Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第33章

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had　demoted　the　man　on　the　spot；　busting　him　down　to　the　rank　of　common　trooper　and　ordering
him　to　be　immediately　posted　to　a　frontline　combat　unit。　Next；　in　a　hasty　decision　the　Grand
Marshal　now　bitterly　regretted；　he　had　promoted　the　man’s　less　than　able　second…in…command；　the
men…colonel　Dushan；　and　ordered　him　to　serve　on　the　General　Staff　in　Mirovan’s　place。　Though　he
had　felt　quite　sure　humbling　Mirovan　had　been　the　right　thing　to　do　at　the　time；　the　Grand　Marshal
now　experienced　a　troubling　sense　of　ill…defined　unease。　In　many　ways　Mirovan　was　an　admirable
man；　he　thought　sadly。　Certainly；　he　was　a　damn　sight　more　competent　than　most　of　the　toadies　and
feckless　lackeys　who　bedevil　me　sitting　around　this　table　day　after　day。　I　wonder　what　happened　to
him？
“He　was　a　good　man　in　his　way；”　the　Grand　Marshal　said。　“It　would　be　a　pity　if　such　a　man　were
dead。”
All　around　the　table；　the　others　were　staring　at　him。　Kerchan　realised　he　must　have　inadvertently
spoken　his　musings　aloud；　interrupting　the　flow　of　conversation　around　him　as　the　members　of　the
General　Staff　discussed　the　significance　or　not　of　Dushan’s　report。　On　every　side　of　him；　as　though
not　entirely　sure　how　they　should　react；　generals　stared　towards　him　with　expressions　ranging　from
uncertainty　to　quiet　trepidation。　Even　the　ever…faithful　Vlin　seemed　to　be　looking　at　him　strangely。
Kerchan；　however；　felt　no　embarrassment。　If　nothing　else；　a　lifetime　spent　commanding　soldiers　had
taught　him　a　simple　truth。　A　man　with　the　absolute　authority　of　life…or…death　over　others　should
never　feel　any　need　to　have　to　apologise　for　his　own　behaviour。
“I　was　remembering　Mirovan；”　he　said；　turning　to　look　toward　General　Dushan。　“After　his
demotion　he　was　given　over　to　your　command；　Dushan。　What　happened　to　him？”
“I…　I　am　not　sure；　your　excellency；”　Dushan　said；　almost　squirming　before　the　Grand　Marshal’s
gaze。　“I　left　the　matter　of　assigning　him　to　a　new　posting　to　one　of　my　aides。　As　to　where　precisely
he　was　sent；　I　should　have　to　check　the　battalion　rosters…”
Faltering；　failing　miserably　to　hide　his　discomfort；　Dushan’s　voice　gradually　trailed　away　to
guilty　silence。　He　probably　had　the　man　posted　to　the　worst　unit　and　the　most　dangerous　duties　he
could　find；　Kerchan　thought。　Somewhere　right　in　the　thick　of　the　action　no　doubt；　where　Mirovan
would　have　been　lucky　to　survive　a　week。　After　all；　with　their　former　general　still　alive　there　would
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always　be　the　danger　of　dissent　and　mutiny　among　the　men　who　had　served　under　him。　So；　Mirovan
is　likely　dead　then。　Not　that　I　can　fault　Dushan’s　decision…making　in　that　regard；　of　course。　Dissent
is　a　cancer。　If　I　had　been　in　his　position；　I　would　have　done　the　same　myself。
Then；　looking　at　the　eyes　of　the　men　seated　around　him；　the　Grand　Marshal　realised　his　mention
of　Mirovan’s　name　had　apparently　had　an　entirely　unforeseen　consequence。　Every　man　there
seemed　in　the　grip　of　the　same　queasy　discomfort　as　Dushan；　as　though　the　recollection　of
Mirovan’s　sudden　fall　from　grace　had　spooked　them。　Watching　them；　the　Grand　Marshal　began　to
understand　he　had　quite　inadvertently　achieved　his　original　purpose。　Mentioning　Mirovan　did　the
trick；　he　thought。　That　seems　to　have　put　the　fear　of　the　Emperor　in　them；　all　right。　Not　for　the　first
time；　Kerchan　was　left　dazzled　by　the　extent　of　his　own　genius　when　it　came　to　motivating　the　men
under　his　command。　I　didn’t　even　realise　I　was　doing　it；　he　thought。　And　yet　still；　by　some　happy
accident；　I　seem　to　have　created　exactly　the　effect　I　wanted。　No；　not　an　accident。　Unconsciously　or
not；　the　fact　I　achieved　my　aim　means　I　must　have　intended　to　do　so　all　along。　There　are　no
accidents　when　one　is　a　Grand　Marshal。　Then；　making　the　effort　to　summon　his　most　carefully
unreadable　sinister　half…smile；　the　Grand　Marshal　spoke　to　Dushan　once　more。
“No　matter；　Dushan；”　he　said；　noting　with　satisfaction　that　the　man　seemed　little　reassured　by
his　manner。　“It　was　simply　an　idle　thought；　nothing　more。　Now；　on　to　other　matters。　Colonel　Vlin？
Who　is　scheduled　to　give　the　next　briefing？”
“Magos　Garan；　your　excellency；”　his　adjutant　said。　“He　wishes　to　advise　us　on　the　monthly
production　figures　from　the　city’s　munitions　manufactoriums。”
His　brief　mood　of　good　humour　abruptly　evaporating；　the　Grand　Marshal　watched　with　a　sinking
heart　as　the　hooded　figure　of　the　archmagos　of　the　Adeptus　Mechanicus　in　Broucheroc　rose　slowly
to　his　feet。　As　much　machine　as　man；　covered　in　whirring　devices　that　had　kept　their　owner　alive　for
far　past　the　normal　span　of　life；　what　could　be　seen　of　the　magos’　aged　and　withered　body　from
beneath　his　cloak　no　longer　looked　entirely　human。　Most　disquieting　of　all　were　the　mechadendrites：
four　thin　tentacle…like　mechanical　arms　that　would　periodically　emerge　from　the　folds　of　the　magos’
cloak　to　make　minute　adjustments　to　the　other　machines　that　covered　his　flesh。
Though　as　disturbing　as　he　had　always　found　the　creature’s　appearance；　the　real　root　of　the
Grand　Marshal’s　dislike　of　Magos　Garan　lay　more　in　practical　considerations　than　in　anything　so
flighty　as　matters　of　aesthetics。　Unlike　the　rest　of　the　men　seated　around　the　briefing　table；　Magos
Garan　did　not　serve　at　the　Grand　Marshal’s　whim。　As　the　most　senior　member　of　the　Adeptus
Mechanicus　in　the　city　Garan　was　not　here　as　a　subordinate。　Without　the　machine…adepts　to　keep　the
city’s　manufactoriums　working；　the　Grand　Marshal　would　have　no　munitions　for　his　troops。　No　new
las…guns。　No　missile　launchers。　No　replacement　power　packs。　No　grenades；　mortar　rounds；　artillery
shells；　or　any　of　the　hundreds　of　other　things　the　Guardsmen　of　the　city　needed　daily　to　help　them
keep　the　orks　at　bay。　As　such；　the　Grand　Marshal　found　himself　forced　to　deal　with　Magos　Garan　as
though　he　was　the　representative　of　some　foreign　power。　A　man　to　be　negotiated　and　entreated　with；
but　never　commanded。　An　equal；　not　an　inferior。　Not　being　by　inclination　a　man　much　given　to　the
subtle　intricacies　of　diplomacy；　Kerchan　had　long　found　dealing　with　the　haughty　Magos　to　be　a
difficult　burden　to　bear。
“In　the　last　thirty　days　the　productivity　of　the　city’s　manufactoriums　has　fallen　by　a　figure　of
four　point　three　four　per　cent；”　the　Magos　said　in　a　dry　monotone　voice；　apparently　so　long　past
remembering　what　it　was　to　be　human　he　made　no　attempt　to　leaven　the　bad　news　as　he　delivered　it。
“The　reasons　for　this　fall　in　productivity　are　as　follows。　One；　the　loss　of　five　manufactoriums　in
Sector　1…49　when　the　sector　in　question　was　partially　overrun　by　the　orks。　Two；　the　destruction　of
another　manufactorium　in　Sector　1…37　by　an　ork　raiding　party　who　had　gained　entrance　past　the
city’s　defensive　perimeter　by　unknown　means。　Three；　damage　to　a　further　fifteen　manufactoriums　in
Sectors　1…22　through　1…25　caused　by　the　orks’　long…range　artillery。　Four；　further　damage　to　three　of
the　same　manufactoriums　caused　by　gretchin　suicide　bombers。　Five；　the　slowness　of　repair　to　these
facilities　caused　by　a　chronic　lack　of　qualified　personnel。　Six；　the　outbreak　of　an　unknown　viral
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pathogen　among　the　lay　manufactorium　workers　of　Sector　1…19；　causing　the　loss　of　180；757
working　man…hours　through　either　sickness　or　death。　Seven；　the　loss　of　162；983　working　man…hours
caused　through　civil　unrest　occasioned　by　food　shortages　among　the　lay　manufactorium　workers　of
Sector　1…32；　said　unrest　having　since　been　suppressed　at　the　result　of　a　further　34；234　working　manhours
lost　through　either　injury　or　death…”
His　face　emotionless；　the　magos　continued；　droning　out　an　apparently　endless　catalogue　of
doom。　As　he　listened；　Grand　Marshal　Kerchan　once　more　found　himself　falling　into　despair。
According　to　his　strategic　calculations；　the　battle　for　Broucheroc　should　have　been　won　weeks；　if
not　months；　ago。　More　than　that；　by　now　they　should　have　broken　out　of　this　Emperor…forsaken　city
and　be　pushing　the　enemy　back　on　every　front。　Yet；　impossibly；　after　ten　years　of　warfare　the　orks
still　showed　no　sign　of　defeat　or　collapse。　While　day　after　day；　hour　after　hour；　Grand　Marshal
found　himself　confronted　by　defeatism　at　every　turn：　his　every　waking　moment　spent　in　the
comp