Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第21章

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for　the　new　fish。　He　asked　a　direct　question；　you　should　answer　him　accordingly。”
“It　is　a　matter　of　life　expectancy；　new　fish；”　Scholar　sighed。　“Fifteen　hours　is　the　average　length
of　time　a　replacement　Guardsman　survives　in　Broucheroc　after　he　has　been　posted　to　a　combat　unit
at　the　frontlines。”
“A　replacement　Guardsman？”　Larn　said；　still　unsure　whether　he　fully　understood　what　Scholar
had　just　told　him。　“Like　me；　you　mean？　Is　that　what　you　are　telling　me？　That’s　how　long　you　expect
me　to　survive　here？　You　think　I　am　going　to　be　dead　inside　fifteen　hours？”
“Less　than　that；　new　fish；”　Zeebers　said；　his　tone　smug　and　mocking。　“You　must　have　been　here
at　least　three　hours　by　now。　Leaving　you　only　twelve　hours　left。　Maybe　less。　Why　do　you　think
Vladek　told　you　to　return　to　him　in　fifteen　hours？　He　didn’t　want　to　risk　wasting　a　lot　of　good
equipment　on　a　dead　man。”
“Shut　up；　Zeebers；”　Bulaven　rumbled。　For　a　moment　Zeebers　glared　back　at　him　until；　seeing
the　angry　expression　on　the　big　man’s　face；　he　dropped　his　eyes　to　look　down　at　the　mud　of　the
trench　floor　in　sullen　silence。　“Tell　him　that　isn’t　the　way　it　is；　Scholar；”　Bulaven　began　again；　his
expression　softening　and　his　voice　almost　pleading。　“Explain　it　to　him。　Tell　him　we　have　every　faith
he　will　still　be　alive　tomorrow。”
“What；　you　think　we　should　lie　to　him？”　Davir　said　to　Bulaven。　“Zeebers　here　may　be　an　evil
little　shit　with　a　big　mouth；　but　at　least　he　was　telling　the　truth。　You　think　we　should　treat　the　new
fish　like　a　child？　Tell　him　that　everything　will　be　all　right？　That　his　kindly　old　uncles　Davir；　Scholar
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and　Bulaven　will　keep　him　safe　from　the　mean　and　nasty　orks？　Even　after　ten　years　of　your　fatheaded
stupidity；　you　never　cease　to　amaze　me；　Bulaven。”
“It　wouldn’t　be　lying；　Davir；”　Bulaven　said　sulkily。　“There　is　nothing　wrong　with　giving　a　man
some　hope。”
“Hope；　my　arse；”　Davir　spat。　“I　keep　telling　you；　fat…man：　hope　is　a　bitch　with　bloody　claws。
You’d　think　after　ten　years　in　this　damned　hellhole　you　would　have　learned　that　lesson　by　now　at
least。”
“All　the　same；　Bulaven　is　not　entirely　wrong；”　Scholar　said；　turning　towards　the　others　to　join
the　discussion。　“The　new　fish　does　indeed　have　some　small　cause　for　hope。　True。　General　HQ　may
have　calculated　the　life　expectancy　of　a　replacement　to　be　fifteen　hours。　But　that　is　only　an　average
figure。　Perhaps　the　new　fish　will　be　more　fortunate。　He　could　survive　longer。　He　has　already　beaten
the　odds　once　already　by　surviving　that　landing。”
“Phah。　Sometimes；　Scholar；　you　can　be　as　bad　as　Bulaven；”　Davir　said。　“But　where　he　witters　on
about　hope　and　optimism；　you　act　like　you　were　still　in　the　scholarium。　You　would　do　better　to
remind　yourself　we　are　in　the　real　world　here。　Your　talk　of　odds　and　averages　is　all　very　well；　but
this　is　Broucheroc。　It　doesn’t　matter　that　the　new　fish　survived　the　landing。　Any　more　than　it　matters
whether　or　not　you　and　Bulaven　try　to　coddle　him。　He　is　as　good　as　a　corpse　already。　A　dead　man
walking。　Trust　me；　the　orks　will　see　to　that。　There’s　nothing　they　like　better　than　a　new　fish；　still　wet
behind　the　ears　and　ready　for　the　gutting。”
“All　I　am　saying　is　that　we　are　perhaps　being　too　literal…minded　when　it　comes　to　talking　about
this　figure　fifteen　hours；”　Scholar　said；　all　three　of　them　so　caught　up　in　the　heat　of　their　argument
now　that　they　ignored　Larn　as　he　stood　there　listening　to　them。　“It　is　not　an　absolute　figure。　It　is　only
an　average。　Why；　for　all　we　know；　the　new　fish　might　end　up　surviving　days；　weeks；　even　years。”
“Years？”　Davir　said。　“You　know　you　really　are　a　wonder　to　me；　Scholar。　I’ve　never　seen　a　man
talk　so　eloquently　and　at　such　length　from　his　arse　before。　You　think　the　new　fish　is　going　to
manage　to　survive　years　in　this　place？　Next　you　will　be　telling　me　you　expect　Sector　Command　to
make　Bulaven　a　general！　You　obviously　haven’t　seen　the　new　fish　in　action—”
“Stop　it。”　Larn　said　quietly；　no　longer　willing　to　be　talked　about　as　though　he　were　invisible。
“I’ve　heard　enough。　Stop　calling　me　new　fish。　My　name　is　Larn。”
For　a　moment；　as　though　surprised　by　the　interruption；　the　other　men　in　the　trench　simply
blinked　and　turned　to　look　at　him　in　silence。
“What？　You　don’t　like　us　calling　you　new　fish；　then？”　Davir　said　after　a　time；　sarcastically。　“We
have　offended　you　perhaps？　Your　feelings　are　hurt？”
“No；”　said　Larn；　uncertainly。　“I…　You　don’t　understand。　I　just　think　you　should　use　my　name　is
all。　My　real　name；　I　mean。　Larn。　Not　new　fish。”
“Really？”　Davir　said；　gazing　at　him　with　cold　eyes　while　Zeebers　glared　at　him　in　hostility　and
Scholar　and　Bulaven　looked　at　him　in　sadness。　“Then；　it　is　you　who　does　not　understand　the　facts　of
life　here；　new　fish。　You　think　I　care　what　your　name　is？　I　have　enough　baggage　in　my　head　already；
never　mind　learning　something　that　will　likely　be　written　on　a　grave　marker　before　the　day　is　out。
You　want　me　to　remember　your　name？　Tell　me　it　again　in　fifteen　hours’　time。　By　then；　perhaps　it
just　may　be　worth　knowing。”
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CHAPTER　NINE
15：55　hours　Central　Broucheroc　Time
A　Figure　Moving　Closer　Through　No…Man’s　Land　—　Standing　Watch　with　Bulaven　—　Matters　of
Gretchin　and　Human　Marksmanship　—　A　Splash　of　Colour　Amidst　the　Wasteland　—　Lessons　on
How　Best　to　Act　as　Bait
He　had　been　moving　slowly　now　for　hours。
Crawling　on　his　belly；　painted　from　head　to　hind　claws　in　grey　clay　with　the　long　kustom　barrel
of　his　blasta　wrapped　in　layers　of　grey　sacking；　he　crept　forward　a　centimetre　at　a　time　through　the
frozen　mud　of　what　the　humies　called　no…man’s　land。　Slow；　like　a　slaver　hunting　a　squig　with　a
grabba　stik；　he　moved　an　inch　and　then　waited。　He　moved　an　inch　and　then　waited。　He　moved　an
inch　then　and　waited。　Over　and　over　again；　always　careful　in　case　his　prey　was　watching。
Suddenly；　seeing　a　glint　in　the　distance　ahead　of　him；　he　stopped。　Sure　one　of　the　humies’
spotters　must　have　seen　him；　he　tensed；　expecting　at　any　moment　to　feel　the　pain　from　a　lasbeam　or
hear　the　sound　of　a　shot；　but　neither　of　them　came。　He　remained　motionless。　Until；　as　the　minutes
passed　and　he　became　convinced　he　was　none　the　worse　for　wear；　his　journey　began　again。　Moving
slowly；　inch　by　inch；　across　the　frozen　mud　toward　his　destination。
Finally；　perhaps　halfway　across　no…man’s　land；　he　reached　the　lip　of　a　shallow　shell　crater。　For　a
moment　he　looked　at　it。　Then；　responding　to　some　inner　instinct　he　could　have　never　named；　he
crawled　inside。　Out　of　sight　now；　he　moved　more　quickly；　crawling　up　the　opposite　slope　of　the
crater　to　look　through　the　sights　of　his　blasta　in　search　of　a　target。　At　first；　nothing。　Then　he　saw　a
head　in　a　fur…shrouded　helmet　peeking　out　of　a　hole　in　the　ground　some　way　away　and　he　knew　the
instinct　had　been　right。　He　had　found　his　kill。
Breathing　through　his　nose；　careful　not　to　make　any　sudden　moves　that　might　spook　his　prey；　he
aimed　at　it　through　his　sights；　his　finger　tightening　incrementally　on　the　blasta’s　trigger。　As　he　did；
he　felt　a　warm　sensation　rush　through　his　head　as　something　like　a　clear　and　coherent　thought
occurred　to　him。
If　he　made　this　shot；　the　boss　would　be　pleased…
“You　shouldn’t　take　it　too　much　to　heart　what　Davir　said　before；　new　fish；”　Bulaven　said。　“He
didn’t　mean　anything　by　it。　It　is　just　his　way　is　all。”
Bulaven　was　standing　on　watch　on　the　firing　step；　looking　out　into　no…man’s　land　with　Larn
beside　him。　Meanwhile；　in　the　firing　trench　below　them；　the　other　men　were　mostly　quiet。　Wrapped
in　an　extra　greatcoat　in　place　of　a　blanket；　his　muffler　pulled　forward　to　cover　most　of　his　face；
Davir　lay　dozing　with　his　back　against　some　spare　flamer　canisters。　Beside　him；　Scholar　sat　silently
reading　from　the　tattered　pages　of　a　battered　and　obviously　well…used　book。　Only　Zeebers　was
making　anything　much　in　the　way　of　noise。　Sitting　on　the　trench　floor；　he　could　be　seen　sharpening
the　blade　of　his　entrenching　tool　with　a　whetstone；　the　low　scraping　sound　of　the　stone　running　over
the　metal　added　a　malicious　counterpoint　to　the　occasional　hostile　glances　he　periodically　made　in
Larn’s　direction。
“Yes；　that　is　a　good　trick；　new　fish；”　Bulaven　said；　noticing　that　Larn　was　looking　at　Zeebers。　“If
you　sharpen　the　blade　of　your　entrenching　tool　it　makes　a　good　weapon　if　you　find　yourself　in　handto…
hand　with　an　ork。　Better　than　a　bayonet；　anyway。　Of　course；　you　need　to　be　careful　you　don’t
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sharpen　the　edges　of　the　spade　head　too　fine。　Otherwise；　it　can　split　if　you　actually　have　to　dig　the
earth　with　it。”
“Does　it　happen　a　lot？”　Larn　asked　him；　giving　an　involuntary　shiver　as　he　remembered　his
earlier　encounter　with　the　gretchin。　“Going　hand…to…hand　with　the　orks；　I　mean？”
“Not　so　much　if　we　can　help　it；”　Bulaven　said；　tapping　the　imposing　bulk　of　the　heavy　flamer　by
his　side。　“For　myself；　when　it　comes　to　killing　orks　I　prefer　to　use　my　friend　here。　Sometimes
though；　the　orks　get　in　close　and　it　can’t　be　helped。　Then　you　just　have　to　kill　them　with　laspistols；
knives；　spade　heads：　whatever　comes　to　hand。　But　you　don’t　need　to　worry　too　much　about　that；
new　fish。　Stay　close　to　me；　Scholar　and　Davir；　and　you’ll　be　all　right。”
“You　will　forgive　me；　Bulaven；”　Larn　said　to　the　big　man。　“But　it　didn’t　sound　too　much　like
that　when　you　were　talking　before。”
“Ach；　I　told　you：　you　shouldn’t　worry　about　that；　new　fish；”　Bulaven　said。　“As　I　say；　Davir
didn’t　mean　too　much　by　it。　It　is　simply　his　manner　to　sound　off　from　time　to　time；　and　you　just
happened　to　get　in　his　way。　Personally；　I　think　it　is　because　he　is　shortarse。　He　likes　to　talk　a　lot　to
make　himself　seem　important。　Trust　me；　you　should　just　put　it　from　your　mind　as　though　it　never
happened。”
“And　the　fifteen　hours？”　Larn　said　quietly。　“What　about　that？”
In　reply　Bulaven　fell　silent　for　a　moment；　his　broad　and　kindly　features　abruptly　given　over　to　an
almost　pensive　brooding。　Until；　at　length；　he　spoke　once　more。
“Sometimes；　it　is　better　not　to　think　too　much　on　such　things；　new　fish；”　he　sighed。　“Sometimes；
it　is　better　just　to　have　faith。”
“Faith？”　Larn　asked。　“You　mean　in　the　Emperor？”
“Yes。　No。　Perhaps；”　Bulave