And that’s the problem. I’ve got one spare clip and that’s it. Same with Fraser and the rest of the boys: maybe a hundred and fifty rounds between us. Hell, we’re not supposed to get into a scrap; that’s what the muscleboys outside are for. If anything, we’re overarmed to handle the one or two leakers we thought we might run into. Well, that’s all changed now, for fragging sure. Another frantic burst of firing, another howl—this one wailing on for a while before cutting off sharply. Sounds like the hardboys are taking a pasting. I look around at my "command," which is what these sorry scroffs have suddenly become. They’re all hunkered down with ordnance out, the red dots of sighting lasers tracking everywhere, even over each other. It’s just getting better and better.