争)-第12部分

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corner　of　his　eye　before　they　launched　their　attack。　He　remembered　Braxton　saying　that　the　lizards
had　done　something　similar；　poking　around　the　edges　of　the　Validian　camp　for　a　few　days　before
they’d　dared　enter　it。　The　silver…backed　snake　didn’t　appear　to　be　a　threat　right　now；　but　as
Armstrong　had　said；　that　could　change　in　a　heartbeat。　Particularly　if　it　wasn’t　alone；　and　especially　if
a　concerted　attack　on　the　Jungle　Fighters　drew　the　orks’　attention。
Lorenzo　took　a　step　forward；　fingers　twitching　on　his　knife。　The　snake　tensed；　watching　him。　A
lasgun　would　have　done　the　job　more　efficiently；　but　with　too　much　noise。　Lorenzo　stooped　down；
holding　out　his　free　hand　as　bait。　The　snake　backed　away　a　centimetre；　suspiciously。　Lorenzo　took
another　step。
The　snake　struck。　From　further　away　than　he’d　expected。　As　if　its　coiled　tail　had　acted　as　a
spring　to　propel　it　out　of　the　grass。　It　jabbed　at　the　proffered　hand；　and　Lorenzo　snatched　it　away　and
decapitated　the　snake　with　his　fang　before　it　could　land　and　reorient　itself。　He　stamped　on　its
severed　head；　exploding　it　in　a　mass　of　black　blood。　He　grabbed　the　twitching　body；　wrung　it　until　it
was　still；　and　tossed　it　aside　into　the　dark。　A　quiet；　discordant　hiss　of　alarm　told　him　that　his
message　had　been　received　by　multiple　unseen　onlookers。　The　jungle　grass　swayed　and　rustled　in　a
dozen　thin　paths　away　from　him。
It　was　shortly　after　that　that　he　came　across　the　first　trap。
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Lorenzo　had　known　it　was　imminent；　because　the　undergrowth　in　this　area　was　flattened；　plants
and　branches　broken。　The　orks　had　been　here；　and　recently。
The　trap　was　crude　and　obvious；　like　most　of　their　constructs：　a　cord　stretched　between　trees　at
knee　height；　connected　to　something　hidden　in　the　lower　branches　of　one。　A　grenade；　most　likely。
Still；　a　Guardsman　in　a　hurry　might　not　have　spotted　it。　It　was　more　evidence　of　the　warboss’
cunning；　spreading　to　his　followers。
Lorenzo　stepped　over　the　tripwire　carefully；　and　waited。　Thirty　seconds　passed　before
Muldoon’s　head　peeked　out　of　a　bush　a　few　metres　behind　him。　He　saw　Lorenzo；　and　an　inquisitive
expression　crossed　his　face。　Lorenzo　indicated　the　wire；　Muldoon　would　probably　have　seen　it
anyway；　but　better　safe　than　sorry。　Muldoon　nodded；　then　waited　for　Lorenzo　to　regain　his　lead。
Alone　again。
The　second　tripwire　was　higher；　and　better　placed。　To　its　right；　the　jungle　was　dense　with　poison
creepers—and　Lorenzo　knew　that　that　way　lay　the　acid　swamp　of　which　Sly　Marbo　had　spoken。　To
the　left：　a　cluster　of　red　snapper　flowers；　through　which　he　could　see　no　safe　route。　Again；　his
inability　to　use　his　lasgun　narrowed　his　options。　Bad　enough　to　be　grabbed　by　those　intractable
petals—but　the　greater　peril　would　be　the　flowers’　alarm　wail；　certain　to　attract　attention。
He　approached　the　wire；　and　stooped　beside　it　gingerly。　It　was　too　high　to　step　over。　He　could
disarm　the　trap：　cut　the　wire　or　retrieve　the　grenade　from　the　tree。　The　risk　in　so　doing　would　be
minimal；　but　actual。　If　an　ork　or　a　gretchin　came　this　way　after　the　Jungle　Fighters　had　passed；　it
would　know　they　had　been　here。
No。　Far　better；　far　safer；　to　take　no　chances。　To　go　under。
Lorenzo　lowered　himself　onto　his　stomach；　noting　that　the　ground　was　a　little　soft；　a　little　wet。
He　removed　his　pack　and　his　lasgun　from　his　back；　to　reduce　his　prone　height；　and　pushed　them
under　the　wire　before　him。　Then　he　dragged　himself　through　the　mud　on　his　elbows；　keeping　his
head　down。
He　had　plenty　of　clearance。　So　long　as　nothing　unexpected　happened；　so　long　as　he　didn’t　get
careless；　he　had　nothing　to　worry　about。
So　long　as　nothing　unexpected　happened…
The　blue　light　snapped　on　like　a　shipboard　lighting　panel；　just　ignited　into　a　glowing　ball　ahead
of　him；　a　few　centimetres　off　the　ground。　Lorenzo　felt　his　stomach　tighten　as　he　craned　his　neck　to
look　at　it　without　raising　his　chin。　He　sensed　that　it　was　calling　to　him；　urging　him　to　stand　and
approach　it；　and　he　felt　the　muscles　in　his　arms　and　legs　tensing　to　obey。
He　stopped　himself；　before　his　back　could　brush　the　tripwire。
He　closed　his　eyes；　and　immediately　felt　better。　His　head　was　clearer。　Lorenzo　listened　to　his
own　breathing；　and　he　felt　the　cold　of　the　mud　against　his　stomach。　He　thought　about　Steel　Toe
Dougan。　He　knew　the　blue　light　was　still　out　there；　but　he　was　certain　it　hadn’t　entered　his　mind。　He
was　certain　that　it　couldn’t；　so　long　as　he　didn’t　look　at　it。
But　what　if　the　blue　light　wanted　that？　What　if　its　purpose；　this　time；　was　to　blind　him　to
something　else？　To　something　creeping　up　on　him…
…something　rustling　in　the　undergrowth　beside　his　head…
Lorenzo　opened　his　eyes；　as　breathless　and　disconcerted　as　he　had　been　after　his　nightmare。　He
looked　around　quickly；　but　saw　nothing。　Nothing　but　the　blue　light；　drawing　his　eyes　in　like　it　was
the　only　thing　in　the　world。　The　only　thing　that　mattered；　anyway。　It　occurred　to　Lorenzo　that　it　was
closer　than　it　had　been　last　night；　that　this　time　he　really　could　catch　it；　catch　whatever　it　was　that
was　generating　it。　End　its　threat。　Save　his　comrades。
In　the　blue　light；　Lorenzo　saw　Sergeant　Greiss’　approval；　so　rarely　bestowed。　Yet；　in　his
memory；　he　heard　his　voice：　“I’m　trusting　you　up　front　alone…　If　it　comes　back；　you　can　resist　it；
right？”
Greiss　was　counting　on　him。
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“Right？”
Lorenzo　remembered　how　determined　he　had　been　to　prove　himself　worthy　of　Old　Hardhead’s
trust；　not　to　let　him　down　again。　He　knew　the　only　way　to　do　that　was　to　obey　his　orders；　to　do　what
he’d　promised　he　would　do…　“Right？”
“Right；　sergeant。”
To　resist。　That　was　Lorenzo’s　greatest　ambition；　what　he　wanted　most　at　this　moment；　and　so—
as　a　part　of　him　was　only　dimly　aware—that　was　what　the　blue　light　showed　to　him；　and　in　so　doing
it　defeated　itself。　Lorenzo　blinked；　and　the　light　was　still　there；　but　suddenly　it　was　just　a　light；　and　it
had　no　hold　over　him。
Still；　he　stayed　where　he　was　for　a　moment　longer；　exploring　the　crannies　of　his　mind；　ensuring
there　was　no　trace　of　the　blue　light　left　in　there。　Ensuring　that　he　wasn’t　being　tricked　again。　He
concentrated　on　what　he　remembered；　what　Greiss　had　told　him—and　he　reassured　himself　that；　as
long　as　he　heeded　those　words；　those　explicit　instructions；　he　would　be　doing　the　right　thing。
Lorenzo　dug　his　elbows　into　the　mud　and　pulled　himself　forward　again；　until　he　was　clear　of　the
ork　tripwire；　then　he　climbed　to　his　feet　and　collected　his　belongings。　The　blue　light　was　gone。
Blinked　out。　As　if　it　had　sensed　it　had　no　power　here　anymore。　Somehow；　Lorenzo　knew　it　wouldn’t
be　back。　Not　for　him。　He　realised　something　else　too：　that　his　hands　were　stinging。
He　looked　down；　saw　that　his　palms　were　red　and　beginning　to　blister。　He　had　been　so　wrapped
up　in　his　thoughts；　in　the　light；　that　he　hadn’t　noticed。　The　wet　ground。　Acid。　It　must　have　seeped
from　the　nearby　swamp。　The　knees　of　his　trousers　had　almost　burnt　through；　and　the　soles　of　his
boots　had　begun　to　melt。　Not　much　harm　done　yet；　but　in　time…
Lorenzo　cleaned　his　hands　on　a　leaf；　and　waited　for　Muldoon　to　appear　again。　This　time；　once
he’d　pointed　out　the　tripwire；　he　beckoned　him　forward。　Greiss　came　too；　holding　up　a　hand　to　halt
the　troopers　behind　him。
“I　think　we　need　to　bear　a　little　further　north；”　whispered　Lorenzo；　displaying　his　damaged
boots。
“That’ll　take　us　closer　to　the　orks。”　Muldoon　pointed　out。
But　Greiss　looked　down　at　his　own　feet；　and　scowled。　“Lorenzo’s　right。　No　point　our　finding
Big　Green　if　we’re　all　walking　on　bloody　stumps　by　the　time　we　do。”　Then；　with　grudging
admiration；　he　conceded；　“Mackenzie　was　right　about　that　greenskin。　Building　his　camp　on　the　edge
of　the　swamp；　making　the　best　of　the　natural　defences—he’s　a　clever　bastard；　all　right。”
The　encampment　was　even　closer　than　Lorenzo　had　estimated。
Almost　as　soon　as　he　changed　his　course；　he　found　himself　at　the　edge　of　a　clearing；　a　little
smaller　than　the　Imperial　Guard’s；　crammed　with　ramshackle　buildings　of　metal　and　wood。
He　lay　and　watched　it　for　a　while；　scrutinising　each　shadow　until　he　was　sure　of　its　nature；　until
he　knew　it　wasn’t　an　enemy　waiting　in　ambush。　He　studied　the　ork　huts；　familiarising　himself　with
their　layout；　with　every　blind　corner　from　which　an　ork　or　a　gretchin　could　spring　out　at　him　as　he
passed。　He　saw　no　sentries—which　worried　him；　because　he　knew　there　would　be　sentries。
Somewhere。
At　last；　Lorenzo　glanced　behind　him；　saw　his　squad　waiting；　gave　them　a　thumbs…up　signal　and
moved　on。　He　moved　on　slowly—almost　painfully　so；　knowing　that　stealth　was　more　imperative
now　than　ever。　A　single　thin　line　of　trees　separated　him　from　the　orks。　He　had　to　make　maximum
use　of　the　scant　cover　he　had—and　he　had　to　be　sure　he　didn’t　make　the　slightest　sound。
It　seemed　to　take　an　age　for　him　to　reach　that　first　danger　point；　that　first　gangway　between　two
huts；　to　be　able　to　edge　forward　and　peer　down　it；　to　reassure　himself　that　it　was　empty。　It　seemed　to
take　an　age—although　he　knew　it　had　only　been　a　few　minutes。　But　Lorenzo　wasn’t　impatient。　He
lived　for　moments　like　this。
There　was　something　in　the　trees　ahead　of　him。
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He　froze。
It　was　taller　than　a　man；　but　hunched；　enormous　arms　hanging　down　to　its　knees；　its　shoulders
broad　and　muscular。　It　was　wearing　dulled　armour—and；　although　the　darkness　made　it　difficult　to
pick　out　colours；　the　skin　that　showed　through　the　metal　plates　had　a　decidedly　green　tint。
The　ork　didn’t　seem　to　be　trying　to　hide。　Lorenzo　wondered；　for　a　heart…stopping　moment；　if　it
was　searching　for　him；　if　it　had　heard　something。　Any　closer；　and　he　feared　it　might　catch　his　scent。
Then　it　turned　away　from　him；　grunting　as　it　fumbled　with　its　protective　metal　layers；　and　he
realised　it　had　only　come　out　here　to　relieve　itself。　Lorenzo　would　never　find　an　enemy　more
exposed；　more　helpless；　he　could　attack　it　from　behind；　wrap　a　cord　around　its　throat　and　strangle　it。
But　orks　were　a　sturdy　breed；　and　it　would　certainly　have　struggled　loudly　as　it　died。　Reluctantly；　he
let　it　be—and　when　it　had　done　its　business；　the　ork　shuffled　away　and　faded　into　the　shadow　of　a
metal　hut。
Lorenzo　crept　forward　again。　He　stepped　over　another　tripwire；　and　waited　to　point　it　out　to
Muldoon。　Glancing　ahead；　he　saw　that　he　was　almost　there；　almost　past　the　camp。　Maybe　they’d　call
him　“Sneaky”　Lorenzo。　No；　he　wasn’t　sure　he　liked　that。　“Shadow”　Lorenzo？　“Sly”　Lorenzo？
Voices。
They　were　hushed—but　against　the　muted　sounds　of　the　night；　they　sounded　unnatural；　harsh
and　as　loud　as　las…fire　discharges。
He　thought　one　of　the　voices　belonged　to　Greiss。　There　was　an　urgent　tone　to　it；　almost　a　plea。
Lorenzo　looked　to　the　ork　camp；　certain　that　the　voices　must　have　carried　that　far；　but　nothing　was
stirring。　Not　yet。　He　ached　to　know　what　was　happening；　but　he　knew　he　ought　to　maintain　his
position。　He　sheathed　his　knife　and　fingered　his　lasgun；　ready　to　draw　it　if　necessary。
The　explosion　caught　him　totally　unawares。
The　night　erupted　into　daylight；　too　quickly；　too　shockingly；　for　Lorenzo　to　avert　his　gaze；　to
protect　his　night　vision。　He　was　half　blinded。
But；　as　the　echoes　of　the　explosion　died　away　and　his　deadened　ears　popped；　he　could　hear
movement　and　grunting　from　the　encampment　just　a　few　footsteps　away。　And　the　shadows；　the　only
things　he　could　make　out　now；　were　shifting。
Lorenzo’s　mind　raced。　Had　his　comrades　blundered　into　a　trap　he　had　missed？　Had　something
else　found　them？　Was　it　his　fault？
There　had　to　have　been　casualties；　he　realised；　his　throat　drying　at　the　thought。　The　explosion
had　been　centred　right　at　the　spot　where　he’d　heard　Greiss’　voice。　It　had　sounded　like　a　frag
grenade。
The　shadows　were　converging　on　that　spot　now；　orks　snarling　and　roaring　with　battle　lust　as
they　rushed　to　defend　their　territory。
A　wave　of　despair　passed　over　Lorenzo　as　he　realised　it　didn’t　matter　now　which　of　his
comrades　were　alive　or　dead。　The　orks　knew　where　they　were—and　as　Greiss　had　said；　the　orks
outnumbered　them　thirty　to　one。　They　had　nowhere　to　run；　trapped　between　the　encampment　on　one
side　and　the　acid　swamp　on　the　other。
There　was　no　doubt　about　it。　They　were　all　dead。
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CHAPTER　ELEVEN
The　orks　were　an　oncoming　mass；　one　indistinguishable　from　the　next；　at　least　to　Lorenzo’s
compromised　sight。　The　air　was　filled　with　noise；　and　the　ground　shook　to　the　staccato　flashes　of
more　explosions：　makeshift　grenades；　hurled　over　the　heads　of　the　orks’　front　ranks　by　those　in　the
rear。
In　response；　las…fire　barked　out　of　the　jungle；　striking　the　foremost　orks　and　passing　through
them　into　their　comrades。　Lorenzo　felt　like　cheering。　At　least　five；　six；　seven　of　his　fellow　Catachans
were　alive　and　fighting　back—and　the　next　explosions　blossomed　in　the　heart　of　the　orks’　own
ranks。　The　Jungle　Fighters’　frag　grenades　were　more　effective　than　the　orks’　bombs；　because　the
greenskins　were　packed　so　closely　together；　each　of　them　more　likely　to　take　a　shrapnel　hit。　Their
armour；　and　their　thick　hides；　would　protect　them　from　the　worst　of　it；　but　many　would　be　injured；
some　badly。　Some　were　knocked　off　their　feet　by　the　concussive　force　of　the　blasts；　as　Lorenzo’s
eyes　cleared；　he　saw　orks　stumbling　over　each　other；　trampling　on　the　fallen；　pushing　each　other
aside—and　yet　still　advancing。
They　didn’t　know　where　he　was。
As　the　orks　closed　in　on　Lorenzo’s　squad；　he　realised　they　were　passing　him　by；　in　his　solitary
position　ahead　of　the　others。　The　others　were　dead　anyway。　He　had　a　chance　to　save　himself；　to
sneak　away；　maybe　take　a　report　back　to　Lieutenant　Vines　so　that　the　next　men　sent　out　here　would
know　what　lay　ahead　of　them。
He　didn’t　consider　it　for　a　second。
Lorenzo　broke　cover；　letting　out　the　loudest；　wildest　war　cry　in　his　repertoire；　his　finger　locked
around　the　trigger　of　his　lasgun　so　that　it　fired　repeatedly　into　the　enemy　mass。　He　didn’t　care　how
accurate　his　shots　were；　chances　were　they’d　find　a　few　orks　wherever　he　aimed　them。　He　just
wanted　to　draw　attention　to　himself。　Maybe—with　luck—convince　the　greenskins　that　he　was　more
than　one　trooper；　that　their　enemies　had　surrounded　them　in　a　pincer　movement。　The　more　of　them
he　could　distract　from　his　squad；　the　better　their　chances　would　be；　the　worse　his　own　chances。
He　was　dead　anyway；　he　told　himself。　They　were　all　dead。　But　the　longer　the　Jungle　Fighters
survived；　the　more　orks　they　could　take　down　with　them。　The　more　orks　they　took　down；　the　greater
the　chance　there’d　be　stories　told　of　them　back　home。　Assuming　that；　by　some　miracle；　this　story
made　it　back　home　at　all。
The　nearest　orks　responded　with　alarm　and　confusion　to　Lorenzo’s　attack；　took　a　moment　to
pinpoint　the　source　of　it；　and　aimed　their　weapons：　crude；　solid…shot　guns。　They　were　too　slow。
Lorenzo　had　already　dived　into　the　sheltered　gap　between　two　huts；　and　he　was　still　running　as
bullets　pinged　off　metal　behind　him。　He　heard　grunts　and　howls　and　footsteps；　and　he　knew　he’d
succeeded　in　drawing　the　attention　of　a　few　dozen　orks。　Now　he　just　had　to　survive　the
consequences　of　that　success。
He　ducked　and　weaved　and　twisted　between　huts　at　random。　The　longer　he　could　keep　his
pursuers　searching　for　him；　the　fewer　orks　the　others　had　to　contend　with　in　the　meantime。　But　he
couldn’t　disappear　completely；　couldn’t　flee　back　into　the　jungle；　because　the　orks　might　just
abandon　their　hunt　in　frustration　and　return　to　the　combat。　Lorenzo　let　out　a　whoop　and　fired　his
lasgun　three　times　into　the　air；　drawing　his　foes　further　into　their　own　camp。　He　rounded　another
corner　and　disturbed　a　knot　of　gretchin；　who　screeched　and　jabbered　in　their　own　crude；
incomprehensible　tongue；　and　came　at　him。
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Lorenzo　brought　up　his　lasgun；　fired；　downed　several　targets—and　then　the　rest　were　upon　him；
or　streaming　around　to　attack　him　from　behind。　They　were　kicking　and　scratching；　squealing　for
their　masters。　He　swung　his　lasgun　like　a　club；　dislodging　two　of　them。　He　kicked　and　punched　at
the　others；　he　reached　over　his　shoulder；　seized　a　gretchin　that　had　clung　to　his　back；　and　slammed　it
into　the　ground。　He　tried　to　run；　kicking　more　of　the　creatures　out　of　his　path；　but　they　dogged　his
heels。　He　spun　around；　fired；　claimed　two　more　kills；　and　the　rest　of　the　gretchin　scampered　out　of
sight。　They　emerged　again　as　soon　as　Lorenzo　had　turned　his　back。
Their　cries　drew　the　orks；　as　he　had　known　they　must。
The　first　of　them　appeared　ahead；　and　barred　Lorenzo’s　path。　It　snarled　at　him；　as　if　to　intimidate
him　with　its　presence。　That　worked；　he　had　heard；　against　some　men；　the　ork；　with　its　sloping　brow；
its　jutting　jaw　and　its　recessed；　baleful　eyes；　cut　an　imposing　figure—and　his　eye　line　was　level　with
its　fearsome　tusks　and　its　slobbering　lips。　To　a　man　who　had　faced　down　a　Catachan　devil；　though；　a
single　ork　was　nothing　special。　It　might　walk　and　talk；　but　to　a　Deathworlder　this　green…skinned
monster　was　just　another　thing　to　be　killed。
Lorenzo　snapped　off　a　round；　the　shot　narrowly　missing　the　ork　though　the　flash　sent　it　howling
and　reeling　in　pain—but　he’d　pay　for　the　second’s　distraction　it　had　caused　him。　The　ork’s　comrades
had　found　him　too；　and　they　came　at　him；　rounding　the　ramshackle　buildings　from　all　directions。
More　than　one　of　them　mimicked　the　Catachan’s　earlier　actions；　kicking　aside　the　gretchin　that　had
summoned　them。　The　pathetic；　stunted　creatures　slunk　away；　their　job　done。
Surrounded　and　outnumbered；　Lorenzo　concentrated　his　fire　in　one　direction；　hoping　to　clear　an
escape　route　for　himself。　His　one　advantage　was　that　the　greenskins　couldn’t　use　their　guns　without
hitting　each　other—though；　given　the　speed　at　which　they　were　coming；　that　wouldn’t　keep　him
alive　for　long。　He　finished　off　two　of　them；　but　the　lasgun’s　power　pack　whined　and　died　as　the　third
bore　down　on　him。　He　tried　to　impale　the　ork　on　his　bayonet；　but　it　wrestled　his　gun　away　and
tossed　it　aside。　Another　ork　smacked　into　Lorenzo　from　behind；　and　he　rolled　with　the　blow；
drawing　his　knife　as　he　hit　the　ground　and　twisted　out　of　the　way　of　a　descending　axe　blade。　It　sliced
into　the　earth　a　whisker　from　Lorenzo’s　ear。　Its　wielder　wasn’t　far　behind　it；　choosing　not　to　retrieve
its　weapon　but　to　leap　instead　on　its　fallen　prey　and　rend　him　with　its　bare　hands。　Lorenzo　threw　up
his　knife　so　the　ork’s　own　momentum　forced　the　blade　through　the　roof　of　its　mouth　and　into　its
brain。
Its　dead　weight　smacked　onto　him；　winding　him；　pinning　him　down；　but　providing　him　with
cover　and　a　moment’s　respite。　By　the　time　two　other　orks　had　hoisted　their　dead　comrade　aside；
Lorenzo　was　ready　to　act。　On　hands　and　knees；　he　slipped　between　the　legs　of　one　of　his　attackers；
and　tripped　it　in　the　process。　The　orks　fumbled　and　stumbled　and　generally　fell　over　each　other　in
their　eagerness　to　apprehend　the　slippery；　squirming　Catachan—but　any　green　hands　that　found　him
were　rewarded　with　a　slash　of　Lorenzo’s　fang。
Then；　joyously；　he　was　through　them　all；　open　space　looming　ahead　of　him；　and　he　was　pushing
himself　to　his　feet；　snatching　his　stolen　lasgun；　reaching　for　a　fresh　power　pack　from　his　bandolier
and　a　meaty　hand　grabbed　him　by　the　back　of　his　jacket　and　pulled　him　back；　twisted　him　around；
slammed　him　into　the　metal　wall　of　a　hu