by John Ringo
Dagger smirked, barely avoided laughing again, and continued after Tirdal. Ferret wasn't an issue anymore.
* * *
Ferret shook. He'd given away too much info in that conversation. Communications security. How often had that been drilled into them? Anything you say, or what you don't say, can be hints. And Dagger wasn't stupid, far from it, no matter how nuts he was. So the best thing to do was keep quiet and not respond to provocation.
Besides, he had the lifesigns tracker. If they didn't know if he was alive or dead, he had a much better strategic position. And he did know they were alive at present, Tirdal injured.
For the first time that day, Ferret smiled. It wasn't pretty through his dirty and strained face, but it was genuine.
He didn't smile for long. Biology had caught up with him, and he had to take a dump badly. What he couldn't figure out was a way to do it while keeping a low profile, an eye out for predators or enemies, and while not putting weight on his legs. Last resort would just be to do it in the suit, but if it was possible to avoid that, he'd prefer to. No one liked sitting or walking in shit.
After a few frantic seconds of searching, he found a downed, rotten log with slimy fungus on it. Still, it was a seat of sorts, and with one hand to balance against his crutch and one to hold the punch gun, he managed to take care of business, then slip agonizingly back to the ground. When done, he couldn't kick dirt over the evidence, so he settled for using the butt of his weapon as a shovel.
That done, he rose painfully to his knees and resumed his stalk, slow and steady. The prey has to avoid leaving a trace and watch for obstacles. The tracker has to avoid running up on his prey, or being attacked from the rear. Hopefully, those two wouldn't be moving too fast with that artifact, though they could certainly move fast with one to lead and one to cover. But he recalled that Tirdal had been somewhat slower due to his shorter legs. And there was nothing else to do but follow, at this point. He'd have to think of a way to change that. Meanwhile, that twisted leaf and those bent stalks told him which way to go.
* * *
Tirdal kept moving. Patience was the key. Remain calm, remain awake and alert. Anger, hunger, pain and fatigue would lead to Dagger making mistakes, and those mistakes could be turned to Tirdal's advantage.
As to the present, more food was indicated; he needed strength. He wondered if it would be easier or more of a strain to kill again. He pondered the relative risks for few minutes while eating reconstituted "bean curd" produced by his food converter. That decided him. He'd risk it. Human military rations were barely edible.
So, this could be used as a training exercise. He needed to learn more stealth and how to hunt, and there was food on the paw or leg in this forest. Beetles, he recalled from lectures in DRT school, were eighty-five percent useable protein. It was likely these analogs would be similar, allowing for greater mass of exoskeleton and organ. Still, there should be lots of protein there. The problem was catching a beetle and opening it up afterwards.
Dropping into a crouch, he squatted silently and used his senses and Sense to seek local life . . . and there was one of the browsing beetle creatures, about ten meters ahead. He could just see its sensory stalks examining leaves, with far more grace and flexibility than an equivalent insect form would have on Earth or Darhel.
He eased forward, alert for movement of the plants that disturbed his Sense, watching for anything he might brush against, feeling for anything underneath that might shift. It was arduous and took a lot of concentration, but he believed that he could get the hang of it with enough weeks' practice. Of course, this would be over in days or hours, but he filed the knowledge and the need for study in this field. Nor was this insect as bright as Dagger. It was genetically programmed for the noises made by the local predators, and Tirdal was soon within five meters. He examined the terrain, which was firmly packed humus with leafy undergrowth and trees, clear enough for a charge.
Dagger, or any other human would have been amazed at what happened next. Tirdal leaned forward and shoved off with his feet like a sprinter or tackle. The box followed a higher trajectory so it would stay near him and not be left behind, his punch gun was tucked in tight under his left arm. The beetle's antennae twitched straight up, and it followed them as its legs flexed. But before it could move, Tirdal had snatched the rim of its shell on the fly and rolled out. His chest plate caused him to cringe in pain, but he forced the sensations back. Pain was a warning, nothing more, and he knew he was injured. Further pain was of no use.
The insect was awkard to kill, though not hard. It wiggled in his grasp and tried to find purchase, its legs brushing his arm periodically. After a few probes, he was able to insert his knife blade between the edges at the rim of its shell and, with a mighty, convulsive kick with ten legs, it died. He pried it open to find clean, white meat, and focused his Jem discipline to keep the tal to a trickle. That was not an easy task, for his pulse was thundering in his ears. It was not exertion; he'd barely put forth any. It was, instead, the clawing rage of the beast within demanding release. But he beat it down and proceeded to eat.
Above that, his overmind considered the event. The stalk had been adequate, the attack good. That rollout, however, would have alerted everything within a kilometer. There were still dead leaves and spiky needles hanging from his hair, and one, stuck between suit and skin, was poking him sharply. That part of the attack needed work. His punch gun was still in place, and the box was a bare meter away. Well done.
After slicing the meat up with his teeth and swallowing it in the slivery pieces his dentition demanded, he made an attempt at sucking tissue from the legs, since he couldn't seem to crack them with his hands, or even with his knife hilt against a tree.
That delicate meat refused to yield. He bit, sucked and probed with his tongue, but it woudn't separate. It was right then that it happened.
While he was conscious for attacks, considering strategy and concentrating on food, that inner beast came howling up toward the surface. It craved that meat more than he did, and it needed release.
Tirdal dropped the husks and shook as his self-control and Jem discipline fought a quick, painful battle. Tal could not be allowed to win. Lintatai, no matter how blissfully pleasing, was death. He was sweating profusely now, struggling even more. When the opponent advances, the warrior retreats, the warrior evades. The warrior seeks battle on his own terms only. The opponent's force must be bent as a tree in the storm . . . but this opponent was himself, and retreat was not possible. It was a frontal clash, and his consciousness was fading into dusky haze.
Then he was back. How close had he come, he wondered. But he had not succumbed. Lesson learned: eat fast, dispose of corpse, keep moving. Complacency and contempt were not to be allowed. Every time he courted tal, it would be like this he realized, and he felt a cloud descend. Centuries of philosophy, training and triage had not yet defeated the genetic tampering of the Aldenata. How many other races had been left damaged and incomplete by their deific meddling? The Posleen, the humans, Indowy, Tchpth, Himmit, Ruorgla . . . and those were the ones known to the Darhel. Were even the Tslek bastard offspring of the Aldenata?
Still, he had much to report to his Masters, should he survive this. They would be grateful of the knowledge, and it would further the Art.
"Hello, Tirdal." His musing was interrupted by another transmission.
"What can I do for you, Dagger?" he replied, glad of the distraction.
* * *
"You can die, you little freak," Dagger snarled. What was taking so long? Even given greater strength, the Darhel lacked the legs and hips to move quickly. Dagger should be catching up to him, should have caught him by now.
"What a coincidence, Dagger, I was about to ask the same of you." The Elf's voice was almost conversational, as if he wasn't under any stress at all, just taking a walk in the park.
"Yes, you'd need that, wouldn't you?" Dagger taunted. "After all, you can't do the deed yourself."
"
It is very difficult for Darhel to kill," Tirdal admitted. "But it can be done. And in your case, it will be a pleasure."
"Good luck on that, then," Dagger said, smiling. "I mean, you leaving a trail like a lovesick blunderbeast is bound to make my task easier and yours harder."
"I thought you could use the advantage, Dagger," Tirdal replied. "You humans are so weak it is laughable." He still didn't sound worried. Screw the little bastard.
Dagger needed something to prod with, and saw just the thing. "Hey, look what I just found! It's a rock! Not only a rock, Tirdal, but a turned rock, damp underneath. And this crushed leaf here seems to have your boot's tread pattern on it. Unless there's another Darhel here with number forty-three boots, right boot with a V-shaped cut in the third tread, it's yours. How about that?" The trail really wasn't that easy, but he'd seen the bootprint earlier and did have a goodly number of blazes to follow. That and the tracker. But the little fuck was moving at a hell of a clip.
Tirdal replied at once, "Good for you, Dagger. If you can maintain that pace nineteen hours a day here for the next ten local days, you can meet me at the pod and we can fight this out. The gravity is high for you, low for me, and woods skill aside, we both know which of us is the more intelligent." He didn't sound worried. Dammit, Dagger had him pegged, knew his every step, and the goddamned Elf acted as if it were no big deal.
"If you were really smart, Tirdal, you would have died at once when it would have been painless," he said. As soon as he did, he knew it sounded weak. He tried another tack. "Of course, you're a coward, like all Darhel. Can't fight. Won't fight. You not only used humans to fight your wars, you felt the need to bully and screw us into it by keeping back the weapons tech we needed. Live humans are a threat to you, and you know it."
"Dagger," came the reply, "I've been very patient so far. Now, if you don't want to see me angry, at least come up with an intelligent argument or a real threat. And your simplistic, childlike knowledge of politico-historical events is amusing.
"Remember, also, that killing is a mental discipline, not concerned with the physicalities of rocks and leaves. I've been letting you live because my philosophy calls for it. You mistake that for cowardice. That's not my issue. But if we continue this, you will find out what a Bane Sidhe is. Do you recall that term, Dagger?"
"Never heard of it," he snapped. "Some Darhel boogeyman?"
"No, Dagger," Tirdal replied. It had to be a deliberate condescending tone in his voice as he said, "Perhaps you've heard it as 'banshee.' A Bane Sidhe is a demon who calls men to their deaths. Though I won't be calling, I'll be visiting personally. And I intend to make it very personal." That sonorous voice was suddenly a vicious slap with a gravelly undertone. "I'm going to kill you, Dagger. I intend to rip your heart out through your ribs while it's still beating, and, because it's such an issue for you, I intend to eat it, raw, while your dying corpse watches."
"My, my, aren't we bent out of shape about that pack of assholes getting nerved," Dagger said, trying to chuckle. His opponent didn't sound like a shivering, neurotic sensat without combat experience. He sounded like a killer, almost like Dagger himself. He knew it was all act, but he trembled despite himself. That low, deep voice that sounded so cold and calm had been mean. Could the little bastard actually mean it?
"They don't even enter into this, Dagger," he heard. "That's an issue for your chain of command. I'm going to kill you for trying to, in your terms, 'fuck me over.' "
"Fuck you over?" Dagger asked, outraged, fear forgotten. "Who's got the goddamned box here? And what do you expect to do with it if I let you live?"
Tirdal said, "The box is none of your concern, since it's only money to you. But since you ask, I intend to take it to the proper authorities."
"Proper authorities?" Dagger yelled, incredulous. "Proper authorities? It's worth a billion credits. A billion. Even after taxes, as if we couldn't figure out some way to avoid them, it's a goddamned fortune. 'Fortune' isn't even enough of a word. It's like winning the lottery, except it's been earned the hard way. That money is mine, ours if you weren't being a fool about it. You want to take it to the authorities? Hell, if you weren't such an asshole, I could cut you in. I even know who to fence it through."
Tirdal replied, "For some reason that last fact doesn't surprise me. So that's your motive here? You killed your whole team for money?"
"Yes, Tirdal," Dagger laughed. He'd outflanked this Elf who thought himself some kind of genius. "That's pretty much it. Call it a weakness, but a billion credits is worth more to me than those whining little wussies. And I get to use you as an alibi. 'The Darhel freaked out under stress, couldn't handle facing the enemy.' You're perfect. You tossed the grenade in panic, I hunted you down and took care of it. I'm a hero. Then I take leave to console myself over the loss of my friends and disappear. Next thing no one hears, I've got women lined up to blow me four times a day and a mansion full of slaves." He was babbling, he realized. Dammit, keep control.
"Fascinating," Tirdal replied. "I'm sure a psychiatrist—is that what you call them?—would have a fine time analyzing your neuroses. Or are they psychoses? I'm not up on human mental ailments. There are just too many of them to keep track of. You may even harbor some as-yet unknown ones. But your cupidity tells me you'd make a rather good Darhel, or at least what you think of as a Darhel."
Dagger was panting now, and not from exertion. Dammit, why was he having a panic attack over this? He had those when confronting things. That was the point of being a sniper, the point of keeping people terrified. It avoided confrontation. And the Darhel was in the next county, he told himself. He shouldn't be twitching like this. "W-what," he said, then got control, "you're just going to turn it in for a reward? Not even a finder's fee? What kind of Darhel does that make you?"
Again, no hesitation before the reply. "The kind with pride in himself, his clan and his race. Not to mention the survival of his race. And your race, Dagger. There are Fringe planets with contacts to species we don't have proper relations with. Do you really want them having access to whatever is in there?"
"How altruistic," Dagger replied. "All thought for others. Selflessness and charity. You'd make a wonderful human wuss."
"And with that insult, Dagger, we are done for now. Goodbye."
"Tirdal? Tirdal? Come back you cowardly little Elf, we aren't done talking!" he shouted.
It appeared, however, that they were, for now.
Chapter 12
Ferret's legs weren't hurting as much. He figured that was good, tactically. He was almost back to a reasonable pace, and had tossed the crutch. He was still limping as he moved, but he was moving by himself. Medically, he figured the lessening pain presaged massive tissue damage from gangrene or something similar. He actually might survive if he could get these two beaten and call the pod. There were good AI medical facilities aboard. He still considered that tantalizing chance, now far behind him, of using Doll's transmitter for backup. He really, personally, didn't care if a war started, instead of all this back and forth. But command would not be happy with his sorry ass, even if he survived. Anyway, it was only a chance, and he'd abandoned that for this track. Fretting wasn't going to help.
The voice in his earphones surprised him. "So, Ferret, how are you doing?"
He clamped his mouth tightly shut, lips thin. The longer he could wait before speaking to Dagger, the more of a threat he'd appear. Let Dagger get scared. That was a weapon all by itself.
"Ferret? I know you're there, you half-assed moron."
Nothing. And Dagger was sounding a bit distressed.
"Okay, Ferret, I'll play your game. Just wait until I see a glimpse of you again. It'll be the last. Goodbye."
Dagger had definitely been disturbed. Good.
The signs on his tracker were not making sense. They still showed Tirdal to be several minutes, almost half an hour, ahead of Dagger. Dagger was about a half hour ahead of Ferret. So why hadn't Tirdal stopped to let Dagger catch up? They'd still have pl
enty of lead.
Of course, they didn't know how far ahead of Ferret they were. Dagger was likely playing for time, hoping Ferret's wounds would do him in.
Unless they planned to spread out and make Ferret choose, so they could envelope him. If so, it was even more important that he keep silent. He was the best tracker of the three.
He wished he knew what they were planning though. And that he had someone to talk to. And that it would stop hurting.
* * *
Tirdal left Dagger to fret. What was the human expression? "Stew in his own juices." That was it. And it was doubly appropriate. This level of exertion caused tremendous metabolic stress and perspiration. From what he knew of human physiology and medical treatment, it had to be about as unpleasant for Dagger. Which was good. Dagger might handle the heat better, but Tirdal had greater stamina and resistance, he was sure. The worse things got here, the more advantageous it would be.
There was danger, he admitted. Dagger could track better, and had a weapon with much greater range. He also sounded completely insane at this point. Had he been already, and it was simply surfacing now? Had it been hidden by a social façade? Or was it something latent, triggered by his impulsive actions? Did being alone emphasize human emotions? That was always true to some extent, but was it worse in this instance?
No time for that now, he thought. It was time to put kilometers between them, and stay in the woods while doing so. He rose carefully back to his feet and secured the artifact, then resumed his march. Behind him was the shell of his lunch, its legs still occasionally twitching even though there was no body or mind attached to it. Insects were so barely sentient they were very hard to kill properly. Whereas sentient animals were easy to kill, in theory, except for that mental activity involved.
The local sun was well on its way down. That would change things immensely. He could see innately better than Dagger, but Dagger was very skilled with night vision. Also, Tirdal's hotter metabolism would shine in that night vision. However, Dagger had now been awake for nineteen hours. Certainly he could go longer, but aside from thirst and hunger, Tirdal wasn't particularly stressed. And Dagger was. The situation should change in Tirdal's favor shortly. All that was needed was calm and patience. The waves turn rock to sand. Sand smoothes all signs. Be as the waves; persistent, calm, undeterred . . .
