Ice Guard(科幻战争)-第7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！

among　them。
Few　Valhallan　women　served　in　the　Imperial　Guard。　With　so　many　men　being　marched　off　to
war　and　so　few　returning；　they　had　the　vital　and　valued　task　of　replenishing　their　world’s　population；
of　birthing　and　raising　the　next　generation　of　Ice　Warriors。　This；　then；　was　the　life　Anakora　had
expected　to　live；　the　life　that　had　been　shot　to　pieces　by　a　few　cold　words　from　a　disinterested
medic。
It　had　taken　her　a　few　days　to　come　to　terms　with　the　news；　to　accept　that　her　life　had　no　purpose
any　longer。　Even　one…time　friends；　even　family；　had　looked　at　her　with　contempt；　seeing　her　as　a
burden；　a　drain　on　their　society。　But　far　worse　than　that　were　those　few　who　did　understand；　and
whose　looks　were　laced　with　pity。
There　had　been　no　compulsion　on　Anakora　to　join　up；　not　ostensibly。　But　she　had　soon　seen　that
she　had　no　choice。　The　worst　sin　you　could　commit　as　an　Imperial　citizen　was　to　serve　the　Emperor
to　less　than　your　full　ability；　and　there　was　only　one　way　left　in　which　she　could　serve。
She　had　expected　to　find　basic　training　a　struggle。　She　had　just　kept　her　head　down　and　tried　to
get　through　it；　her　only　goal　not　to　embarrass　herself　beside　men　who　had　spent　their　lives　in
preparation　for　this。　She　had　worked　hard；　steeled　herself　to　appear　as　tough　and　as　stoic　as　any　of
them；　and　no　one　could　have　been　more　surprised　than　Anakora　when　she　had　passed　out　with
honours。
Still；　she　had　felt　she　was　faking　it；　bluffing　her　way　through　a　world　in　which　she　did　not
belong；　and　she　had　known　that　her　first　battlefield　would　find　her　out。　Fifteen　hours；　that　was　the
average　life　expectancy　of　an　Imperial　Guardsmen；　though　for　an　Ice　Warrior　it　was　a　little　more；
maybe　seventeen。　Anakora　didn’t　expect　to　last　that　long；　but　if　she　could　claim　just　one　kill；　take
one　heretic　down　with　her；　then　she　would　have　balanced　the　scales　and　justified　her　fleeting
existence。
Four　years　later；　she　was　still　here；　and　she　didn’t　know　why。
She　should　have　died　on　that　first　battlefield。　She　should　have　died　in　the　underhive；　a　couple　of
hours　ago。　She　should　have　died　so　many　times；　on　so　many　worlds　—　but　most　of　all；　she　should
have　died　two　and　a　half　years　ago；　on　Astaroth　Prime。
23
Astaroth　Prime…　A　hellhole　of　a　world；　with　lakes　of　fire　and　molten　rivers；　a　world　on　which
no　Guardsman　accustomed　to　the　sub…zero　temperatures　of　Valhalla　should　ever　have　set　foot；　a
world　to　which　a　company　of　Ice　Warriors　had　been　sent　anyway；　to　deal　with　an　incursion　by　their
oldest　enemies；　the　orks；　a　world　on　which　that　company　of　Ice　Warriors　had　been　massacred。
In　her　brightest　hours；　Anakora　tried　to　imagine　that　she　had　been　spared　for　a　reason；　that　the
Emperor　had　had　a　higher　purpose　in　mind　for　her。　In　her　darkest；　she　forever　relived　that　moment
when　a　fellow　trooper；　a　good　comrade；　had　thrown　himself　in　the　path　of　an　ork　axe　to　save　her。
Her　record　showed　that　she　was　a　survivor；　and　in　the　Imperial　Guard　that　ability　was　as　highly
prized　as　it　was　rare。　Anakora　knew　the　truth。　She　knew　that　she　had　not　survived　so　long　through
her　own　efforts。　She　had　survived　because　someone　had　taken　pity　on　her；　had　thought　her　in　need
of　protection。
So；　now　she　had　been　pulled　from　another　suicide　mission　and　given　this　chance　to　survive
again；　precisely　because　of　her　record　thus　far。　She　couldn’t　help　but　wonder　if　this　might　be　the
time　her　luck　ran　out　at　last；　the　time　that　everyone　would　see　through　her。
Anakora　looked　forward　to　the　release　of　death。　Her　only　fear　was　that；　when　she　died；　she
would　take　the　rest　of　her　new　squad　with　her。
Mikhaelev　joined　in　with　the　general　chatter。　He　concurred　with　his　new　comrades　that　the　Chaos
forces　didn’t　know　what　was　about　to　hit　them；　that　Confessor　Wollkenden　was　as　good　as　rescued。
He　kept　his　true　feelings　to　himself。
He　was　worried。　Behind　the　false　bravado；　he　thought；　they　all　were。　Well；　perhaps　not　Pozhar
or　Borscz　—　they　both　seemed　like　the　kind　of　Guardsmen　who　lived　only　to　die；　the　perfect
brainwashed　soldiers。　It　would　not　have　occurred　to　them　to　question　their　orders；　to　wonder　if　their
lives　might　have　been　put　to　better　use。
Mikhaelev　asked　himself　those　questions。　He　stewed　over　the　details　of　his　briefing；　the　logic　of
staking　ten　lives　on　the　faint　chance　of　saving　just　one。　If　Confessor　Wollkenden　was　so　important；
why　did　the　Inquisition　care　so　little　about　him？　Why　couldn’t　the　virus　bombing　they　had
authorised　be　delayed　a　few　days　for　his　sake？
He　couldn’t　speak　out；　of　course。　Even　if　some　of　the　others；　these　relative　strangers；　agreed
with　him；　they　would　not　dare　to　confess　to　it。　No；　the　floor　would　be　held　by　the　likes　of　Blonsky；
spewing　his　accusations；　insisting　that　to　doubt　one’s　leaders；　even　if　they　were　only　men；　was　to
doubt　the　Emperor。　Just　as　those　same　leaders　would　want　him　to　think。
Not　that　Blonsky　would　hear　him；　of　course。　No；　as　soon　as　he　opened　his　mouth；　he　knew　that
Steele　or　Gavotski　would　do　their　duty　and　shoot　him　dead。
So；　he　kept　his　own　counsel；　said　what　he　was　expected　to　say；　and　did　what　he　was　told　as　if　he
was　the　perfect　brainwashed　soldier　too。　And　the　fact　that　he　was　here；　in　this　Termite；　in　this　squad；
was　proof　that　he　had　played　that　part　supremely　well。
He　did　all　this　because　he　knew　there　was　just　one　thing；　one　choice　he　could　make；　that　would
prove　more　dangerous　than　serving　the　Imperium…　and　that　was　not　serving　it。
The　Termite　was　under　attack；　being　buffeted　by　shock　waves。　If　he　tuned　out　the　deafening　sound
of　its　engines；　Steele　could　identify　the　crump　of　explosive　shells　from　without；　of　the　sort　fired　by　a
Basilisk　or　a　Bombard。
“We　have　a　problem；　sir；”　Grayle　yelled　from　the　controls。　“We’re　in　the　sights　of　something…
long…range　artillery。　It’s　decided　to　take　a　few　pot　shots。　Thing　is；　it　has　good　cover。　The　Chimeras
can’t　see　to　return　fire。　The　captain　of　one　is　requesting　your　permission　to　break　formation；　to　go
after　it。”
“Denied；”　said　Steele。　“Do　what　you　can；　Grayle。　Find　us　cover；　get　out　of　firing　range。　Do　not；
I　repeat　do　not；　engage　with　the　enemy。”
24
“Aye；　sir；”　Grayle　answered。　The　Termite　made　a　sharp　right　turn；　sharper　than　Steele　would
have　thought　possible。　He　was　sure　that；　for　an　instant；　its　left…hand　track　had　left　the　ground。
“We　need　a　smoke　launcher　on　this　thing；”　opined　Barreski。　“Do　we　at　least　have　smoke
grenades；　something　we　can　lob　out　through　the　flamer　emplacements？”
“We　are　sitting　ducks　in　here；”　Borscz　fretted。　“If　we　were　out　in　the　field；　ten　smaller；　fastermoving
targets；　that　machine　could　never　get　a　bead　on　us。”
At　that　moment；　a　tremendous　concussive　force　slammed　through　the　Termite’s　chassis；　from　its
back　left　corner。　A　direct　hit。　It　felt　as　if　a　tank　had　rammed　them　from　behind；　and　only　the　fact　that
the　Ice　Warriors　were　so　tightly　wedged　into　their　seats　saved　Steele　from　being　thrown　into
Grayle’s　back。
Grayle　muttered　a　prayer　as　the　engine　coughed；　spluttered；　whined；　and　then　roared　back　into
full　throat。　The　Termite’s　suspension　was　shot。　It　felt　as　if　it　was　shaking　itself　apart；　and　the
passenger　compartment　was　filled　with　smoke。
“Palinev；　Mikhaelev；”　said　Gavotski；　“go　through　the　equipment　lockers；　see　if　you　can　whip　up
a　smokescreen　as　Barreski　suggested。　Barreski；　I　need　you　to　check　the　borer；　make　sure　it　still
functions。　Grayle…”
“I　know；　sergeant；”　said　Grayle。　“Get　us　the　hell　out　of　here！”
No　one　needed　to　say　what　every　one　of　the　ten　Ice　Warriors　present　was　thinking：　that　they
couldn’t　take　a　second　hit　like　that　one。
Steele　watched　as　they　jumped　to　their　assigned　tasks。　He　had　no　need　to　intervene；　trusting
Gavotski　to　handle　the　situation。　So；　he　took　the　opportunity　to　observe　how　each　member　of　his
new　squad　responded　to　pressure。　The　more　he　could　learn　about　them；　the　more　effectively　he
could　lead　them；　and　official　records　could　only　tell　him　so　much。
There　was　something　about　Mikhaelev’s　body　language；　for　example　—　the　slump　of　his
shoulders　—　that　said　his　heart　wasn’t　truly　in　this　mission；　that　perhaps　he　was　just　going　through
the　motions。　That　hadn’t　come　across　at　all　in　his　records；　and　it　was　a　cause　for　concern。　Pozhar；
thought　Steele；　would　bear　watching　too；　although；　in　his　case；　the　reports　of　his　commanders　had
been　perfectly　clear。
Pozhar　was　a　loose　cannon。　He　was　loyal　to　the　Emperor；　fervently　so；　but　he　appeared　to　have
no　concept　of　his　own　limitations。　Send　him　up　against　a　tyranid　army　and；　unless　given　specific
instructions　to　the　contrary；　he　would　be　the　one　to　seek　out　the　Hive　Tyrant　and　to　spit　in　its　eye。
On　a　mission　like　this　one；　that　sort　of　overconfidence　could　be　the　death　of　everyone。
Pozhar　was　here　because　Gavotski　had　vouched　for　him。　He　had　been　the　young　trooper’s　squad
commander　once；　and　had　averred　that　he　was　one　of　the　most　skilled　close…quarters　combatants　he
had　ever　seen。　Gavotski　had　also　sworn　that　he　could　handle　Pozhar’s　rough　edges　and　get　the　best
out　of　him；　and　Steele　had　learned　that　his　experienced　sergeant　was　seldom　wrong。
If　Pozhar　was　overconfident；　then　Anakora　had　the　opposite　problem。　She　had　come　with　the
highest　recommendations　of　any　of　them；　but　Steele　had　already　seen　enough　to　know　that　she
lacked　the　faith　in　herself　that　others　seemed　to　have　in　her。　He　felt　that　he；　of　all　people；　could
identify　with　that。
Then　there　was　Blonsky；　a　trooper　in　whom　a　succession　of　commanders　had　been　unable　to
find　fault；　and　yet　they　had　couched　their　reports　in　terms　that　suggested　they　were　more　than　happy
to　have　seen　the　back　of　him。
Blonsky　had　summarily　executed　at　least　six　comrades　in　combat；　accusing　them　of　heresy。　He
had　made　three　similar　accusations　against　superior　officers；　one　of　them　a　general　no　less。　On　the
surface　of　it；　his　actions　had　always　seemed　justified　—　but　reading　between　the　lines；　Steele　had
noted　that　his　commanders　considered　him　a　liability；　and　a　dangerous　man　to　be　around。
Blonsky　had　been　one　of　Steele　and　Gavotski’s　reserve　choices　for　their　squad。　Gavotski　had
pointed　out；　quite　reasonably；　that　the　Imperial　Guard　had　suffered　more　than　its　fair　share　of
deserters　and　turncoats　on　Cressida。　With　nine　pairs　of　eyes　focused　on　the　search　for　Confessor
25
Wollkenden；　it　was　perhaps　advisable　to　have　the　tenth　pair　turned　inwards；　watching　the　squad
itself。
The　shelling　had　ceased　at　last。　Grayle；　it　seemed；　had　been　right：　the　unseen　gunner　had　just　been
taking　potshots；　and　he　had　evidently　decided　to　maintain　his　position　rather　than　be　enticed　into
pursuing　a　handful　of　enemy　vehicles。
For　the　past　few　minutes；　the　only　thing　protecting　the　Termite　had　been　the　cloud　kicked　up　by
a　handful　of　smoke　bombs　dropped　by　Palinev　and　Mikhaelev。　By　the　Emperor’s　grace；　it　had　been
enough。　A　few　more　explosions　had　vibrated　through　the　passenger　compartment；　but　none　had
come　close　enough　to　cause　real　damage；　and　Barreski；　who　had　moved　up　to　the　front　seat　beside
Grayle；　reported　that　the　all…important　borer　was　intact。
Grayle　ploughed　on；　across　land　that　had　once　been　fertile　fields　but　was　now　coated　with　grey
slush　and　the　ever…present　purpl