by John Ringo
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. Ripping 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.
“Good morning, Dagger. Did you enjoy sleeping in?” Dammit, the Elf still didn’t sound distressed. What was he, a machine? No, not a machine. He was in about the same area, so he’d rested, too. Just an alien prick. Don’t credit him with any more than that.
“Very much, Tirdal,” he replied. It wouldn’t do to act bothered. “I thought the extra time would let you consider your position. Alone. Down there. Burdened with the box and a short-range weapon. Running out of time. Might be a good idea to negotiate a surrender, hmm?”
“You make good points, Dagger,” was the reply. “But I’m not sure we can trust each other at this juncture.”
“Sure we can, Tirdal,” he said. He’d thought this through. “You can tell when I’ve dropped my rifle… hell, I’ll even throw it down. You drop the punch gun as I come in range and you can tell I’m not armed. Then we both unload our pistols and hold them up to prove it. Then we can talk about the box.” While I stick a knife in your throat, asshole.
“That’s a good idea, Dagger,” Tirdal said, and Dagger smirked until he added, “but we should have done that three days ago. Your position has become clear and your ‘soul’ as you call it, is slimy and grotesque. Frankly, I’d rather attempt to negotiate with one of the predators. At least they are logical and have a defined goal I can understand.”
Forcing calm upon himself, Dagger replied, “That is unfortunate, Tirdal. In that case, I’ll have to kill you.” And you’re in a prime place for a shot.
“We knew that, Dagger, didn’t we?” Tirdal replied. He was still calm, damn him! “And I just might kill you first.”
The signal went dead.
All right, so he wanted to be that way. He was just about fifty meters north of where he’d been at dark yesterday. So, on a lower ledge, far enough back not to fall, settle in, set the rifle, and prepare to deliver God’s Vengeance upon the Darhel.
* * *
Tirdal knew what was to happen. They both did. He’d move, Dagger would shoot. From there, Dagger assumed he’d be killed; he assumed he’d avoid taking fire. This stalemate, as it was called in chess, was tiresome and he was about to break it, but to do that he had to expose himself to the fire first. There was nothing doing but to get it over with.
He shrugged back into his ruck, feeling the soreness and tightness across his shoulders. That was made worse every time he moved his head with the added mass of helmet. It would do for now, and he counted himself lucky. A couple of centimeters deeper and the shot would have shattered both shoulders. Dagger really was that good. He’d have to force Dagger to take a shot, and be ready. He’d need tal in his system to boost his Sense. He reached inside himself and released a little.
That wasn’t happening as quickly as he’d like. He might be starting to suffer from fatigue himself, his submind less easy to control. So he recalled the feel of the kill, the taste of meat from yesterday. That did it. He could feel the energy flow, and then his Sense came on, detected the nearby herds, then Dagger, and the rate increased, pushing him toward…
A steady, controlled level of tal, regulated by Jem discipline. It was a bit easier to control today, though that might be due to the familiar conditions. How he’d handle a new set of factors he didn’t know. But Dagger was there, so if he stepped out over here…
Dagger was drifting, drifting and was shooting now and Tirdal dropped forward and flat over a shelf of shale as the round cracked overhead and threw a mist of water up from the stream. Then he was up and moving and Dagger was there and angry and shooting now and Tirdal dropped sideways in case he’d anticipated the fall. He landed in a pile of sand as a rock erupted chips on the far bank. He stood and felt Dagger shoot at once and dug in his heels to change his momentum, then dropped as another crack presaged another cloud of mist.
That should do it, he thought. Dagger hated to miss more than just about anything else, would be easy to track with that storm of emotion roaring off him, and Tirdal could keep track as he decided how to execute his plan.
Then, only for a moment he could feel the human as if Dagger were he.
Dagger was pissed. Seriously pissed. He crushed another beetle on a rock before it could scuttle out of range and watched the rabbit-sized pseudoisopod writhe as he loped off. The damned Darhel had just dodged the bullets. Sure, it was vaguely possible, even with the high speeds of the “dumb” sniper rounds. But you had to know that a sniper had shot. That was the point of using a dumb round; it had no emissions to detect. You had to have an active system to detect it until it was too late.
But the goddamned sensat could feel him take the shot. The only way to stop that was to feel nothing when he killed the little shit. Which meant adopting a new shooting approach and, frankly, took all the fun out of it. What was the point if you couldn’t get the rush from the kill?
So, to kill the Darhel he had to feel nothing. But the point of killing was to feel something, wasn’t it? So what was the point of killing the Darhel? Oh, yeah. A billion credits.
So, this time, feel nothing. Not even excitement at getting a billion credits. Not until the box was in his hand. And the Darhel was dead. Feel nothing. That ought to be easy enough; it was his normal way of life.
The link severed as quickly as it had formed, tenuous threads of consciousness snapping away. That was Dagger’s mind then. It was crass, paranoid, full of a fear of failure and incompetence, of showing fear or doubt. Any emotion, any humanity, was weakness to Dagger.
Tirdal sucked on the pulp from his processor while he sorted out the thoughts. He couldn’t face killing something else in order to eat. His emotions were just too out of control and he was afraid he’d lose control t
he way he currently felt. Order was essential. Anarchy would lead to death, as it was leading to Dagger’s.
Growing up, he never could understand the tal addicts, the Darhel who did things to push the edge of lintatai. Now he could. The tal was the most heady drug available to the Darhel and it was manufactured in their own bodies. After the pain, which was brief, came the rush of pleasure, then the long duration of nothingness, followed by a sated calm. It was too easy to lose oneself in it, accomplish nothing and feel little while doing so, and feel good about what little there was.
Tal addiction still killed thousands, millions every year; no Darhel would bother to care for one that had succumbed to lintatai. Those who failed the test would wither away, dying of dehydration usually. It was harsh, but necessary. It had taken hundreds of millennia to force their evolution back to this point, where tal could be used even if at great risk. It might take hundreds more before the Darhel became what they had once been, before the Aldenata interfered with their heritage and corrupted their destiny. The strong must continue, the weak must not, if they were to be a whole race again.
But he knew his own control and its limits. It had fluctuated throughout the pursuit, the game if you will, and now if it were pushed he wasn’t sure he could hold back a full tal orgasm. Which would be death.
By the same token he was becoming more and more addicted to the tal himself. He had never experienced the range of emotions he was permitting himself. Even Dagger’s discordant emotions were a pleasing sensation. They were spice, a delicacy, against the palate of known pleasures.