by John Ringo
Then he twitched again as another shot landed close enough for him to smell cooked lime from the ground. The Darhel bastard was learning quickly, and Dagger wondered if he’d managed to meet up or talk to Ferret. He was getting harder to kill, not easier.
How could something dodge so many rounds? He was sure a few of them had nicked, at least. Enough to slow the alien twerp down. Except they hadn’t. Was his suit that good? If so, Dagger might be in deep shit. But that wasn’t reasonable, or Tirdal wouldn’t be running.
Except he wasn’t running now. He was attacking. A sudden change in tactics indicated desperation. So Tirdal was in bad shape. A faint grin crossed his face as he thought of that. The asshole was trying to keep him scared as he approached, but he still wasn’t doing too well. His best attack so far had been to try to topple a bluff. No matter what happened, Tirdal still couldn’t actually kill.
A familiar odor crept into his nostrils and brain. It was pleasant and relaxed him just slightly. That was nice. It wasn’t something he’d smelled here, it was… grass smoke?
Then through the waving stems he saw an orange flicker that was also familiar. “You asshole!” he whispered hoarsely, and started to shimmy back in panic. A lucky beam must have caught something dry and flammable in this arid terrain.
Then Dagger realized there were more flames, making that crackling noise that meant they were spreading. Oily gray smoke hung low around him, and tickled his nose and stung his eyes. Shit. A whole area to his left was flaring up, between Tirdal and him.
Still, that meant he could use it as a screen, and he’d better damned well hurry, he realized, because that was the direction the prevailing winds were coming from. If that was a five kilometer breeze he felt, it was as fast as a brisk walk. He’d need to be faster than that.
Eyes wide again, feeling frustration, panic and fear fight with exhaustion and stress, Dagger rose to a crouch and sprinted the hell east and north. He’d had general plans to go that way anyway, but he hated, just hated, being forced into a course of action. But a grass fire was not something he could ignore, and it wouldn’t react to his weapons.
He rode over his shivers and thought of how best to dispose of the rage and, and… fear… he was focusing and concentrating. How about as a mental attack for that sensat bastard? Throw some of this at him and see what happened?
Are you reading my mind, Tirdal the Darhel, cowardly little bastard? Read this, asshole.
* * *
Tirdal felt Dagger’s mental outburst. Once again, he had a flashing connection to his enemy’s brain, thoughts and feelings and sensory input cascading over him. Raw, seething hatred! Power and control. The strength of it caused his tal levels to rise, and he fought to lower them. That was the ongoing problem; maintaining the level high enough, without flying off that precipice.
But he had caught that brief glimpse of Dagger’s surroundings. He was now farther to the northeast, almost to those trees at the edge of the prairie. The fire behind him and to Tirdal’s right front was dying down to an angry black and red scar, the red fading to ashen gray as a pall of smoke rolled up and thinned, the upper edge flattening out in the stratified air.
Dagger’s detectability was fading in and out as Tirdal fought the tal levels. Also, he seemed to be becoming “fainter.” As if he was getting ready to take a shot. Or, more likely, trying to mask his emotions. There was a lot of rage there. Time to tweak it even further. Also time to stop shooting, so as not to provide a return target. He got low and began to belly crawl, arms stretched out ahead to minimize damage to the grass.
He called up Dagger and started playing mind games again. “So, Dagger, how are you doing?” he asked as he slipped through the stalks, bending rather than breaking them again. “Of course, I don’t really have to ask. I read your mind.”
He paused at a thinning of the weeds, only to determine it was a path cleared by another herd of gargantuan insectoids. Good. He’d learned much in the last three days. This was something else for the Darhel to practice, on either cultivated “wild” areas or remote planets. The human monopoly on force became less of a potential threat as other tactical knowledge grew.
Dagger replied, a bit breathlessly but sounding surprisingly well controlled, “I take it you’ve never seen a real brush fire you little asshole? You do know they can go against prevailing winds, spread out in long lines, create firestorms that suck air in to feed them, and generally not do what you want them to do?”
Tirdal had known some of that. The rest sounded very reasonable and he realized he — they — had been lucky the grass was merely weather dry and not kindling dry from drought. That was not a mistake he should have let himself make from eagerness. On the other hand, risk was an essential part of war. He should push the man more, since he seemed worried.
“Dagger, a few degrees of flames and carbon monoxide with sulfur isn’t bothersome to Darhel. I may decide to do that again. It’s my turn to chase now.”
“Oh, quit with the bullshit. I’ve seen Darhel burned in accidents. You’re as easy to cook as we are. That was either an accident, or you’re really clueless out here.”
“If so, Dagger, it doesn’t speak well for the humans I’ve been learning from,” he said.
Dagger apparently decided to ignore that. He seemed to be getting smarter. Instead, he changed the subject. “That was rather clever, hiding the box on the bug. It would have been really clever to keep it low, where I couldn’t see it sticking out like a saddle on a boar.” There was a slight smugness pervading the control in his voice. And the control was obvious to Tirdal. Dagger was trying hard to suppress his emotions. Suppression, however, was not what he should do. They should flow, not be bottled up. And Dagger seemed to do exactly the opposite of what anyone wanted…
“I felt you needed the hint,” he said to goad Dagger. “So far, you’ve shown little ability to outthink or outtrack anything smaller and brighter than these bugs.” The bugs were impressive, though, he thought as he skipped behind one and dropped back into the stalks. They were the size of Earth’s extinct rhinoceri.
“I tracked Ferret, and he was supposed to be the vaunted master of it. You remember Ferret? I think he was wetting his pants when he realized I could see him. He was in good cover, too. Better than you’ve ever had. But the fickle finger of fate holds the trigger. And if you’re so good I need a hint, why’d you drop the box and hide in the weeds?”
“Very simply, Dagger, I found your tracer some time back. It no longer serves my purposes to have you follow it. That was a ruse to keep you where Ferret could stalk you,” he said. He also could use Ferret as a mythical ally. And as the man was now dead, Dagger couldn’t cross check. “Now that Ferret is gone, I have no need to make things simple for you anymore. You’ll have to do some real tracking. It’s time for you to learn a few things.”
With that, he rose back to a crawl, though this crawl was as fast as a good jog for a human, fingers and toes extended like a lizard’s, but reaching far forward and behind to reduce the profile they cut in the grass.
“I’m going to kill you, you alien freak,” Dagger said.
Tirdal spoke again to keep Dagger talking rather than shooting. “Really, Dagger, you should acquire calm, not just the outward symptoms. One should focus not upon the blankness within, but the blankness without, allowing it to draw the storm.”
Dagger interrupted his spiel. “I’ve got a philosophical question for you, Tirdal.”
“Yes, Dagger?”
“If a Darhel gets his head blown off in the middle of the forest, do the trees hear anything?”
“There, Dagger, you’ve made progress. You’ve acknowledged your anger. Now allow it to draw your fear of competence with it, and learn to feel. Only then will you be able to track a Darhel on flat ground without the tracer.”
The crack of a projectile echoed across the savanna. One of the large herbivores twitched and staggered, trod in a circle as its sharp-edged feet threw clods of sod and grass. It was se
eking its antagonist, and confused at not finding one. Moments later, it lined up on a nearby bull and charged. There was nothing wrong with its gait. The armor-piercing projectile had done no more than chip its carapace and annoy it. And that should be another lesson for Dagger, Tirdal thought. The beast’s thoughts had spiked at the shot and were now subsiding back to normal. Dagger needed to do the same thing, and disappear behind the noise of the local life.
* * *
Dagger wasn’t stupid. He knew the conversation had been designed to distract him. Anyway, a good sniper worked better in silence. To say nothing could be the scariest statement of all. And the damned Elf wasn’t going to trick him into not using the tracking module. That whole jab had been an attempt to throw him off. It hinted of “fairness,” and Dagger was not one for “fair” when “effective” was available. He’d use the tracker, the superior range of his weapon, his cunning and precision. And, he’d use his human ability to kill. To do otherwise would be silly. Let the Darhel mutter his philosophy. Dagger would shoot beads instead.
He took deep drafts of air, both to revitalize his flagging strength and to calm his nerves. Now he had to get into a state that Tirdal couldn’t track. That would mean his tools would give him the advantage. His tools that didn’t depend on emotion.
Tirdal really was desperate, he reminded himself. He was talking, running, hiding the box, setting fires. It was all very annoying, some of it was foolishly dangerous, and all of it meant he was out of practical ideas. This was a battle. A low-scale battle between only two combatants, but still a battle. Some damage was inevitable. Tirdal had trouble inflicting it directly — probably he couldn’t kill and was hoping to push Dagger into getting injured, thus leaving him here in a cowardly fashion.
For a moment he remembered his own threat to Ferret, but that had been vengeful, not of necessity based on fear. Anyway, Ferret was dead, cleanly killed one-on-one.
Otherwise, Tirdal was just hoping for a lucky shot to catch Dagger, and all Dagger had to do was stand up to the fire, figuratively, and dish out what Tirdal couldn’t take. He’d gone face-to-face with Ferret, this gutless troll should be easier. And that’s what he was. Not an Elf, but a troll. A filthy little freak from a race of freaks who needed humans to fight for them. So here it came.
Dagger was going to head for those trees, get a good position, and at this range he could watch the Darhel’s brains splatter as the round hit. That would be sweet.
Dammit! Calm! It’s just an exercise. Locate the target, paint the target, shoot. Just like that bet with Thor. Just like the range. Afterwards was the time for a beer and a boast. And that artifact would be all the boasting he’d ever need. It would make him part of the war stories people passed around. Better yet, it would be one of the true ones.
He performed a maneuver that would have made his instructors proud. With an enemy at close range, he exfiltrated unseen and secured a new position. Chameleon at full power, because that was one of the things the Darhel couldn’t track, and he really didn’t care how much juice it ate up now, as he wouldn’t need it after today, he squirmed snakelike, curving through the grass. Straight lines are a giveaway of intelligent activity, and a long, winding path would not only be harder to see, but if seen would be mistaken for an animal track. He did as little damage as possible. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, a loop of the sling held in his hand as a drag. Some of the beetle and flyer forms were disturbed at his passage, but nothing larger, and those only twitched because of the movement, not because they noticed this strange apparition.
Movement ahead made him stop short. He held utterly still, breath clenched, as he examined the shape. It was a small scavenger form, about a half meter long, and it trudged on past at an angle. Good. He resumed crawling, seeing the copse dark ahead. He’d pick one about three trees in, which would give him a clear enough field of fire, and provide both screen and some hard cover.
The grass thinned as he neared the outer reach of roots, and the ground rose slightly, too, built up from centuries of rot and decay. The tracking gear showed Tirdal to still be about fifteen hundred meters away, though the little asshole was moving at a hell of a clip. Well, that would make it easier. And with Tirdal heading straight at him, easier still. An upright, advancing target. The Darhel was a sucker if he thought that was a good tactic against a sniper. Still, Dagger would have to be quick across the exposed ground, as he couldn’t spare the time to find the best approach or circle around behind. Then he’d have to be quick into position for a shot. He had perhaps two minutes.
Taking a breath for courage and for extra oxygen, he scurried like a lizard across open ground. His eyes were set on a tree ahead, and he made straight for it, then shifted sideways and dove around behind. No fire. Not detected by the Aggressor Team. Close eyes, avoid thinking, just breathe. We have a target, and that target is just a target. A pop-up, computerized dummy, just like a thousand others. It’s a pass/fail shot. Show the general how good his troops are, then have a beer. Remember the old joke? One shot, one kill, drink coffee. A target was a target was a target.
In his best shooting trance, Dagger crawled low and quickly, seeking a good, climbable tree.
That one. Easy to climb, easy to evacuate, and it appeared to have a decent view from about five meters up. Perfect. And the target was now…
Less than seven hundred meters? How did the little bastard move that fast?
Dagger clambered quickly up the tree, trailing his sling. He found a solid limb about three meters above the ground, and paused to drag the rifle up. He made it up two more limbs, right to five meters or so, with a great view, even better than he expected. It was perfectly framed by the main trunks and limbs in front. He could lean over this angled limb while standing in that crotch, and would have cover from it. He linked all his sensors and his scope to make tracking fast, and gazed out quickly. He was going to pass this shot, so he’d have to take it fast.
The target was about there… and there was no movement there. There was only grass. He checked everything again. Right there… and nothing, not even the haze of a chameleon. There was an IR source, maybe, though the sunlight even filtered by haze made it only a ghost…
The target was crawling, except it was the fastest damned crawl Dagger had ever seen. Holy shit, that was fast! And no clear target. Blue Team was being tricky. So for this exercise, switch between hornets and antiarmor, and fire as fast as possible. Outthink, outfight. Ready… and…
* * *
Tirdal felt Dagger’s presence. Dagger seemed to have learned, as his mind was reasonably calm and ordered. Ordinarily, that would have sufficed to mask him, but Tirdal was running tal to the very limits of his control. He had a Sense, a hunch of where Dagger was, and he was going to exploit that right now.
Dagger was still focusing on the fact that a Darhel would find it tough, if not impossible, to shoot a human. That thought stopped him from thinking about what else Tirdal could and might shoot at. Like that tree. That one right there.
Flashing a grin any human would recognize as triumphant, Tirdal eased his punch gun forward and fired.
A flash told him Dagger was firing, too, but there was nothing to do but follow through. His carefully aimed shot blew shreds of wet, fibrous wood out the back and into the tree behind it. Which was the tree Dagger was hiding in, if his estimation was right.
He tried to ignore the incoming fire as three hornet rounds cracked. The first blew dirt in his face. The second slammed into his boot and made his foot numb. The third he couldn’t identify, except that it hadn’t hit him. Then he was firing again, into the tree behind the first, shutting down his Sense in case he got lucky and hit Dagger. Twigs tumbled from the limb the shot had hit, and stray twigs blew out. They weren’t much good as fragments, as they lacked mass. Still, they’d distract. In that time, he shifted his aim down near the base and started firing deliberately. Three shots took just over 1.5 seconds, and that particular tree had no base. The remains started to tumble si
deways, its limbs whipping and crashing through the other trees. Then he turned his attention back to the one Dagger was hiding in. Another shot at a main limb blew chips in all directions. He’d not noticed Dagger’s next shot, which had almost taken his hand off, but the next one cracked overhead, a clear miss because Dagger was too busy to think. That falling tree was crashing through the one he used as his platform.
Three more shots took out the base of Dagger’s tree. That should have a positive effect. Tirdal grinned again and moved his aim to another.
* * *
Dagger was firing his third rapid hornet round at the warm spot in the grass when the tree in front of him exploded. Wet sap, splinters and chunks ripped past him and splashed over him. “Gah!” he yelled aloud, suddenly spooked. How the hell had the Darhel done that? And could he actually shoot to kill? The noise of the punch gun continued as Tirdal kept shooting.
