The Hero lota-5

by John Ringo

  And the little bastard fell!

  Chapter 16

  Ferret heard the shot. It was close enough to be a good crack. A quick scan with his sensors narrowed the source to a grid about one hundred meters on a side. And Dagger was within that box. Sure enough, it was up on the ridgeline. But without a scope, there was no way to get a good shot. He couldn’t start picking away at random, because Dagger would backtrack the energy discharge. It was frustrating.

  What he could do was slug the intel to Tirdal, assuming, hoping, Tirdal was still alive. That would show where he stood on things, and with two of them tracking Dagger, just maybe they could get him on the run. It would have to get dark again, too. That, added to the rest, might give them the edge they needed.

  But assuming they succeeded, Tirdal was going to have to have some very believable answers to some tough questions.

  He attached the grid to a transmission and sent it to Tirdal. Then he sent it to Dagger, just to let him know he was being watched. Ferret grinned a rictus that would have scared even him, if he’d had a mirror. Pain, fear, fatigue and grime gave him a visage to scare a gargoyle.

  * * *

  Tirdal felt the shot and launched himself into the wash, artifact flying clear. The bead cracked past, showering him with loose sand and bits of grass. That had been close enough for him to not only hear, but feel the slap of the shockwave. Then he realized it had hit him, slicing through his ruck and his shoulder. It was a minor wound, but would be extremely painful, as the mass of the ruck would rest on it. Still, he couldn’t have Dagger thinking he’d succeeded.

  “That was a good shot, Dagger,” Tirdal taunted, keeping tight rein on his voice and the growing agony underneath. “Not good enough for an intelligent target, of course, but good enough for a rock or a dummy on the pop-up range.” He rolled down deeper to secure the artifact again.

  “My shooting is plenty good enough, Elf,” Dagger snarled back in rage. “You’re just a filthy little cheat.” He definitely sounded upset over Tirdal’s evasion. He seemed to feel that Tirdal not dying was an insult. Well, there were more insults where that came from.

  “Cheating, Dagger? Is not the unofficial motto of the DRTs ‘If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying’? By that argument, your control and coordination is also cheating, because not everyone can do it. No, if this game is to be played properly, each player must use his resources. Surely as great a shooter as yourself can predict my evasions… given time. In fact, if you’re as smart as you believe you are, you should have seen a pattern already.” That was a dangerous statement. Tirdal wasn’t aware of falling into a pattern yet, but he just might have. But he had to goad Dagger into thinking even less, to level the field between them.

  At that moment, the signal from Ferret came in. He cleared the screen and allowed it to appear, and studied the map revealed. His Darhel gear could come up with much of the same data for him, but of course Ferret didn’t know that. And this did prove Ferret was an ally, at least until Dagger was taken out of the equation. After that, they’d have to see.

  “As for cheating,” he said with a deliberately human tone of malicious amusement, “it wasn’t I who tossed a grenade into a resting party while hiding behind a rock.”

  That seemed to have done the trick, Tirdal thought, as four shots ripped overhead of his cover, blasting dirt into the water. And his Sense showed him Dagger’s surroundings, the link between them suddenly solid. He saw the scope image, saw himself as a tiny form that had moved just in time and sunk out of sight. The sun was over there, so Dagger was on that bluff to the east, as Ferret had said. Tirdal brought the image of that back from his memory and confirmed with an image from the suit sensors’ cameras. Dagger was… right about there, and that might just be in range of the punch gun, if he took the shot now. The punch gun, he reminded himself, was a speed of light weapon. All he had to do was account for the .7416 seconds of recharge time and dodge for cover in between shots. He set the artifact down and got to work.

  The suit’s computer set up the map for him, and he shifted to a slightly less steep section of the parched dun gully. Then he was up and poounk! firing, dropping, shoving to the right off a protruding rock, up and poounk! then down and left to the flat piece of shale and up and poounk! and left again to a hardened chunk of clay and fire and right and fire and left and again from the same location, as random as an ordered mind could manage.

  A Sense came to him, but it was not of Dagger firing, it was of Dagger panicking. Tirdal grinned his toothy grin. Securing the artifact, he moved out.

  * * *

  Ferret just lay still and rested as the firefight ensued. Dagger was clearly not shooting well. Interesting. He was terrifying on the range, great in exercises, had done well enough against the bugs that had jumped them. As to real battles, Ferret knew of his record, but wasn’t aware of any specific commendations for his shooting. Things did tend to go to hell in an engagement, true. But Dagger’s cold, calculating façade was just that. He clearly wasn’t that impressive a shot when it came down to it. That was good to know.

  For now, Ferret inhaled the fetid odors, the grass and strange pollens, the dirt and casts left by things like worms. The local sun was to the west and into Dagger’s eyes. After the four shots, he had the sniper located pretty much within a ten meter square, allowing for sonic distortion from the grass. He was sure that if he could get a look up that way, he could pin Dagger down exactly. He might even get a good shot off, as extreme as the range was.

  Then Tirdal was shooting back. So Darhel could shoot and mean it. Whatever philosophy kept them from engaging in war was a guideline only. Tirdal and likely others had obviously gotten over it. It was about time, he thought, that they took some of the load. It was also, he realized as an afterthought, about time that humans kept an eye on them. Militant Darhels would be bad, with the greater access to GalTech they had.

  For a moment, Ferret just lay there and grinned. Then his fatigue-sodden brain realized this was the time to move. He pulled his knees in at once and started crawling under the waving stalks, hoping to close a few meters with Dagger. If this could be repeated a few times, he’d be close enough for a good shot from cover, well inside his practical range.

  Of course, it would have to be a good shot. He’d get the one only, then Dagger would shoot back. He might hit, too, even if he wasn’t showing the greatest aptitude at present. Obviously, Tirdal was dodging. Ferret had less agility at the moment.

  * * *

  Dagger’s view was disrupted by the incoming map from Ferret. He scanned it at once, wondering what it was, as he hadn’t triggered anything he was aware of. It took a moment for him to realize it was a map of his location. The little bastard was alive and had teamed up with the Darhel. Well, that was fine, because Dagger had planned on killing him anyway, and this would just make it that much nicer. He growled anyway. Asshole.

  Then he flinched as the first shot snapped into the cliff. Tirdal was shooting back! He actually could do it. That wasn’t a pleasant thought, if it was going to be a real fight.

  Still, it was extreme range for the punch gun, and the Elf had little skill at aimed fire. He hunched to take a shot in case the little bastard showed up again, and he did, but over there. Dirt showered down from the first explosive hit, and the second bolt hit off to Dagger’s left, then another hit beneath him some meters, then another. His flinch had turned to a wince but he was now coming out of it. The pathetic little bastard couldn’t shoot for shit. Even with a punch gun, Dagger could have done better. He cursed himself, angry inside for letting the little twerp make him afraid.

  Then the world shifted under him and the bluff started to slide forward toward the trees.

  He rose to his knees and tried to scrabble backwards, but it was too late. The landslide was in full motion. He did manage to get far enough back to be against the fresh new bluff face as everything else collapsed under him, and the fall was not far, only about eight meters. The crumbling dirt gave him
a soft surface to land on, and then through. It blew up around him and began to compact again.

  Holding his breath and trying not to panic, he threw his arms around until he felt air. He half dug, half swam his way up and snorted in a dusty lungful of air. Clouds of the red clay still lingered in the air, and he could smell the earthy aroma of the newly dug dirt, as well as the silicate tang caused by the punch gun’s beam burning dirt to vapor. He spit dirt and wished again for water.

  He whipped his head around, terrified that Tirdal or Ferret would be right there. He clutched for his rifle, but it was still buried in the soil. His right knee struck it as he thrashed, and he reached in as far as his shoulder to get hold of it.

  Dragging it out was a struggle itself, and the weapon was packed with dirt. He’d have to find cover soon and field strip it. For now, he banged the muzzle as clean as he could get it and fired a round point blank into the dirt. The projectile didn’t make much noise, barely having time to create a shockwave. It did shower dirt and clean the muzzle the rest of the way. Likely, some had plated inside the barrel, but it would have to do for now. He tried to stand and fell instead, feeling dizziness, nausea and pain. What now?

  “What now” was obvious. He’d twisted an ankle in the fall, was suffering the beginnings of heat exhaustion, and was burned out with fatigue. He needed rest, water, real food and medical care. What shape was that little turd in? Apparently he had water and didn’t need food… no, wait, he needed a lot of food… maybe he had eaten animals. All right, then what was with his aversion to killing? Maybe it was killing sentients? Some kind of feedback into his brain? Hell, it might just take a few shots of large beasts near him to stun him. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier? And what of rest? What about Ferret? How was that little punk handling? True, he could stop for water, being last, but the injuries and fatigue couldn’t be helping him.

  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.