Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第22章

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greenskins　missing　and　hitting　me　instead。”
So　it　went　on；　with　Davir　unleashing　a　constant　tirade　of　insults　and　complaints　as；　trailing　in　his
wake；　Larn　followed　him　up　the　low　rise　towards　the　firing　trenches　and　the　frontline。　As　they　ran
half…crouched　towards　their　destination　and　the　tirade　continued；　Larn　abruptly　found　himself　briefly
entertaining　a　notion　that　until　a　few　minutes　before　would　have　never　occurred　to　him。
Suddenly；　he　found　himself　feeling　strangely　nostalgic　for　the　good　old　days　of　Sergeant　Ferres。
49
CHAPTER　EIGHT
14：59　hours　Central　Broucheroc　Time
Casualties　of　War　—　Thoughts　on　the　Killing　of　Generals　—　Scholarly　Answers　and　Insights　—　On
Vital　Supplies　&　The　Many　and　Varied　Uses　of　Prophylactics　—　The　Mathematics　of　Slaughter　&
Questions　of　Life　Expectancy　at　the　Front　—　The　Facts　of　Life　as　According　to　Davir
For　once；　the　printing　press　was　silent。　Though　Lieutenant　Delias　had　always　considered　the
constant　clattering　of　the　machine　to　be　a　source　of　much…cursed　irritation；　now　it　was　idle　he　found
the　sound　of　its　silence　filled　him　with　dread。　Sitting　at　his　desk　in　the　claustrophobic　confines　of　his
cluttered　office；　he　looked　across　the　fractured　glass　of　the　top　half　of　the　partition　wall　separating
him　from　the　print　room　and　felt　his　stomach　churn　in　anxiety　as　he　watched　the　militia　auxiliaries
who　made　up　his　staff　go　about　their　labours。　The　aged　caretakers　Cern　and　Votank　were　busy
maintaining　the　ancient　parts　of　the　press　itself：　Cern　oiling　the　machine’s　rollers；　while　Votank
topped　up　the　ink　reservoir　ready　for　the　next　edition。　Nearby；　head　bobbing　and　his　face　moving　in
involuntary　tics；　the　feeble…minded　cripple　Shulen　stumbled　past　them　with　a　broom　flailing
spasmodically　in　his　hands　as　he　attempted　to　sweep　the　floor。　Only　the　compositor　Pheran　was
without　a　task。　His　features　pinched　in　an　expression　somewhere　between　expectancy　and
annoyance；　he　stood　beside　the　empty　expanse　of　the　typesetting　board　and　gazed　back　towards
Delias　through　the　glass。　Then；　seeing　he　had　met　the　lieutenant’s　eyes；　Pheran　raised　a　hand　to
point　at　the　chronometer　hanging　above　the　printing　press　in　a　gesture　of　mute　accusation。
1500　hours；　Delias　thought；　his　heart　sinking　as　his　eyes　followed　the　direction　of　Pheran’s　bony
finger　to　glance　at　the　chronometer。　We　only　have　an　hour　now　before　I　have　to　deliver　the　late
edition　to　Commissar　Valkfor　approval。　A　single　hour！　I　must　find　something　to　write。　Anything！
Despairing；　Delias　returned　his　attention　to　the　dozens　of　official　papers　piled　in　confusion
across　his　desk。　Among　the　jumbled　mass　of　documents　before　him　were　copies　of　situation　reports；
battlefield　dispatches；　casually　statistics；　terse　communiqués；　comms　transcripts：　between　them
comprising　a　record　of　every　event　of　consequence　that　had　happened　in　the　city　of　Broucheroc　in
the　past　twelve　hours。　Despite　what　seemed　like　hours　now　spent　surveying　the　assembled　weight　of
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　ot