by John Ringo
Dagger realized he'd have to rest. Had to. He simply couldn't go on at this pace, and dammit, it was getting dark again. He let gravity pull him down into the soft earth to catch a few breaths.
Then another blast of a punch gun threw dirt in his face.
He dropped down lower, and rolled off to one side, away from the shot. His brain, experienced at this even if disoriented at the moment, realized the shot had come from the south. That had to be Ferret, then. If the two of them were linking up, Dagger was in a bad place, caught in crossfire. He whipped up his rifle, let the scope follow the rapidly dissipating plasma sheath back the way the shot had come, and marked the location.
Then he slithered down the slope, trading range and position for safety and concealment. So the little asshole was back there, and trying to be clever. He would see about that. It took him only a moment to light the spot on his reticle and squeeze off a round. Ferret might have moved from that spot, but if not, he was dead. If he had, he was about to learn that Dagger could track him back just as well.
Ferret had moved, and fired again right after Dagger did. Dagger rolled, squirmed back, and shot again. His remaining fear flushed from him. This was what he lived for: a challenge to the wits and reflexes. "Bring it on, Ferret," he said into the communicator. "I've got your name on a bead."
* * *
Ferret heard that and realized he'd made a mistake. He should have tried to get closer with Dagger distracted. He'd figured a shot then, with Dagger busy, had a good chance and was relatively safe. He hadn't thought the man could discern direction and threat so fast, then respond. He was a good shot. He was one bastard of a shot. The first one had been within a meter, even as he moved. The second one had damned near taken his face off.
But there was something about the ego behind them that just begged for a retort. "Hell, Dagger, I'm not worried about the one with my name on it," he said, preparing to fire and move as soon as he said, "but all those ones you keep shooting addressed to 'occupant' or 'current resident' are really pissing me off."
That did it, Ferret realized as another bead ripped past. But he was committed, now. He had a slight depression for cover, only his face and arms were exposed, and any shot that hit him was going to kill him so fast he'd never know it.
His plan was to stay still, watch Dagger's movements and make his own shots as close to those of a sniper as he could manage. The sights on the punch gun weren't nearly those of a precision gauss rifle, but were plenty good enough for ranges less than a thousand meters, and the weapon was theoretically more accurate, being light speed and line of sight. It had more punch up close, hence its colloquial name, and any good shot would more than equalize things.
And that bead Dagger had just fired came from right there. Ferret zoomed in as best he could, saw a flicker that might be a camouflaged Dagger, and fired.
He missed, apparently, because another bead came in right afterwards. It tore at the grass and was so close he could feel the slap of the shockwave. From a projectile that tiny, that was impressive. He'd take one more shot and move, he decided, and shifted his weapon just slightly.
* * *
Dagger watched the shots come in. Ferret was right there, and if they kept swapping fire, he'd hit sooner or later. Of course, Ferret might, too. He was in the grass there, though he didn't show on infrared even in this late light. It might be wise to shift for cover.
But that insult had really stuck in his ass. Who the fuck was Ferret to criticize his shooting? Who the fuck was Tirdal? They'd been shooting as much as he had. Did they think they were special? Were they proud of the fact they couldn't do it?
No, Ferret was going to pay for that comment. And it was right then that Dagger saw it.
The grass shifted just slightly, and there was Ferret, hard to see but clearly outlined. He wasn't chameleoned. Either he'd had tech problems, or he'd just plain forgotten. And now was when it all paid off.
"Why, Ferret," he said, "you seem to have forgotten your chameleon." As he said the last word, he stroked the trigger.
For just a moment, the universe linked two minds.
It was that link between hunter and prey. The prey knew he had made a critical and final mistake, and looked up. The expression on Ferret's face wasn't of fear, though there was a hint of that beneath. There was also disgust at failure, after so tough a struggle. Mostly it was sadness and regret that the artifact was to leave the planet with one of the others.
The hunter knew he had the shot. Dagger smiled a cruel smile, an almost sexual thrill running through him. The tougher the target, the bigger the thrill, and Ferret had been a royal pain in the ass. He had all the time in the world, or less than a second. His finger brushed the trigger and the gauss rifle cracked its projectile.
At this range, flight time was negligible. Through the scope, a wake through the air was visible, ripples expanding from a shape that was a conical arc. What was that shape called? Dagger wondered idly. He'd have to look it up sometime.
Then the round ripped through Ferret's face, the husk peeling away to expose a few micrograms of antimatter. It had been a needless touch; any of the rounds would have killed. But Dagger was glad it would be excessive. There was a low, dull explosion that he wouldn't hear for a second or more, the reaction muffled for just a moment by flesh and bone that then expanded ahead of the shock wave, too fast for human eyes to see. Ferret just disappeared, everything above his abdomen vaporized by a combination of shock wave and steam explosion. His punch gun dropped, taking his disembodied hands with it, and his lower half gushed red, pink and gray innards into a fetid heap in front.
"Now that's sweet," Dagger said in a whisper, smile frozen on his face. One asshole down, one to go. "Hey, Tirdal," he transmitted, "Ferret's dead in front of me. You're next."
Tirdal replied of course. He always had a glib answer. "So I deduced. How unfortunate for Ferret. It does, however, simplify matters for me to have the weaker mind be the only pursuit. We shall see each other shortly, Dagger. Or at least one of us will see the other."
"Better hope it's you, Tirdal. Though you can't do much except duck. You won't be within range of me with that shooter."
" 'Hope' is not a Darhel concept," Tirdal replied. "We shall simply see. 'Good luck,' in human parlance."
"Yeah, screw you too, Darhel. It's six down and one to go," Dagger said.
Tirdal was just an annoyance, now. Dagger felt one hell of a lot better with a solid kill for his tally.
Still, it was getting dark in a hurry. Under his elation was a leaden wave of tiredness that kept dragging him down. It would be best to move a short distance away, and find a place to . . . hide . . . for the night. The word wasn't pleasant, but he would be hiding from Tirdal and local animals, not from the dark. He'd make it close by, so he could watch Tirdal's current location, and this chewed spot of the bluff, in case the Elf came up to look. Though he was betting Darhel boy was too timid and inexperienced for that.
In the meantime, food, water. His processor could produce lettuce-looking stuff that had a lot of moisture. That would have to suffice, he supposed. It would taste like grass, but it would keep him alive for now. And Tirdal wouldn't attack, because Tirdal couldn't be sure of getting within range without getting shot. The high ground was the best place, and Dagger had it.
Now, where to camp? He could roll against another crumbled dirt face and let it collapse across himself, his head and shoulders covered with the gear cover from his ruck propped up with rocks and sticks. Yes, that would work. It might even be cool, if he dialed the suit down. The dirt would absorb energy from him and radiate it away, and it would be dispersed enough not to be obvious.
First things first, though. He needed to swallow a nano for the ankle, stuff a lot of grass into the processor to get water from it, and clean the muzzle of his rifle.
He squirmed the rest of the way out of the scree, and gingerly took to a crawl. It would keep him low and protect both his screaming ankle and throbbing knee. Ripp
ing whole fistfuls of grass, he stuffed them into the mouth of the processor until it was packed full. It worked more efficiently when lightly loaded, but this was an emergency. He opened the seal around his boot, hiked up the pant leg and pressed the nano carrier against his ankle. It seeped in, feeling cold, then the ankle began to itch, then go numb. Hopefully, it would be useable by dawn.
He had to settle for running a cleaning rod down the bore of the rifle, rather than a full stripping. He couldn't risk losing components. The charged brush seemed to clear everything, and he'd just have to assume the scope was still aligned and resight it if needed. It had been fine for Ferret, but that had been less than a thousand meters, and he didn't know how closely the round had hit his point of aim. A few microradians off was an angle of departure that would compound with distance. Also, it might have been loosened and any jarring could make shooting much less precise. For now, he couldn't change it.
It was near dark now, the light fading as fast as in Earth's tropics, even at this latitude. He checked the processor and was rewarded with the sight of crisp, wet rectangular sheets, reminiscent of lettuce leaves. He grabbed them as fast as they came out, stuffing them into his mouth and chewing. Yes, a half hour of this might get him another day's moisture. And he'd really need to take a dump when he awoke, he decided. Unbelievable that a stalk could take so long.
Much refreshed and healthier after eating, Dagger was at the same time exhausted beyond description. Pain tore at his leg still, along with the myriad aches and pains that were exacerbated between sleeps. He rolled back against the dirt face, pulled the cover over his head and shoulders, and kicked back with his good foot. A softly rumbling shower of dirt concealed all but his face, and with the chameleon circuits live he should be invisible.
And tomorrow, he thought, consciousness fading, he'd see about that damned Elf.
* * *
Tirdal decided he should rest a bit before continuing. With Dagger calm, he could do so, though there was no guarantee he'd have long. But that would wait until afterwards, if there was an afterwards. There were things to be done now, such as moving for solid defense against shots or predators. He wasn't sure of the difference in feel between Dagger asleep and Dagger in a shooting trance, so he intended to be cautious and maintain good cover. A Sense to the south didn't show any presence of Ferret, and there'd been a brief flash of fear when Dagger shot. Still, he called, "Ferret, are you there?" There was no reply. So assume Ferret was dead. That was unfortunate, really. The young human had definitely shown his mettle, stalking the two of them for days while crippled. He'd deserved better.
Tirdal had been getting rather disturbed by the flyers, but they were now circling off to the south in the failing daylight. It was likely the shot against Ferret had tossed enough vapor up that the smell of blood was clear. That would explain their interest. He didn't know if they were nocturnal, but losing their presence was a good thing.
Tirdal knew humans would feel unpleasant about the creatures eating one of their own. He wasn't bothered emotionally, and was glad of the distraction. Ferret had put on an impressive showing in this incident, and there would be much to consider and report. In the meantime, he was still of use to Tirdal, even if it was as bait. He wished he'd been able to examine that mind more. It had been frightened, hurt and overwhelmed, yet had stuck to a goal through all hindrance. Truly the mind of a warrior, as untrained and inexperienced as it had been.
But the universe wasn't fair, and dwelling on it wouldn't affect anything. Tirdal would meditate later and think of Ferret; for now, he had urgent needs in this world. He sank as low into the gully as he could, ensuring his head was below any line of sight.
First was the wound on his back. It was in a position where one would have a buddy treat it, but that was not an option. He opened his suit and peeled it down, avoiding inhaling the sweaty stink of himself. Two hundred and seventy Earth hours in the suit with no bathing. It was just one more of the glamorous aspects of military service.
Reaching back carefully, he was able to gingerly apply a nano-loaded bandage. It would heal in a couple of days, he decided, though it would leave a furrow that would have to be treated by professionals. In the meantime, he wouldn't be putting that box on his shoulder.
It would make sense to put it in his patrol pack, distributing the load. If he snugged the hip belt and used the head band, too, he could distribute the mass well. However, he'd be less flexible thus constrained. Likely he'd just have to take the mass on his shoulders and deal with it.
To that end, he should remove excess mass. There were things in there he was not, frankly, going to need for this. He reached in and started sorting.
He was going to change suits, he decided. The damaged one could be left behind. He pondered for a moment, but yes, it could. Even if the chameleon circuits failed, he planned to be far enough away to dodge Dagger's fire, and the camouflage hadn't helped so far, so why keep a torn suit? He unzipped and shimmied between the two, shoulders stiff and keeping low. A considerable amount of sand came with him, but that was inevitable. Five kilos lighter, he considered what else could go.
Socks. He didn't really need socks, even though humans issued them, and he wouldn't be changing again soon. Keep one pair to swap off and dump the rest. He thought of using them for extra padding on the straps, but that was a field expedient and he'd be losing mass, so why bother?
Ammo. He had an energy pack in the punch gun that was good for eighty more full-power shots. That should be enough. He'd take one spare to be sure. That left four of them he could dump. He'd better keep his camera and recorder. It didn't mass much and contained information that was important.
That was about ten kilos removed. It would help considerably, and with the device strapped inside his pack it was far less bulky.
Why was he doing that, though? There was no question left in Tirdal's mind but that the sniper had a tracer somewhere, and the box was the logical place. He sat with it in his lap, turning the box over and over until he found it. It was an almost undetectable spot, which could have been a bit of dirt except that it didn't come off. And it wouldn't come off, either. The tracers required a special solvent to remove. He tried digging at it with his monomolecular blade but only just scratched the cover of the device.
So. He was being traced, not only tracked. Tracking he could have dealt with, eventually Dagger would come in close and he would have a reasonable chance. He should have pushed things at the camp, kept them almost in contact. But between the damage from the hornet round and the ultimate prohibition against killing a sentient he'd chosen the other path. He should have pushed the issue further when Ferret started shooting. He hadn't been able to see Dagger at that point, but a few cover shots wouldn't have hurt the situation. It would have been a morale issue at least, helping Ferret and disturbing Dagger. The truth was that his Darhel mind needed a very conscious decision to shoot and he hadn't made it. Now it was going to cost him.
He knew he was being traced. But did Dagger know that he knew? That was the question. Since the meadow the sniper had been less responsive, but Tirdal could feel his anger out there, somewhere. Not close, but definitely still on the track. If he didn't realize Tirdal had left the device somewhere . . . Yes, that was an idea.
Things were quiet now, too. Quiet to his Sense in this fading light. Had Dagger decided to rest? If so, Tirdal could approach and kill him.
The problem with that was that he'd have to not use his Sense to do so, lest the reaction from battle throw him over the edge into lintatai. And without using his Sense, he was vulnerable to a shot from Dagger.
No, Dagger had to get close enough to him, but not be allowed take a shot. A resting Dagger was a bad Dagger, in that regard. Tirdal needed him off balance. He could wake the man, but that would give away what he planned. Dagger would fatigue further, but he'd know Tirdal couldn't approach him. That was an advantage he needed to keep.
He thought about retreating to the south, back to the site of
the murders. That's where the gear was. But there was nothing there he needed that justified the hike, and it would put Dagger between him and the second extraction point, thus reducing his options. It would be nice to have some of the gear, but it wasn't a fair tradeoff. Ferret's lifesigns tracker might be useful, and he likely had ammunition and water. But he wasn't skilled in the tracker's use, and he'd expose himself considerably trying to get it. Not worth it.
So, rest for now, move as soon as Dagger stirred. Tirdal stretched out his Sense for weather, animals, and one specific animal, then leaned back with his ruck as a chair back to rest. His overmind could relax and recover while his submind stayed alert. It wasn't as good as real sleep, but a solid meditation would help.
Chapter 17
Dagger twitched and said, "Unh?"
Coming awake, he realized he'd slept for some hours. It was dawn again, the sky above him just purple. He felt much better, too. Now to nail that damned Darhel.
He crawled cautiously out of his ersatz shelter, and opened his suit to drain and dump. He pinched out a turd that was hard and sore, because he was dehydrated, but it took pressure off. It was so hard he could feel his ass slam shut as it dropped, but he hurt a hell of a lot less afterwards. That accomplished and dust wiped off his hands and face, he chewed some more of the moist leaves. They helped a bit, but real food was called for. Well, that would just have to wait. He'd taken care of the rest.
"Good morning, Tirdal!" he greeted, trying to sound even more cheerful than he was. He donned gear and brought up the sensors.
