The Hero lota-5

by John Ringo

  But even the Bane Sidhe had never killed and eaten quivering prey, the ultimate reason for the tal gland. The ultimate goal of the predators called Darhel. The flawed, frustrated predators called Darhel.

  Tirdal the Darhel took the newt analog in shaking hands and drew a deep breath. The mind is a mirror of the soul. The soul is a mirror of the mind. The mirror of the pond reflects the stillness of the sky. With his mind a blank he twisted the creature’s neck.

  * * *

  The damned Elf was making better time than he could have believed. The blood had dried up and the Darhel kept moving. For the last few hours it had been in a straight line and the tracker on the box showed Dagger to be gaining. Apparently the Elf had stopped by a stream, and since he was only a couple of kilometers away, Dagger figured he could catch up quickly. But the hell if he was going to get close to that punch gun. So where to set up?

  The country was moderately hilly and forested, not good sniping country. But the trees were starting to open up and the country was rising, a good sign. Somewhere ahead was that plateau they’d crossed, or one like it. If the stupid Elf kept straight he’d come right into sniping country and then he’d be dead meat.

  On the other hand if he stayed in the lowlands or the foothill forests he might occasionally be visible anyway. So it might make sense to just head for the hills and try to intercept. If that didn’t work and the Elf stayed in the lowlands he could always backtrack.

  On the other hand, maybe there was a better way to spook him.

  The commo system that the teams used was beyond state of the art; it was derived from one of the Aldenata systems and was completely untraceable. It was also voice only and missed some of the register so the voices came out sounding funny. But it permitted communication without any fear the Blobs would detect it.

  Dagger used that now. He opened up the frequency and contacted the Darhel.

  * * *

  Tirdal calmly picked a bit of pseudonewt out of his teeth and sucked on it. Not bad. It did, in fact, taste like the human chicken he’d been forced to try in training. He had been using the Jem disciplines all through the day, controlling his fear, his tal release during the escape, while eating, while trying not to breathe water; now he was constantly in a state of what humans would call “Zen.” Or perhaps it was like the endorphin high they got from stress or pain. He flicked an ear in humor. The bit of food removed, he shifted his slung punch gun back to the ready position. Then his communicator clicked.

  “You realize you’re one dead Darhel.”

  For a moment only, he jolted. Then discipline took over and he brought his awareness back where it belonged. For Dagger to break the silence meant he was afraid. He didn’t think his skills alone were up to the task of defeating Tirdal, so he was going for the psychological edge. Tirdal had planned on doing the same thing. He’d just intended to wait a day or two and let Dagger grow worried. This, however, was an opening, and a useful one.

  “We are all dead, Dagger,” he replied. “From the moment of birth our end begins. Some come sooner than others, some later, but all inevitable.”

  “Yeah, very philosophical. And your end comes soon, Elf.” Dagger’s voice was strained already. The anger was palpable right through a low-grade comm channel. That was step one. But how to exploit it?

  “Really, Hubert, insults are not necessary.” Tirdal knew Dagger’s real name was uncommon. It might be a sore spot for him.

  Apparently it was. Dagger’s voice was tight when he replied. “Call me that again, Elf, and I’ll shoot you joint by joint. Ankles first, then knees. Arms. Then I’ll kiss you with the muzzle of this baby and blow your fucking spine out.”

  “I won’t call you ‘Hubert’ if you don’t call me ‘Elf.’ Truly, Dagger, you seem distraught. What would you like to talk about?” Tirdal asked, keeping his low voice conversational.

  There was no reply.

  * * *

  Dagger was annoyed. He’d wanted more of a reaction. The Darhel was a cocky little freak, but that would change. Still, he needed a reaction from something. Ferret was likely a better bet to screw with. He switched frequencies.

  “So, Ferret, still hiding in the weeds?” he asked.

  There was a slight gasp of surprise. Dagger chuckled to himself. There was the score he wanted.

  Ferret replied, “No, Dagger, I’m hunting you two bastards. Want to bet I can’t nail you?”

  Dagger pondered that for a moment. It was several seconds before it sank in. Ferret thought he and Tirdal were allies! Oh, that was rich. He had to shut off his mike for a few moments and laugh deeply, muffling it in his suit just in case. Oh, man.

  He could see how it happened, too. The box was gone, Dagger and Tirdal were gone, what else would he assume? But hey, no reason not to play that for all it was worth. This would be fun.

  “Think you can nail Tirdal?” he said. “I wouldn’t be too sure. He’s better than that act of his makes him out to be. And you know I’m beyond you.”

  “We’ll see, you murderous fucks,” Ferret said. There was pain in his voice, and it wasn’t emotional. Injured? Likely.

  “Why, Ferret, did you catch some of the neural effect? Wow, that has to suck.”

  Ferret’s reply was clearly angry but restrained. “I’m fine, asshole. You worry about yourself.”

  “Right. See you at two thousand meters. Unless you’d prefer closer? Click!” Dagger replied, the last sound uncannily like the faint snap of his firing circuit.

  Hey… he could tease the freaking Darhel with this, too. That he and Ferret were allies. Anything to keep them on edge. He’d play them off each other. Maybe Ferret would even do the Darhel for him. That could be amusing once he nailed the kid.

  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 t
o 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 m
y 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.’ ”