Ber didn't want to lie down, he didn't want to be taken care of. He wanted light, he wanted to stop hurting, he wanted to get OUT. He could hear moans and muffled cries and whispers: Ohm, death, war, Catastrophists. He fisted his hands against his wet stomach and felt a shape in one of his pockets. It had been something he'd picked up on the battlefield; apparently no one treating him had found it. Some kind of weapon. Desperately, he pulled it out– it was T-shaped, fitting snugly in his hand with just the center barrel sticking between his fingers – and punched out at the woman with the blanket.

He was very surprised when the thing in his hand made a deep chugging noise, jerking violently. But he kept going, snatching at the flashlight.