by John Ringo
It was then that Tirdal realized that the sniper must kill him. Even if Dagger decided to cut his losses—though the only one so far had been Tirdal's acquisition of the box—and leave, the pod wouldn't take off without Tirdal. Unless Tirdal was dead. Nor could Tirdal approach the extraction point until Dagger was dead, because that was the point of failure—they both had to go there, and neither could leave the other alive.
That was for later, though. For the present, he had broken contact, he had defined the parameters of the immediate mission, and now he had to secure the tactical advantage and locate his target. All the text from training came back to him, and he realized how thoroughly humans avoided discussing actualities while burying them in platitudes. He knew exactly what he had to do. He had no idea how he was to proceed. It was probably one of those "you'll be taught this at your destination unit" bits, like so many others. How odd that humans required all this ritual and what they considered privation to look within and determine if one had the mettle for the job. A Darhel simply meditated, considered the question, and decided if it was something he could grasp. Then the training would begin. The human "training," however, was nothing but that focusing of thought, that grounding of self, with the essential details left out. Tirdal felt horribly cheated.
Lacking the proper training, the problems then must be resolved through reason. Dagger would seek high ground, attempt to determine where Tirdal was, then pursue to a range that would allow him a shot and no closer. The obvious signs of cowardice Tirdal had seen precluded him from engaging at close range. Therefore, Tirdal needed to find a new area. It should be one not conducive to long-range shooting.
He looked at the river through the trees and debated. Darhel were dense; they had more bone ratio than humans and their muscles were significantly denser than those of most humans. They had very little fat ratio. So they tended to sink like stones. He had learned to use underwater breathing gear and could construct an adequate float. Water was familiar to him. But floating down the river, while it might permit him to throw the sniper off the trail, would be a good form of suicide. If Dagger did follow the river, he'd have the high ground for a shot and the best cover. If he didn't follow, it was a draw. Draw meant death, because the pod would leave them there.
The only answer, no matter how poor, was to stay in the woods. How long would Dagger wait? Would he wait most of the day to determine if the Darhel would come back? Or had he already raided the camp and started on the trail?
Tirdal thought about the mind that had been revealed in that one moment of assault. It was . . . slimy. Conceited and emotionless, unless the hint of cruel pleasure in the taking of life was an emotion. It was not like the Blobs, who were very clearly vicious in thought process. Not like most humans, who were quite happy to avoid confrontation most of the time. Similar, really, to some of the baser Darhel he had been exposed to. He understood them, even if it was only intellectually. Dagger's motives and cause were clearly different, but the results were similar.
Such a mind as Dagger's would accept the normal belief of Darhel as cowardly traitors. When the Darhel did not immediately appear he would follow. In fact, he was probably trailing Tirdal at this moment.
He started walking as he thought. There was every reason to put some distance between himself and the sniper. He focused his thoughts on the pain, letting insira training grapple the pain until it existed only at a second level below consciousness. With his submind keeping track of the injury, he was able to devote all his concentration to the matter at hand. He moved at a safe walk, twisting and slipping through the branches and over the roots. After a few trudging steps, he adjusted his posture to deal with the pain signals from his submind and slowed slightly. That position reduced the agony to a sharp bite, but it would exacerbate things when the soft tissue tightened up. The box atop his shoulders didn't help.
The other consideration was that a personality like Dagger's would not take chances. Dagger would find a good spot on the projected path and try to ambush him. That was all the more reason to stay ahead. And he'd have to stay ahead for an Earth week, nine local days, because that was the timeframe on the first pickup. Dagger had at least a week to track down Tirdal and the box and kill him. Then there were the eight days after that . . .
Meeting the first pickup was not a requirement. The pod would change positions twice before leaving the planet for all time. The question was whether he thought he could live in competition with the sniper.
Darhel can manage without rest for a considerable time. Their muscles can build up fatigue toxins the way some Earth animals can develop an oxygen debt. So Tirdal could easily go up to three days without sleep, even injured. He could push to a week without extreme side effects. Beyond that it got tricky. It would be best to end this quickly. And if he could figure out Dagger's rest periods, he could use those to advantage.
On the negative side, Tirdal had a number of handicaps. He was not competent in the woods. He was injured. But the injury would heal, quickly. Quicker than Dagger could imagine. The woods skills though . . . those were a problem. Then there was the minor matter of tal, lintatai and having to kill. Dagger had already shown how easily humans could kill. It was a considerably tougher task for a Darhel. Then there was the metabolic issue. Already he was hungry and he only had a protocarb converter to depend on. He could convert just about anything to food but foraging would still take some time. And it would leave marks, because it took a lot of random plant life to yield enough fat and protein, especially when one didn't recognize the plant forms or take the time to dig for roots. Besides the signs left by foraging, it gave the sniper more time to find him. He'd need more food to stay awake, which meant more signs.
It was as likely as not that the contest would be decided in a day or two. But that was planning on the basis of losing. Plan to win with fallbacks.
So, if he did the expected, ran for the pickup point where the pod was waiting, he could assume he would be intercepted. Although he might survive a couple of ambushes, he would probably succumb eventually.
If he ran for unknown territory he might be able to turn the tables. Dagger would be at a disadvantage, never knowing where Tirdal would show up.
Decision made, Tirdal turned to the north. He'd have to cross this river at once and move away from the extraction point, drawing Dagger with him, to end the scenario before the pod defaulted to the north.
He wouldn't bother with the chameleon effect of his suit for now, he decided. It used power that he should save for sensors and the proton discharge in case of more hornet rounds. That power use was detectable and he was leaving a trail Dagger could follow anyway. The local distortion would not be much help without good concealment first.
He waded out into the stream, which was a hundred meters wide at this point. The current was slow but insistent, pulling at him and urging him downstream. He adjusted his pace and angle, careful of the mass above his shoulders which affected his balance, and pushed on. The depth rose to his waist, slowing his rate to near nothing. Then it was at his chest, the current relentless in its urge. His neck. Taking a deep breath, he strode forward and under.
The water was reasonably clear, sediment from upstream having settled just beyond the rapids, sediment stirred by his feet disappearing quickly. Occasional shells, eellike local fish and bits of debris swept by. He plodded along, feeling the surface lap at his hands. The temperature was cold by human standards, refreshing by his; Darhel was a cool world. The water was only a couple of meters deep, but the pressure and current squeezed his injured chest. That was going to be an ongoing problem on this stalk.
Soon, his hands were under, which was good for concealment, bad for his growing need for oxygen. He could last a bit further, though, and the bed started rising, rocks giving way to a smooth, sandy bank. He rose nearly to the top of his head, hopped up and exchanged lungfuls of air, his chestplate not liking that, either. He was swept several meters downstream before his feet regained purchase. Once they
did, he resumed walking. The bed rose once again, then suddenly dropped away, leaving him tumbling. Deep channel. But was it near the center or offset to one side?
He caught solid surface again, twisted twice in the current and stood upon it. He felt with his Sense and his senses for bearing, and got them. The ground rose rapidly in one direction, and that would be the bank. It was a good thing; he needed air again and had too much mass to get above the surface by swimming. In fact, he needed air so badly the pressure in his lungs hurt more than the spreading bruise and strain of his chest. He forced his feet forward, shoving them into the mucky clay here and drawing them back out, desperate to reach the surface soon.
Then he was above it, the water swirling around his neck as he panted for breath. His muscles ached from the aftereffects of tal, the exertion and the oxygen starvation, but he was up and out, sprawled among weeds and able to rest.
Except he couldn't rest. Dagger wouldn't be far behind, and might see this clumsy crushing of greenery for what it was. He got his knees and elbows under him, pushed up while taking deep draughts of air to heal himself, and grabbed the artifact he didn't recall dropping. It was time to put distance between himself and his enemy. He disappeared into the forests, pondering ways to create confusion and interfere with Dagger's plans.
* * *
Ferret sipped water from the tube at his chin, forced himself to chew a slimy, rubbery bit of rat pack chicken, and waited for the painkiller to take effect. He'd swallowed a wound nano, too, though they were meant for healing small cuts and blisters, lest they get infected. What it could do for massive neural trauma, he didn't know. But it might at least prolong the inevitable.
At that, he was getting some pins and needles feeling back into his right ankle. It was excruciating to bend it, but he could do so. The left still hung limply. He wasn't sure how nerves so thoroughly dead as to make a limb useless could still send screaming jolts of pain through him. He was on fire up to his hips and balls.
There'd been scuffling noises from within the camp earlier. Part of him had wanted to crawl over and help, but it might be Dagger or Tirdal back for loot. Anyway, the medical gear was with Shiva, who was there. It was best that he stay hidden, though it gnawed at him. It smacked of cowardice, even though that was his duty right now. He had to stop that box from leaving with the Darhel.
Nothing had happened for an hour, and he'd been able to recover from some of the shock with the help of some meds. That, however, was about the extent of his pharmacopeia and the range of his medical skills. The only human medic on the planet was that goddamned Darhel, who was making off with the artifact.
He decided it had to be a spur of the moment decision between Tirdal and Dagger. To think the whole mission was a setup was paranoid. Besides, if the Darhel had wanted it, they had ships of their own, or Tirdal would have steered them clear of the site after having the humans clear the Blobs, or he would have grenaded them there. That was the type of cowardly attack he expected from them. But it had been Dagger. Dagger, who had shown so much interest in the box. The two of them must have had a quick debate over splitting the money, then gone to work.
But he couldn't just lie here and wait to die, or be found by those two scum and killed. He had to get moving. As they'd be heading for the extraction point, he'd have to do so, too. The only hope was to get there first and hold them off, force them to deal with him. That would likely kill him anyway, but he couldn't let them take that artifact. Those things were dangerous, and especially when up for bid to any lunatic or group of extremists out there.
The bitch of it was, he could save himself, possibly. Gun Doll's transmitter would burn a signal out, and he knew enough about it to be able to make it do so. That would bring in a force. With only one Tslek there, the odds were excellent that he could stay hidden. Even if the Tslek got a force there first, he could be well away from them. But that would start a huge battle, cost hundreds or thousands of casualties, and the box would already be gone. If he did that for just his life, he'd be saved, yes. Then he'd be put away forever. That was just not the type of fame he wanted, and that life wasn't preferable to death, really. He couldn't do that to people.
Could a force get here fast enough to matter, if he could protect the pod for a few days? Was he likely to live that long? The artifact was important enough to make that call, even if he wasn't.
It might bear thinking about.
First, he should try to figure out where they were. Dammit, Tirdal could read minds, and Dagger had gear at least as good as his. He didn't dare pursue them, yet he had to. The artifact had to be recovered, and he'd likely have to kill both of them to do it. And he wasn't sure he could.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Ferret got himself calm enough to consider everything. The important fact was that he was already effectively dead. He was in excruciating pain. Nothing could get worse, from a personal point of view. Every moment was a gift of borrowed time, and he intended to use each one of them. All that was left was professional accomplishment and duty. Though it might be that no one would ever know what he did.
He rolled slowly over, feet full of phantom pain that couldn't exist with the damaged nerves, but did. Every shift of his boots over the rough surface of the ground was static up into his thighs. He clamped down on the pain and managed to reach into his ruck for the lifesigns tracker. He opened its case, brought it up at minimum and began searching for residual DNA, pheromones or heat. He canceled everything that indicated himself and let it search and ponder.
There was something down by the stream that wasn't local. The readings didn't match Dagger's profile. Tirdal had gone that way. So it was Tirdal.
Ferret considered for only a moment. Tirdal would be easier to track than Dagger, easier to approach. The man—alien—wasn't the best in the woods, in fact was downright clumsy in a few ways. Also, he had a punch gun, which was a much shorter range weapon than the rifle Dagger had. Tirdal was injured, and wasn't going to be very stealthy, assuming Ferret could stalk him. So Tirdal was the logical one to pursue first. That and he had the artifact. Get that and he had a hell of a bargaining chip to use with Dagger.
That decided him. He drew his feet under him, rose carefully through the waving leaves, alert for threats, and explored the range of motion of his shrieking, cramping legs. Nausea and pain washed over him, and he tried not to strangle on saliva or bite his cheeks as he grimaced tightly. Swaying from poor feedback, he steadied himself.
He could walk. Not well, but it was possible. His right ankle bent as he wanted, the left was insensate but did move mechanically if he thought about it. He would need support though, as he couldn't tell what was under his foot, or how it was moving unless he looked at it.
There were straight, sturdy saplings within stumbling distance, and his knife cut through one easily enough with three light chops. He trimmed it to a good length, with a side branch to use as support. It would work as a crutch. Now he'd have to lose some of the mass he carried, however.
He'd keep two grenades, one power pack for the punch gun and his knife as weapons. The rest could be buried. The tracker he'd keep, of course. Two rat packs would supplement the marginal crap he'd be able to get out of the food converter. He wouldn't need rope, gloves or most of what was in his larger ruck. He could just use the patrol pack, if he detached it.
Thus unburdened, he could limp more steadily. And his nerves were hurting less. Either the painkillers and nanos were having some effect, or the nerves were dying. For now, either was acceptable.
Learning to use his feet as mere appendages rather than as limbs, he headed downhill, very slowly and cautiously, probing ahead with the crutch and hopping down to meet it, every jolt another brand into his legs. He wasn't going to try for anything in the camp. It was an easy threat zone, and likely booby trapped. He'd just have to rely on his wits and his gun.
* * *
Dagger settled down in his next hide and checked his bearings. The point was a slight rise overlooking a clearin
g along the river. His hide was a circle of trees, open above but thickly interlaced from about forty centimeters off the ground to a couple of meters up. It was peaceful in a way, like the practice range. And as with the range, there would be a target. He had a good view from underneath out across the river valley.
The Darhel would have to go well out of his way to not cross the clearing and the last time Dagger checked the Elf had been moving slowly. There had also been traces of violet blood; the hornet must have scored even if it didn't kill the little creep.
He idly glanced at the tracker on the box and frowned. It was well to the north, nowhere near a line to the pod. What in the hell did the damned Elf think it was doing? Then it hit him. The Elf wanted to play games. Okay. No problem. The only game in town was "Dagger wins." But he'd have to pay more attention to the tracker. Eventually he'd get the Elf to rights.
Later, though. He was faster than the Elf and could easily catch up. Time for some lunch. He pulled some leaves off the nearest tree and root stems from the ground and put them in his converter. Maybe the processor could imitate something unusual. He scrolled through the list of delicacies on the menu. Ah, calf brains. That sounded interesting.
Chapter 11
Tirdal crouched down and took a drink of water. The trickling stream here probably meandered down to reach the large river to the south, but in this area it ran between clay banks. There were plenty of hiding places and it would have been a fair place to rest for a bit, if he had any idea how far he was from the sniper. The problem was that he was the hunted. Dagger could hit him at any time so he had no time to slow down and rest.
