Gunheads(科幻战争)-第8章

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political　officer。　Unswerving　and　utterly　uncompromising　in　his　duty；　he　had　served　with　the　18th
Army　Group　for　the　last　eleven　years　and；　though　he　and　deViers　had　never　developed　anything　that
could　be　called　a　friendship；　the　general　enjoyed　the　man’s　professional　respect　and　returned　it　in
kind。
The　absence　of　friendship　was　no　great　loss。　After　all；　deViers　told　himself；　one　must　be　careful
around　these　commissars。
All　his　guests　were　standing　now；　their　eyes　on　him；　goblets　filled　and　at　the　ready。　DeViers
lifted　his　straight　out　in　front　of　him；　took　a　breath；　and　projected　his　voice。
“To　success；　gentlemen；”　he　said。　“To　success　and　victory！”
“Success　and　victory！”　they　replied　with　fervour。　Excepting　the　Mechanicus；　each　of　the　guests
threw　back　his　glass　and　drank。　When　they　had　finished；　deViers　gestured　them　back　into　their　seats；
smiling　broadly　at　them。
Look　at　them；　Mohamar；　he　thought；　eating　out　of　your　hand。　To　success　and　victory；　indeed；
and　to　immortality；　for　I　will　have　the　glory　I　seek。　And　Throne　help　any　bastard　that　gets　in　my
way。
Major　General　Gerard　Bergen　looked　down　at　his　plate　with　absolute　revulsion。　What　the　devil　was
this　abomination？　The　starter　had　been　bad　enough　—　chilled　bladdercrab　with　ormin　and　caprium
—　so　obscenely　rich　that　he’d　felt　his　stomach　churning；　though　the　general’s　other　guests　had
seemed　to　enjoy　it　immensely　judging　by　their　praise　for　the　general’s　personal　chef。　Now　the　old
man’s　servants　brought　out　the　main　course　—　quivering　mountains　of　dark　red　meat　that　looked
dangerously　undercooked。
The　general’s　adjutant；　Gruber；　placed　himself　on　the　old　man’s　right　and　proudly　announced；
“Lightly　roasted　auroch　heart　stuffed　with　jellied　grox　liver　and　dogwort。”
Murmurs　of　appreciation　sounded　from　around　the　table；　but　Bergen　studied　the　thing　on　his
plate　as　if　it　were　an　alien　life　form。　It　sat　there　glistening　wetly　in　the　light　from　the　lamps；　its
pungent　aroma　clawing　at　his　nostrils。　He　hoped　the　expression　of　delight　he　was　struggling　to
maintain　was　enough　to　fool　the　general。　He　looked　up　the　table　involuntarily　and　immediately
wished　he　hadn’t。　DeViers　caught　his　eye。　Bergen　put　extra　effort　into　his　artificial　smile　and　saw
the　old　man　grin　back；　buying　into　his　act。
He　turned　back　to　the　food。　Maybe　it　tastes　better　than　it　looks；　he　thought；　but　I　doubt　it。
Bergen　considered　himself　a　down…to…earth　man　for　someone　of　his　breeding　and　rank　—　it　was；
in　fact；　the　thing　he　liked　best　about　himself　—　and　it　required　effort　on　his　part　to　maintain　the
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social　niceties　so　important　to　his　station　in　the　classist　upper　echelons　of　the　Imperial　Guard。
Whether　on　the　battlefield　or　off　it；　he　liked　to　live　as　his　men　did；　eating　standard…issue　rations　and
sleeping　on　a　standard…issue　bedroll；　washing　and　shaving　as　little　or　as　often　as　his　men　were　able
to。　Such　things　allowed　him　a　better　understanding　of　the　condition　of　his　troops；　of　how　far　he
could　push　them　before　they　would　start　to　come　undone。　Such　information　was　critical　to　a　good
commander。　Some　of　the　old…school　officers；　a　few　of　the　colonels　and　majors　seated　around　him
perhaps；　also　held　to　such　practices；　but　they　were　in　the　minority。　Bergen’s　regimental　commanders
—　Vinnemann；　Marrenburg　and　Graves　—　had　been　allowed　to　abstain　from　attending　the　dinner　so
that　they　might　continue　their　preparations　for　deployment；　a　concession　that　Bergen　greatly　envied
them。　DeViers　hadn’t　given　him　that　option。　The　old　man　had　been　adamant　that　all　his　divisional
commanders　attend。
Lifting　his　cutlery；　Bergen　began　slicing　bite…sized　chunks　from　the　undercooked　heart。　Spearing
one　with　his　fork；　he　lifted　it　towards　his　mouth。　Here　goes　nothing；　he　told　himself；　and　popped　it
in。　The　texture　was　highly　unpleasant；　but　he　was　forced　to　admit　that　it　tasted　a　lot　better　than　it
looked。
While　the　general’s　guests　concentrated　on　the　main　course；　the　level　of　conversation　dropped；
stifled　by　the　efforts　of　cutting　and　chewing；　and　of　chasing　each　mouthful　down　with　a　sip　of
amasec。　But　it　wasn’t　long　until　most　of　the　plates　lay　empty　save　a　smear　of　sauce　on　each；　and　a
flock　of　servants　emerged　from　the　side　corridors　to　clear　them　away。
Bergen　sat　back　in　silence　and　watched　the　others　interact。　His　stomach　was　threatening　to　rebel
against　him。
Bishop　Augustus　dabbed　at　the　corners　of　his　mouth　with　a　white　silk　napkin　and　said；
“Exquisite；　general；　but　quite　cruel；　don’t　you　think；　to　acclimatise　us　to　such　outstanding　fare？　I
suspect　Golgotha　offers　nothing　so　delicious　or　refined。”
General　deViers　faced　the　bishop；　but　gestured　down　the　table　to　Tech…Magos　Sennesdiar。
“The　honoured　magos；”　he　said；　“tells　me　that　most　of　the　animal　and　plant　life　on　this　world　is
fatal　if　ingested。　Is　that　not　so；　magos？”
The　blaring　voice　that　replied　was　like　a　vox…caster　unit　with　the　volume　turned　up　too　high。
Like　most　of　the　others；　Bergen　winced。
“If　you’ll　permit　me；　general；”　boomed　the　tech…magos；　each　word　toneless　and　harsh；　“the
probability　of　death　would　depend　on　the　amount　and　type　of　matter　ingested；　the　body…weight　and
constitution　of　the　individual　in　question；　the　availability　and　quality　of　medical　assistance—”
From　Bergen’s　left；　a　few　seats　further　down　the　table；　the　crab…faced　Tech…Adept　Xephous
emitted　a　sudden　burst　of　noise；　high…pitched　and　raw；　like　fingernails　scraping　on　a　blackboard。　His
superior　immediately　replied　with　a　similar　condensed　sonic　burst。　Bergen　knew　this　for　what　it
was。　The　tech…priests　were　communicating　in　Binary；　the　ancient　machine…language　of　the　Martian
priesthood。　When　Sennesdiar　reverted　to　speaking　in　Gothic　a　moment　later；　his　voice　was　pitched
just　right。　“My　apologies；　gentlemen。　My　adept　informs　me　that　my　vocaliser　settings　may　have
caused　you　some　discomfort。　Is　this　setting　acceptable？”
“A　great　improvement；　magos；”　said　General　deViers。
“Then　I　shall　continue　listing　the　variables　relevant　to　the　question　of　toxicity　in—”
DeViers　held　up　a　hand　and　cut　the　tech…priest　off　mid…sentence。　“Thank　you；　magos；　but　that
will　not　be　necessary。　A　simple　yes　or　no　would　have　sufficed。”
“It　is　not　a　simple　matter；”　said　the　tech…priest。　“I　shall　have　an　acolyte…logis　compile　a　report　for
you　on　the　subject。　We　have　significant　amounts　of　relevant　data。”
“If　you　must；”　said　deViers；　winking　at　Bishop　Augustus；　“but　I’d　rather　you　just　warn　me　if　I’m
about　to　bite　down　on　something　I　shouldn’t。”
You　wouldn’t　want　to　bite　off　more　than　you　could　chew；　thought　Bergen　automatically。
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“Actually；”　continued　General　deViers；　turning　from　the　tech…magos；　“I’d　like　to　hear　the　high
commissar’s　thoughts　on　this　amasec。　Commodore　Galbraithe　graciously　donated　eighteen　bottles　of
the　stuff　for　our　little　celebration。　Such　a　pity　that　he　wasn’t　able　to　share　it　with　us　in　person。”
“Wasn’t　able？”　asked　Major　General　Rennkamp　brusquely；　“Or　wasn’t　willing？　I’ve　heard　the
old　spacer　hasn’t　been　ground…side　for　over　twenty　years。　You’d　need　a　direct　order　from　the　High
Lords　to　get　him　off　that　Helicon　Star　of　his。”
There　was　a　ripple　of　polite　laughter。
“A　fine　ship；　that；”　murmured　a　colonel　close　to　Bergen。　It　was　von　Holden；　one　of　Rennkamp’s
men；　commander　of　the　259th　Mechanised　Regiment。　Bergen　was　a　little　surprised。　He　had　privately
admired　both　of　the　battlefleet’s　heavy　cruisers；　but　it　wasn’t　often　one　would　hear　a　groundpounder
praising　a　naval　vessel　out　loud。　There　were　long…running　tensions　between　the　Guard　and
the　Navy；　a　perpetuation　of　mistrusts　that　stretched　back　as　far　as　the　Age　of　Apostasy　and　beyond。
At　the　upper　end　of　the　table；　High　Commissar　Morten　was　answering　the　general。　“A　very　fine
vintage；　sir。　The　commodore　is　most　gracious。　This　is　very　expensive　stuff。　It　has　a　certain　citrus
quality；　you　agree？　And　the　significance　of　his　choice…”
“What　significance　would　that　be？”　asked　Bishop　Augustus。
“Its　origin；　your　grace；”　said　Morten。　“This　particular　amasec　is　produced　exclusively　by　the
Jaldyne　prefectural　distilleries　on　Terrax　Secundus。　Quite　rare　outside　the　Ultima　Segmentum。”
“Ah；　clever　of　him；”　said　a　glowing　deViers。　“Wonderful　stuff。”
Bishop　Augustus　was　frowning。　“I’m　afraid　I　still　don’t　see　the　connection。”
“Terraxian　and　Cadian　regiments　fought　side…by…side　on　this　very　plateau　in　the　last　war；”
answered　the　high　commissar。　“Together；　they　were　able　to　buy　Commissar　Yarrick　and　his
command　staff　the　time　they　needed　to　escape　the　planet’s　surface。　The　orks　swarmed　this　very
plateau　just　as　Yarrick’s　lifter　ascended。　I　believe　there　were　several　popular　books　published　about
the　battle。”
A　moment　of　quiet　descended　on　the　table　as　the　fighting　men　present　muttered　a　quick　prayer
for　the　fallen。　It　was　Major　General　Killian　that　broke　the　spell。
“I　don’t　suppose　any　of　you　have　read　Michelos？”　he　asked。　“I’ve　seen　a　few　of　my　troopers
with　their　noses　in　tattered　copies。”
“Finally　taught　your　lot　to　read；　eh；　Klotus？”　said　Bergen　with　a　grin。
Killian　laughed　heartily；　chasing　off　the　last　of　the　sombre　mood　that　had　momentarily　fallen　on
the　table。　“You　can　talk；　tread…head。　Your　lot　still　think　they　need　to　take　toilet　paper　to　the　mess
tent。　Must　be　all　those　promethium　fumes。”
The　colonels　seated　nearby　laughed　out　loud；　prone　to　engage　in　a　bit　of　good…natured　ribbing
themselves　at　times；　but　General　deViers　coughed　sharply　into　his　hand；　and　the　sound　cut　through
the　laughter　like　a　las…knife。　The　expression　on　the　general’s　face　sent　a　clear　message：　not　the　time；
not　the　place。
Fair　enough；　thought　Bergen。　It’s　your　show。
High　Commissar　Morten　sat　forward；　ice　blue　eyes　fixed　on　Killian；　and　said；　“I’m　not　sure　I
approve；　major　general。”　Seeing　Killian’s　face　redden；　he　added；　“Of　troopers　reading　Michelos；　I
mean。　His　work　has　a　very　fatalistic　bent。　Not　suitable　material　for　front…line　troops。　Dreadful
recruitment　material；　too。　The　way　he　refers　to　Guard　service　as　‘the　meat　grinder’。　If　it　were　up　to
me；　I’d　have　the　text　prohibited　under　article　six。”
Bergen　resisted　the　urge　to　roll　his　eyes。　F