Scratchard frowned and added, "Maybe you too, hey?"
"Via, I'm fine," Tyl said, trying to smooth the grimace that wanted to twist his face awry. "No dead?"
He looked around sharply and immediately wished he hadn't tried to move quite that fast.
Tyl's ceramic breastplate had stopped the bullet and spread its impact across the whole inner surface of the armor. That was survivable; but now, with the armor and his tunic stripped off, Tyl's chest was a symphony of bruising. His ribs and the seams of his tunic pockets were emphasized in purple, and the flesh between those highlights was a dull yellow-gray of its own.
Scratchard shrugged."Krasinski took one in the face,"he said."Had 'er shield down too, but when your number's up . . . ."
Tyl sprayed anesthetic. The curse that ripped out of his mouth could have been directed at the way the mist settled across him and made the bruised flesh pucker as it chilled.
"Timmons stood on a grenade," Scratchard continued, squatting beside his captain. "Prob'ly his own. Told 'em not to screw with grenades after we committed, but they never listen, not when it gets . . ."
Scratchard's fingers were working with the gun he now carried, a slug-firing machine pistol. The magazine lay on the ground beside him. The trigger group came out, then the barrel tilted from the receiver at the touch of the sergeant major's experienced fingers.
Jack wasn't watching his hands. His eyes were open and empty, focused on the main stairs because there were no fallen troopers there. They'd been his men too.
"One a' the recruits," Scratchard continued quietly, "he didn't want to go up the ladder."
Tyl looked at the noncom.
Scratchard shrugged again."Kekkonan shot him.Wasn't a lotta time to discuss things."
"Kekkonan due another stripe?" Tyl asked.
"After this?" Scratchard replied, his voice bright with unexpected emotion. "We're
His face blanked. His fingers began to reassemble the gun he'd picked up when he'd fired all the ammunition for both the powerguns he carried.
Tyl looked at their prisoners, the half-dozen men who'd survived when Jack sprayed the group on the altar. Now they clustered near the low building, under the guns of a pair of troopers who'd been told to guard them.
The soldiers were too tired to pay much attention. The prisoners were too frightened to need guarding at all.
