The Hero

by John Ringo

  As they jumped, he fell behind the last corpse, its legs still twitching, brushing him in a macabre caress. But he was pointing straight up as they went overhead, and his shot caught one of them at the rear of the underside. That one split, its rear legs and joint tumbling free with a gout of entrails and yellow goo to land in a twitching heap. Tirdal dragged his feet painfully under himself in a squat, then shoved as hard as he could, rising up the curve of the carcass and over to the other side of the corpse, twisting as he went. The ankle on his already injured leg responded too slowly to the landing, and he felt it crunch, trauma inflaming the soft tissue into an instant sprain. He shot again and nothing happened. It had not been three-quarters of a second. The remaining pair spread wide, and he fired as the weapon recharged, getting one obliquely underneath as it left the ground. He dropped and rolled in close to the corpse behind him and waited for recharge and another attack.

  The final tiger beetle continued its leap into a run and disappeared.

  Tirdal did what any human martial artist would. He went into recovery breathing, slow and controlled, forcing his chestplate to obey. That alone reduced the pain somewhat, and he curled into a comfortable position. Sitting folded was preferred, but any position that helped an injury was the choice in the field. He grounded his thoughts and drifted for just a moment, pulling himself from the edge of unconsciousness. The cliff marks the edge. The edge can be walked. From the edge one can see into the distance. Behind is safety. Look not behind, but over the edge to the fear . . . He came back enough to feel the lintatai, and split his mind to deal with it. The wind stirs ripples through the leaves. The leaves sway the tree. The tree bends and flexes but does not yield. Supple is the tree. Supple is the mind. Emotions are but leaves in the wind of existence . . .

  It took only a minute, but it was a minute well spent. Control returned, his mind aglow with the thudding of his heart and the warmth of emotion. All fell away into a cool, refreshed focus on a stalk in front of his eyes, its dun length covered in fuzzy white hairs.

  That, and a gaping wound in his thigh and a sprained ankle. For the former, a self-healing bandage was called for. He cut away more of the damaged suit, keeping the hole as small as possible for protection. He eased the bandage inside, pressed it gently around the edges to seal it, then stroked its surface to activate it. It would disinfect the wound, staunch the bleeding, and drop nanites in to effect repair. It would be healed in a day, if he could only rest and eat. But of course, that was out of the question.

  Rising painfully to his knees, then his feet, using his arms and the punch gun for support, he pressed a patch to his neck, letting a mild analgesic and more nanites into his bloodstream. What he needed was the Darhel equivalent of a narcotic and a muscle relaxer, but that, too, was out of the question.

  The scrapes and minor tears he'd have to ignore. It was time to move. He lurched off deeper into the brush.

  * * *

  Dagger squatted low. The firing had stopped as he came down the hill. That could mean dead Elf, or crippled Elf, or that he'd won his engagement. It was time to be cautious again. That thick tangle of crud was definitely where he was, and there was nothing to do but ease in slowly, rifle raised at the ready and be prepared to shoot at any disturbance. This had to end soon, and there would be no better time. The Darhel had to be disoriented and possibly injured, too. Even likely injured. That had been a lot of shooting, indicating a predator.

  So watch out for predators and wounded Darhel. Shoot both, ask questions later, he thought as he brushed fronds aside with the barrel of his rifle. The undergrowth was thick and matted, and he'd have to step carefully. What he needed was a hint as to where Tirdal's trail was. From there, he could stalk him down. And it would be damned near impossible for the little freak to dodge in this undergrowth.

  Dagger was smiling faintly as he pushed forward. He raised branches carefully, stepping underneath and then lowering them to avoid swishes or snaps. Each step was thought through before the foot went down. He twisted as he walked, turning his torso to avoid growth where possible, so as to minimize his own trail. The sun was hot, flyers drifted up past him, disturbed by the movement, and pods and seeds clung to his skin and his gear. Rather than prickly like earth seeds, most here were gooey. That had to be because most life-forms had shells and not fur or feathers.

  Then he came across a cracked stick. Near it was a flattened patch of grass. There, a turned log. This was trail, certainly. In a few moments, Dagger had it. A drop of violet blood glistened on a tall blade of grass.

  He smiled; a drunk blind man could follow this trail. There were broken stalks from clumsy footsteps, bent and torn leaves from the passage of a body. Now to get in a good position to take the Darhel down. Though from the size of the blood trail the Darhel wasn't going to be much of a challenge anymore. More violet drops and faint greasy smears showed him to be injured.

  Had Dagger seen the size of the area torn apart in the fight, resembling a tornado touchdown, and the corpses of six dead tiger beetles blown into pieces, he wouldn't have been so confident.

  It was likely that Tirdal would seek shelter, somewhere to patch himself up and rest. He might have major trauma from that fight. He might have a strain or other damage. A concussion, even, if Darhel were susceptible to them. Shock. All things that would slow him down. Dagger would exploit each one of those, find and nail him. He would be calm, methodical and professional, and afterwards he'd gloat.

  The gloating would be very sweet. It had, after all, been a hell of a chase and a bastard of a fight. That made the coming victory that much more enjoyable.

  * * *

  Behind both combatants, the local scavengers had found the sign of the battle. Snuffling and twitching their antennae, those niche-fillers moved in to examine the area. There was protein in plenty here, with six large, well-fed predators dead, and their shells were already open. The meat would be efficiently disposed of in ever-smaller bites until the antlike legions scoured the skeletons clean. Then the insect borers would crumble those and the sun would break down the structure until it became merely crunchy soil underneath. But for now, best to feast quickly, lest some other predator dispute the rights. Most of them tore at the dead animals, but the area was crowded and blood had splashed widely. Some of that blood was interesting, different. What tasty flavor might such a wounded creature yield when dead?

  A pack leader chittered, and brushed her antennae over her pack. At her lead, they trundled off through the scrub, following the scent of that strange blood. One stopped for a last bite of tiger beetle.

  * * *

  Tirdal could sense the sniper back on his trail; Dagger's control was slipping in the thrill of the hunt. Not that it mattered; there wasn't much he could do about it. Admittedly Dagger had been supposed to follow him but Tirdal wasn't supposed to have half his thigh bitten away at the time.

  He splashed back across the shallow stream and up the other side, which was a dry rock shelf that might help hide his passage. He reached down to try to get his bandage into better position. He was dealing with a lot of problems at this point; multiple injuries, exhausting lack of sleep, the tal hormone which also responded to injury, general stress, and he hadn't eaten all day. But right now all he could do was hunker down and try to set his planned ambush.

  Once across the water he headed along his backtrail for a distance, then swung back towards the stream. He could sense Dagger getting closer; the mental "scent" almost had horns attached to it. But he should have time to get into position. Whatever happened he should have the advantage at these ranges.

  This would be a good spot, he decided. Solid rock would shield him from the gauss rifle. There wasn't much on the other side for Dagger to hide behind that a punch gun wouldn't blow gaping holes in, and if Dagger tried to cross the stream he'd be exposed. This was as good as it was going to get.

  While Tirdal didn't have any dedicated tracking gear, there were motion sensors built into his suit. He slowly dialed up
the sensitivity, so anything over twenty kilograms would register. That was overly sensitive, but he wasn't sure just how good Dagger was at sneaking. It might be that his audio or motion signature would be quite small. Twenty seemed a good number.

  Then he sealed his suit. Gloves and boots hermetically joined to cuffs. A membrane dropped from his helmet and fastened to the neckline. The suit's fabric stiffened molecularly and became impermeable. Tirdal was now wearing an almost solid barrier that should keep any genetic or chemical scans from locating him. There was leakage through the hole on his thigh, but that could not be helped. He leaned back against the rock and brought the chameleon effect up slowly. At low level, it wasn't an easily detectable power source, would last several hours, and would make him as close as possible to invisible, provided he didn't move.

  Of course, now he was in a pressure cooker. Air was thick and humid and would get worse, with only carbon dioxide escaping. Incoming radiation and heat, unradiated body heat, sweat and exhaled moisture would steam him. It was unpleasant already, in this environment hotter than the one he was used to, but he estimated he could survive an hour or so if he kept activity to a minimum. A bit of Jem meditation, without using tal, which was a change, reduced his awareness of the discomfort.

  Slowly, he raised his awareness again. He'd have to be very sensitive until he had Dagger located, then withdraw his Sense and use his eyes and ears. If it came down to a direct shot, he'd have to lock everything down and hope for the best. He still wasn't sure he could kill, but a solid maiming would do as well, and even a moderate wound would keep Dagger and the artifact here, which was a less than optimum solution, but acceptable and preferred over the box leaving.

  His awareness came up slowly, and there was Dagger, stalking him from "near." So he was likely just across the creek. Tirdal focused on that. He'd get an immediate warning of any predators, which would have to do, as he couldn't be distracted any further. Only Dagger should be in his Sense now. No distractions, nothing to require more tal. The trickle he was using was a dangerous level of itself, with all that had happened so far.

  Now to wait.

  * * *

  The pack could tell that the prey had headed for the crossing and it knew a shortcut. It was aware that there were two smells ahead but it could expect to overtake at least one of them by the time they came to the stream. Then they would feed. They took their food where they could find it, and only from the weak. That was their role. The alpha female kept the others focused with chemical exudations. Wounded prey could be dangerous, and all might be needed to subdue it. It might even be that one or two of them would die. If so, they too would become food. There was little thought in the creatures, only hunger and focus.

  * * *

  Dagger consulted his HUD and frowned. The stream was ahead; the trail probably crossed it. He would need to be careful there; it was a good place for an ambush. He wasn't assuming Tirdal couldn't shoot him, no matter how strong the evidence so far was that he couldn't. There were no bluffs to fall on him, no trees to fall around him. Those memories momentarily shook his concentration, but he suppressed the anger. Calm. Stay calm. Locate target, shoot target, score points for the team on the exercise. Only an exercise, like so many others.

  Yes, the trail led to the muddy banks of the stream. The target had jumped across there, not leaving footprints but leaving slickened grass and a silty eddy in the water. It couldn't have passed more than a few minutes before. Target was across there somewhere.

  Dagger bristled alert, extending a human version of Tirdal's Sense. It was neither trained nor sophisticated, but anything out of place would send a warning to him. He moved to his knees in a slow sink, rather than a drop, taking more than a minute to do so. It was rough on his ankle and painful on abused and exhausted muscles, but it was a necessary step.

  From his knees, he bent gradually to rest one hand on the ground. From there, it was simply a matter of patience. It was more than five minutes before he was settled. Another minute passed before the chameleoned muzzle of his rifle parted two stems of grass to overlook the stream.

  Okay, Target. Where are you? I need those points for a win.

  * * *

  Tirdal settled on his rock with a quiet sigh. Nothing trying to eat him, no one trying to kill him for the moment. Just a big slab of limestone and dirt. And, shortly thereafter, a sniper, who would try to kill him. He breathed slowly, evenly, overmind controlling the pain and the rising core temperature, and alert for trouble with his normal senses. His submind kept alert with his Sense and worked on healing him. At this point, it might even be considered damage control. Medical care and recovery was certain to be involved.

  Local small beetles and ant analogs crawled over his boots and suit. He was still enough to be part of the terrain to them. An odd, unseeable part to be sure, but not unusual enough to bother such sensitive but nonsentient creatures. There was nothing to do but wait until Dagger moved from "near" to "very near," unless an image came to him sooner.

  Dagger was nearly close enough to see if Tirdal rose, but still obscured by brush. The punch gun would go through it but Tirdal wanted to make sure he got a good shot. So he calmed himself and waited for his nemesis to come fully into view, or expose himself by shooting.

  * * *

  Dagger had slipped into a perfect shooting trance. He wasn't even aware of it, of course. What he was aware of was that the Target was hiding over there, probably behind that rock. That would be the best place for hard cover. Should he toss a few hornet rounds and see what happened? But there might be additional cover he couldn't see. Hornets weren't magic. Frequently, they were only distractors. Too frequently, recently. For a moment, memories rippled his calm, but he recovered and was back in trance at once. Best to wait for a good, clean shot. He moved forward a few inches to get a better position with a wider field of view.

  * * *

  The pack could smell the prey ahead but they were wary. This was probably the "prey" that had killed the pack of tiger beetles. And the smells were wrong. But they were the smells of protein on the claw, the smells of meat. So it was worth the danger to try to take it down; meat was hard to find. Dangerous it might be, but hunger drove them. They too could be cautious slinks. The female retracted her legs in closely and cautiously probed ahead with her antennae. There was no movement, though wounded animals often didn't move much until attacked. There was something there, insubstantial as it was, but it was definitely an animal of some kind. She sprayed a hormone signal to the others, and squeezed between two more blades of grass.

  * * *

  The chemtracker function of the scope was off the scale. The Target had likely sealed up, but there would still be vapors in the air, especially after exhausting exercise. Sweat laced with ketones and pheromones dispersed slowly. So the Target was nearby, probably behind that rock on the right, waiting for Dagger to show himself or shoot. Where, exactly?

  Dagger's helmet highlighted a small IR trace as a probable threat but he carefully stilled any rush of feeling. The Target was waiting for him to come fully into view before he took his shot. That would be his undoing. Dagger would shoot from right here. Then he would divert to the right and shoot again, and work his way around that cover. This was it. That protruding ripple might be a head or a hand, but an antimatter round would shatter it. He thumbed the selector, breathed, relaxed and squeeeezed.

  * * *

  Overhead, chunks of rock shattered, sharp pieces stinging through his suit though they did not penetrate. Tirdal cursed the Aldenata that had put him in this mess and flattened out on the rock, then hunched low. Dagger had him pinned down but the reverse was true as well. If he could get one shot he probably would be able to take the sniper. Unfortunately, if he tried to move he'd be a target. But . . . the punch gun could be set to repeat to the helmet systems. He toggled the punch gun's sight into his HUD and cleared the direct view. He could switch it back in a moment and he didn't need to see what was around him right now, but did
need to see what the gun saw. Now, if he inched it around the rock . . .

  * * *

  Dagger triggered another round at the Darhel's position and grinned. Sure, if the Darhel got one good shot he was dead; there was no such thing as "cover" with a punch gun. But the Darhel's chosen spot had nowhere to crawl back from and he wasn't going anywhere so it came down to who could outwait who. And a sniper is the definition of patience. There was another faint disturbance, and he shot the edge of the rock. More chips flew.

  He stilled his thrill as the heat sensor noted a movement to the side. He saw the edge of the Darhel's weapon come around the rock and took up slack on the firing button . . .

  * * *

  The pack paused at the crack of the shot and then the flurry that followed. However, again, the sounds were strange but meat was meat. They waved their antennae at the scents to the east. Close, very close that meat was. Tantalizing. And the insubstantial animal was barely moving.

  * * *

  Tirdal cursed his foolish eagerness as the weapon spun out of his hand, tumbling in two large pieces with innards hanging out. The weapon's casing was tough, but antimatter didn't care. He hunkered back down and carefully drew his rail pistol, it being mounted just above the wound on his thigh. One last chance. And it would really be bad to use it, because the EM field it emitted when fired was obvious to any sensor. It was all he had, though. Calm. He must remain calm. The ripples reflect the clearness of sky. The ripples are steady and even. The ripples wait for the shore, they do not rush to their fate.