The Hero

by John Ringo

  There was a faint heat trail left here. The little fuck couldn't be more than a klick ahead, maybe less. Forgetting his fear, forgetting stalking discipline, Dagger rushed forward. His phobia was still there, however, and it was causing him to be overeager. Closeness to the Darhel was companionship to the unconscious part of his mind. It meant he'd be safe.

  He followed the blood and genetic trail, and could easily see the signs of passage. The Darhel not only had no idea how to sneak through the woods, he'd often picked some of the thickest crud to crawl through.

  It should have made Dagger happy, but it didn't. This incompetent little Elf was traipsing along like a child, and had been able to avoid Dagger for two days. It was pure luck, and it was insulting. He wasn't going to allow the bastard to think he was better than Dagger. He was going to catch him and hurt him.

  In fact, he was going to leave him here, crippled, to starve to death or be eaten by bugs. To hell with killing him. He'd do the Darhel the favor. Since it couldn't kill him, he wouldn't kill it. And he'd do the same for Ferret, too. One human to another. A smile crossed his face as he emerged from a tangle of vines and found clear forest floor.

  He'd taken only three steps when his suit's systems shrieked a warning in his ears.

  He reacted from training and fear, and dropped flat. He just made it, but as he dove, he felt a vicious sting in his right calf. What the hell? He scrabbled for his pistol, never releasing his grip on his rifle, while spinning around on his back, his good leg propelling him. Wide-eyed in hysteria, pulse and respiration hammering at him, he sought the Darhel.

  Nothing. Nothing here. But there was a smell of steaming wood and a report scrolling across his screen in symbols. It had been a directional projectile mine, and it had to have been set by the Darhel. It was low on the base of that tree, and its flechette actually might have hit hard enough to cripple him if he hadn't been so fast.

  Goddamn that Darhel! The little bastard should be dead! Dragging himself to a sitting position, he slapped a nano-bandage on the wound. It was only superficial, and if he'd got the patch on quickly enough, he should avoid most of the tautness that went with it.

  But it did prove that he was close, and that the Darhel, coward that he was, couldn't kill him directly. He got his hyperventilation under control. He had enough oxygen; he didn't need to breathe for a few seconds. Only when he felt the breathing reflex resume its normal demands did he speak. "Hey, Darhel," he said. "You missed."

  "How unfortunate, Dagger," came the response. "I shall endeavor to learn from my mistakes."

  "You aren't going to live to make any more, pal," Dagger assured him. He felt confident again, and it had nothing to do with the rising gray of dawn.

  "Well, thank you, Dagger, but with as long a life as Darhel can expect, some errors are inevitable. While superior beings, we are not perfect."

  It was obviously a deliberate misunderstanding and a goad. He didn't want to listen to any more of that, so he shut off the communicator.

  * * *

  Ferret heard the crack of the flechette mine, and smiled. It was a distinctive sound, and it meant Dagger and Tirdal were mixing it up. Delightful. His nerves reached out for anything dangerous as he closed on the area. His infrared and Dagger's would see each other at about the same range, but he was following. He also sealed his suit for the time being, no matter if he cooked like a pot of bubbling spaghetti sauce. He needed every advantage he could get for right now, no matter the cost. If he could get close enough for just a glimpse of Dagger, he'd try to stir him into a firefight in predawn dark.

  It wasn't long, though in the sweltering thickness of his closed suit it seemed like hours, before he came across the area where the mine had been emplaced. There was molecular residue and there were pheromones, and his tracker updated its records. Both Dagger and Tirdal had passed this way, and not too long ago. Dagger had thrashed around, but didn't appear seriously injured, but there was residue that might indicate a surface wound. Tirdal, however, definitely was wounded. Blood was sufficiently present to register.

  Now might be time to talk to both of them. Ferret opened a broadcast channel and said, "So, guys, what now? Dagger's scared beyond reason, and Tirdal is bleeding. It looks like I've got all the advantages here." He kept his voice cheerful, under tight control, so as not to betray the pain he was feeling. He hoped he wasn't letting out any hints that sensat could pick up. So far, though, he seemed to have been safe. Tirdal really did need to be close to resolve details.

  Tirdal replied first, "Well, Dagger, it appears you are fighting this alone. In fact, we all are. Two against whichever one makes the first critical mistake."

  Dagger replied, and quickly, "That will be you, Darhel. You're the one bleeding."

  "You pin all your hopes on a minor wound," Tirdal said, "and ignore the psychological issues. No, I think Ferret and I are in much better shape in the ways that matter."

  Ferret cut in, not wanting to be left out of this. He was not the plucky comic relief. "I may be the only one uninjured," he put in. "Dagger appears to have taken some damage himself. I think your mine nailed him."

  "Scratched myself on a stick," Dagger insisted at once. "Not that it matters. I can kill both of you with one hand taped."

  Ferret said, "I'll take that bet, Dagger. Will you do it now?"

  For the moment, Dagger was silent.

  Tirdal said, "Dagger, the fact that you've had to lie about allies who appear not to support you indicates your position is precarious in your own mind. That weakness of spirit will be your undoing, regardless of any physical threats."

  "Tell me, Tirdal," Dagger replied now, "what is the sound of one Darhel dying? Why are we having this stupid chat? Everyone comfy now? Can we stop talking and start killing? I know I can, you two seem to be reluctant." There was a ragged edge to his voice.

  "Trying to find a way to shut down the communications, Dagger?" Tirdal asked with a lilt in his voice. "You must remember that only the senior troop can do that. I think this exchange is useful, and would like it to continue."

  "I'm dropping out again," Ferret said. "I've got work to do. But if you kill him, Tirdal, and bury the artifact where I can find it, I promise I won't kill you."

  "I'm sorry, Ferret, but I can't make a deal like that."

  "That's because you're too cowardly to kill," Dagger snarled.

  "I figured that, Tirdal. Pity I can't let you live to enjoy that billion. Later, assholes."

  He closed his channel for now. That had been instructive. He and Dagger were both argumentative and childish, likely due to fatigue, and the damned Darhel sounded fresh as a daisy. But Tirdal knew Dagger didn't have Ferret as an ally. Dagger knew Ferret was in the loop. And Ferret knew they were both sellouts he'd have to kill.

  Sighing, he checked his rate of movement and stumped along faster, feeling a new pounding in his calves.

  Chapter 15

  The coming daylight was a necessary salve to Dagger's sanity, but it wasn't enough. Between fatigue and poor rations, he was lagging badly. Now he was wounded, too. He knew he had to catch Tirdal today, end this today, or he wasn't going to be in shape to do it ever. Then there was Ferret. The little twerp was one hell of a tracker, and tough as nails to still be following. He wasn't even in it for the money. The asshole was doing this from duty, and seemed to think it would matter.

  He reached for his canteen straw and sucked at it, but got nothing. He'd been sweating all night and had sucked it dry. He was going to have to take a break and get some real food, as well as more water. The weather wasn't excessively warm at the moment, but he was exerting himself a lot. Hell, he had to be exhaling a quart of water a day, never mind what he was pissing away. If he'd had any idea there'd be a real fight after the grenade, he would have made sure he had some rations with him. He'd dropped his ruck because he hadn't figured to need anything for those few seconds. He was lucky to have the rifle; he hadn't needed it, but just never put it down if he could help it. The wisdom of th
at habit was obvious now. He could kick himself for not thinking of food when he grabbed supplies. But who would have thought it? He vaguely remembered a week in training regarding logistics and support tail. He'd slept through most of it, eager only for the afternoon's shooting and running.

  It was ironic, he thought, the position he was in. The reason he always harassed people about their food choices was because he really wasn't as hardcore as he pretended. He hated raw meat, and he hated bugs, worms and larvae. Now, he was in a position where he had to either eat them or die. He'd trained for it, hated every minute of it, took vengeance upon the world by harassing all others about it, and now had to do it himself. It served to wake him slightly, the rage did. The universe seemed to take delight in fucking him over his discovery of the box. But he'd get out of this, and it would just make the memory that much sweeter.

  Somewhere here there had to be some of those flyers or small mammals. He needed food, but would have to be a hell of a lot hungrier to eat raw bug. So mammal it was. Something with its bones on the inside. He kept an eye on the terrain for any area that might contain them, and tried not to think of all the bugs he saw. He was connecting them with food, and that brought back bad memories of that week of training.

  Shortly thereafter, he found a depression with scattered puddles. There were lizards there, and he decided that lizard was close enough, being at least a chordate. All he had to do now was get one.

  He could have snuck in and snagged one, but that took time. Consciously, he was confident of his ability to stalk, and repressed any thoughts that he might not be. Intellectually, the faster he ate the better. Somewhere below that, he desired to shoot something. That would make him feel better, get out some aggression, and was less involved than trying to grapple a reptile. Shooting was natural for him, and the rail pistol was near silent. If he adjusted the velocity down below sonic speed, there wouldn't even be a crack from the round. Ten seconds with the controls, five seconds to aim, breathe and pop! he had a lizard. Two more pops gave him two more, as they looked small. The rest scattered, but he'd gotten three in less than three seconds.

  He moved up and grabbed the corpses, headless or nearly so from the hydrostatic shock of small beads. He whipped out his knife as he did so. He chopped off the remains of the heads and the feet and laid them on a log. With quick strokes he slit and gutted them, sectioned them into legs and torsos, and grabbed the first hind leg.

  He hesitated just long enough to get his brain in control and shut off his senses. Then he bit into the warm, rubbery flesh and tore it loose from the bone. It was slimy and stringy in his mouth, and he choked it down, coughing and trying not to vomit. Perhaps if he'd shot them yesterday, he could have had them dried and chewy by now, instead of as something resembling raw squid. He bit again, almost regurgitated the first bite along with it, and chewed, avoiding touching it with his tongue until enough saliva built up and allowed him to force it back and down.

  Grimacing, he stuffed the rest into a pocket, wiped his hands free of sticky lizard blood on his suit, and stood up. He'd need water so he could wash this stuff down in small bites like medicine. He just couldn't make himself actually chew the stuff. And the taste would linger until he got to some water.

  Tirdal had lied, if he'd actually eaten the damned things at all. They tasted nothing like chicken.

  * * *

  Tirdal, for his part, had his own demons to wrestle with. The cat and mouse game, just as it would cause multiple adrenaline reactions with humans, was causing his system to flood with tal hormone. This was dangerous, but to get the absolute most out of his system he had to use it. He had to release the demon and risk the overload, risk the zombie state of lintatai, if he was going to win against the sniper. He'd stretched out his Sense yesterday and been able to see what Dagger was doing. Only by maintaining that state could he gain enough intelligence to outthink and outmaneuver Dagger.

  Then there was his need for more food. While Dagger could last quite some time on converted weeds, and likely could shoot an animal and eat it with little worry, he thought, Tirdal had to struggle with each creature in his psyche, but had to, had to, eat several each day. Worse, he was approaching his own fatigue limit, this being forty-seven hours into the chase. Food would keep him going, though he could already feel the stress and damage to his muscles caused by the drain his metabolism placed on his body mass. He was alert for more food now, seeking creatures with the least intellect. If they were self-aware, he could find himself over the canyon of lintatai again.

  He found two large roach type creatures and was able to pry them apart and feast on the succulent white meat without extreme discomfort while walking. The terrain was becoming easier, which was good in that he would leave fewer signs for Dagger and could move faster, but bad in that he deduced the savanna was ahead again. He would be forced to enter the broad plain, and Dagger's shooting range and visibility would both improve dramatically. Still, Dagger had to be feeling severe fatigue. Another day would likely destroy his effectiveness, and Tirdal had been trained in patience.

  He found it ironic that he was trying to outwait a human professional in the art. Still, the end result would be instructive, assuming, of course, that he survived to report back. It would be instructive only to him if he failed.

  The terrain was very open now, the trees sparsely spread and the undergrowth thickening into scrub again, here where the sunlight was greater. It changed to thick grass on the continental plain ahead. Tirdal dropped to a crawl and slipped under what growth he could, seeking some kind of cover to use ahead. It was very awkward to crawl on the points of his elbows while clutching the box behind his head.

  There was a wash from a stream, perhaps the same one he used as before. It was narrower and shallower than the one in the woods south of here, which would make sense, the terrain here being a broad plateau above the rich forest beneath it and the ancient hills. No matter. The cut would provide cover, possible food, water, cooling to refresh him, help mask his IR signature and other lifeforms to create confusion. It would safely take him some distance.

  * * *

  Ferret decided to have another whack at Tirdal. If he could get him to team up, they might outflank Dagger, the real threat; then they could discuss the box. It might be they'd have to kill each other over it, but they could try, dammit.

  "Tirdal," he said, "we need to deal with Dagger."

  "Of course we do, Ferret," Tirdal replied. Ferret was sighing in relief as he continued, "And Dagger and I need to deal with you, and the two of you with me." Ferret gritted his teeth in frustration, but Tirdal was still talking. "An ironic situation, to say the least. Dagger's motives are obvious: money. Yours appear to be driven by loyalty, but of course we can't believe that. Mine are driven by a similar loyalty, complicated by other issues. You know you can't trust Dagger and believe you can't trust me. I know I can't trust Dagger and know I can't trust you under the circumstances, though if I could explain things, you would agree, I hope. Dagger knows we'll both kill him, given the chance. Darhel don't really have irony, but I begin to understand it. A perverse concept."

  "So we agree on Dagger," Ferret said. "We take care of him, then we can talk. You followed me the entire mission; you must know what I'm like."

  "It would be a tempting offer, Ferret," Tirdal replied, "except that I have no way of knowing whether or not you're offering the same deal to Dagger. The artifact is the catalyst for all this trouble."

  "Hide the damned box, Tirdal!" Ferret snapped, almost pleading. He really didn't want to fight both of them. He really didn't want to kill Tirdal. Tirdal had seemed like a decent enough guy. Alien. Whatever. He really didn't want either of them to kill him, or for fate to catch up with his wounds. "I don't need it! I just need to know that you don't have it, and certainly that Dagger doesn't. If you can't get it off the planet first, we're safe to hunt Dagger. Then we can go together—you tell me where the box is, I take it, you control the pod. Balance of power."

 
"It would be a reasonable suggestion under most circumstances, Ferret, but at present I can't do that. I have to maintain control of this artifact. I realize that creates distrust on your part. I can't help that."

  Ferret, frustrated by talk, said, "Tirdal, I'm on your side, dammit."

  "That's probably true, Ferret," Tirdal said, "but we both know I can't afford to believe that."

  "Dammit!" Ferret said, frustration in his voice. "Can't you read my mind?"

  "I can't answer that question, Ferret, though the answer should be obvious." Ferret likely was telling the truth. The whole scenario wasn't organized enough to be a conspiracy. Ferret did seem to have pure motives. Of course, those were human motives, not Darhel. And as harsh as it was, there was no reason for Tirdal to team up with a crippled human, and every reason to split Dagger's attention. It was doubtful that humans appreciated that logic.

  "Okay, Tirdal, can you tell me where Dagger is? And I'll go take a few shots at him."

  "I suppose there's no harm in telling you that, Ferret. Though shooting at him wouldn't be sufficient proof. If you are able to wound him or kill him, it will show you have a greater interest in either the artifact or your own life than in Dagger's existence. You see the problem we face." If he could get Ferret to do that, it would improve Tirdal's odds. If he could get Ferret to panic, he might be able to confirm his mindset, as he had with Dagger. But it would take a strong emotion.

  "However, Dagger is behind me in terrain that is opening up. I can't be more specific than that. As to his grid coordinates, stand by." He considered carefully how to not give his position away. He really didn't have Dagger localized that well, but if Ferret headed that way, it was less trouble for him. Ferret might also try the same stunt with Dagger. Either way, it made sense to share intelligence about the common enemy. Irony was truly a fascinating concept. "Based on the pod's position as we deployed as zero meridian, here's Dagger's grid," he said, and read off the numbers. "That should place him within five hundred meters. I'd bet on it being less than half that, but I can't guarantee it."