In Every Clime and Place by Patrick LeClerc

machine gun.
    “Why’s she helping them?” asked Johnson. “Why don’t we just cap the sneaky-ass motherfuckers?”
    “Rules of engagement,” I said, flatly. “We don’t do shit like that. At least, not once the battle’s over. If the enemy think they’re dead anyway, they won’t surrender. Ever. It’s a lot tougher if you have to kill everybody. That’s how the Old Corps had to fight the Japanese in WWII.”
    We wouldn’t shoot the wounded, but we couldn’t spare manpower to carry them, either. We patched them up, using their own first-aid kits, and let them take their chances. Before we moved on, Sgt McCray took his machete to their radio and dropped a thermite grenade into the stack of weapons. We didn’t want them calling ahead on us, and nobody else was going to fire that machine gun at us.
    “What if the rebels find ’em?” asked Johnson.
    I shrugged.
    “Fuck ’em,” said the gunny. “Teach ’em not to shoot at Marines.”
    We climbed back down to where Chan’s team was couched around O’Rourke, providing security. Now that we’d been dinged up, it would be their turn to lead the way.
    Sabatini and I assembled our team’s stretcher and carefully lifted O’Rourke onto it. He was moaning softly. Doc Roy had given him a canister of pressurized plasma, and a painkiller. A band around his wrist monitored his pulse and blood pressure. The pressure bandage was treated with a coagulant. For a major arterial bleed like his, that helped slow the blood loss quickly. That and the pressurized canisters of plasma and whole blood saved countless lives in combat.
    The old bagged blood had to be hung on an elevated point to allow gravity to draw it into the vein. That was impractical in combat, where everybody, corpsmen included, wanted to hug the ground. It was totally unworkable in low or zero G. The canisters forced the fluid into the wounded. Now, if somebody could invent a self-carrying stretcher, we’d be all set.
    Chan’s team took point with Nolan. We carried O’Rourke in the middle, while the sergeants and Johnson were rearguard. The rioters gave us a wide berth. I don’t know if anybody was giving them news, but they took it for granted that we meant business.
    By the time we reached the dilapidated housing complex where the social workers were holed up, I was not a happy Marine. My arms felt about six inches longer than when I woke up that morning. Johnson was taking a turn as stretcher bearer, Sabatini was carrying the TAR and had her ACR slung over her back. Stupid pride and the fact that Terry O’Rourke was my best friend kept me from asking anybody to spell me. Not only had we grown up and enlisted together, but he just saved my ass.
    The housing complex was the kind of slum that other slums wouldn’t sit next to on a subway. It looked like the riots had started here. That was no huge surprise. Poverty and desperation are the perfect kindling for the spark of revolution.
    The social workers were a half dozen idealistic young women fresh out of university. I must confess some lustful thoughts when they ran out and embraced us. They were obviously relieved to see a heavily armed friendly face. It was too bad O’Rourke was doped up. The sympathy they piled on the poor brave wounded Marine made me almost envious.
    The sight of the poor bastards they were out helping was damn sobering. Twenty kids, ranging in age from maybe two to around ten or eleven. That’s the age that gets hit the worst. By twelve, the boys were carrying guns and the girls were turning tricks to get food, drugs and protection. These kids were the only ones too young for any kind of involvement except that of victims.
    They looked malnourished, as the corporation cut food rations to stop the riots. That always affects the youngest and poorest first. Rebels with guns can always get food. Some of the kids also showed signs of injury. Firebombs don’t discriminate. The real innocents always bear the brunt of the horror in