Free A Choice of Treasons by J. L. Doty Page A

But without power to strengthen it, almost any weapon could punch through the plast.
    He shrugged mentally. “I’m ready,” he said. “Ten seconds.” Then he pressed the stud on the grenade, released the arming safety. He started counting down from ten, and when he reached two he rolled over, pitched the grenade to his right as far down the hall as he could, then grabbed hold of Stacy and held on for everything he was worth.
    There came a blinding flash and the walls lit up with an incandescent white glare. A shock wave traveled up the hall like the exploding powder in a gun barrel, and his ears popped as the force of it blew he and Stacy several meters up the hall. Then everything became suddenly still, silent.
    York hurt everywhere but he ignored that and scrambled over Stacy, grabbed the kid’s rifle, thumbed the settings to maximum muzzle velocity and fire rate then rested the four-barrel rotary on Stacy’s still form. He could see nothing through the clouds of dust in the hall, so he sighted blindly up its length and squeezed the trigger.
    The rotary wound up to full firing rate and screamed with an angry, low-pitched whine, kicked and vibrated in his hands. Unlike his grav-gun it didn’t fire fragmentation shells. Instead, with all four barrels spinning madly, it spit small, blunt projectiles with enough velocity, and in sufficient numbers, to deliver far more destructive energy than a grav-gun shell. He fanned it back and forth randomly, watched it light up the hall as the friction of the shells burned through the dust and debris in the air. And then suddenly it went silent.
    He released the trigger and squeezed again. Nothing. He’d used up Stacy’s weapons reserves.
    He had nothing to lose now. He gave himself another dose of kikker , picked himself up with the intention of grabbing Stacy’s ankles and dragging him down the hall again, but his bad knee gave way and his leg slipped out from under him. He fell flat on his butt and his right foot suddenly began to throb with enough pain to bring tears to his eyes. He looked down at it, realized his bad knee really wouldn’t be giving him any more trouble since his right leg was missing from the knee down. His armor ended there in a jagged and bloody stump.
    He passed out.
     
     
    York awoke weightless, stretched out on his back and strapped to something hard. It was dark, and he guessed he was in one of the assault boats since he could hear the cries of dying people all about him. He wanted to cry himself, to tell someone he didn’t want to die, but he didn’t have the strength.
    Someone had cut away most of his armor. Bandages covered much of his head and face, and his ankle hurt like hell. One of the marine medics leaned over him working on his chest, and the sense of urgency in the medic’s movements told York a great deal.
    Palevi leaned over him, entered the field of view of his good eye. The sergeant had removed his own helmet and his head seemed disproportionately small protruding from his chest armor. And he wore that grin of his, though it was now strained and forced, and his eyes lacked the usual mirth. York reached up, tried to grab the sergeant’s shoulder, but he failed and his hand fell back to the stretcher. Palevi took hold of it and lifted it with almost parental concern. “Don’t try to move, sir. Yer in pretty bad shape.”
    If he was going to die, York had to know if it had all been for nothing. “The kid?” he asked, but the effort sent him into a fit of coughing that filled his mouth with blood and spewed globules of it all over Palevi and the medic.
    “God damn it, Sarge,” the medic cursed. “Keep him still.”
    Palevi nodded at the medic, looked at York. “Stacy’ll be okay. But you gotta be still, sir. Yer chest is full of splinters from your chest plate.”
    “The . . . rest?” York demanded.
    Palevi’s face saddened. “Twelve dead, sir. Seventeen wounded. But we brought ‘em all home, Cap’em.”
    York tried