by John Ringo
* * *
The pack paused. They were scavengers, not predators. But this soft prey would be no threat. They waved their antennae in momentary indecision then leapt.
* * *
Dagger's first warning was the sound of scuttling behind him as the dog-sized pill bugs charged. Their mandibles were even more oversized than the predators, designed for rapidly ripping chunks of flesh from recent kills, and the first took his left leg and snipped the foot off at the ankle, right through the suit's tough fabric. Another ripped a hole in the thigh. Neither of those wounds registered at once; they were too quick and too clean for conscious thought to follow.
Then he was being chewed all over. Large bites, small bites, sawing and chewing through the fabric, his skin, muscle and grating on bone. He thrashed around in instinctive reaction, tried to swing his rifle around and realized there was no room. He reached for his pistol.
* * *
At the shriek, Tirdal froze. Then he peeked around the edge at a fusillade of pistol shots. He noted the scene and leaned back to wait. Dagger was occupied. It would be interesting to compare his abilities in this type of battle to Tirdal's. It would be best though, to wait for resolution before peeking again. Tirdal listened to the crunching of brush, the curses and screams and shots. Underneath, barely audible, were the chitters and the scrape of super chitin. Pistols, he recalled, were not likely to have any effect at all on these creatures, and it didn't sound as if Dagger were disposed to seek cover or evade. It was proof, after all the suspicions, that the man really was too cowardly to do the brave thing. His mental and physical courage was weighted by an emotional cowardice that was leading to this . . . In only a few seconds, the shots became scarcer, the screams softer. Shortly, they died down to rustling moans.
When Tirdal at last came out, the eerie quiet had returned to the woods. A glance suggested the pack and Dagger were about done with each other. Some had fled. The remaining creatures were each chewing on some severed part of Dagger.
Cautiously crossing and approaching from upstream, he located the shattered growth that pinpointed the battle. He crept in, wary of Dagger's thoughts, but found only the basic kernel of personality there. The man was badly injured. Still, he crawled into the area with only desiccated, crackly trees as cover. He kept his pistol low and ready in case of attack from either threat, or a new one entirely. His Sense was at minimum, tal tightly controlled to a trickle lest the feedback from a death throw him over the edge.
There was Dagger, and he was down and well bloodied. Some lobbed rocks and a couple of careful shots confused and drove off the scavengers, who chittered angrily but deferred to what seemed to them to be a superior predator. They knew their caste and moved off, dragging parts of Dagger with them, to seek other sustenance.
Tirdal pulled the gauss rifle away from Dagger's twitching form. The pistol was already well to the side, still clutched in the severed hand of the renegade.
Renegade, traitor, Quisling, sellout, turncoat. Humans had a rich array of words for this type of betrayal. They despised Darhel, who always abided by a contract for the sake of honor, yet saw nothing wrong with "screwing each other over" or "sticking it to them" or even "Jewing them down." That last one had taken some research, then a study of the concept of racism before Tirdal could define it. He still didn't understand it. That was something else that would require more meditation.
Back now to the business at hand. Tirdal stared for just a moment, then gave a very Darhel smile; all teeth. His ears flicked in appreciation of irony. Then he started applying tourniquets to the limp form before him. He was, after all, crosstrained as a medic.
* * *
Dagger muzzily regained consciousness. Pain throbbed through every fiber of his being. His skull pounded from both bruising and clashing hormones. There were stinks in the air, of blood and urine and scorched and putrefying flesh. He realized those were his. Reaching to shield his eyes with his right hand, he discovered anew that it was missing at the wrist. The stump bumped into his cheek, leaving a smear of jellied blood. It didn't hurt much; the tourniquet around it had killed the pain along with the flesh underneath it. Other sensations resolved as small insectoids underneath, stinging him with every tiny bite. His left leg was gone below the knee, he found when he tried to roll over. It too, had been tied off. Pain suffused his entire being, aches, sharp stabs and bites all fighting for attention. Chunks of flesh were missing all over his body, the gaping, ragged wounds covered with bandages but left not numbed. He rocked unsteadily over, iron control turning what would be shrieks into whimpers of agony. Every touch of the stiff weeds and spiky leaves around him hurt anew, and he looked through a red haze that might be the result of pain, or perhaps blood in his eyes.
There would be other animals, larger ones, coming soon, drawn to the strange but cloying scents of his meat. He'd need his rifle. Inside, never reaching his visage, a smile formed. The damned Elf hadn't been able to kill him. The smile inside became an insane smirk on the surface. He reached for the rifle. Even with just his left hand he could shoot.
It was gone. The depression in the growth and dug up dirt where it had plowed in were visible next to him. The rifle was not.
His pistol was there, still clutched in the shattered, glistening chunks of bone and shredded flesh that had been his right hand. It was holding down a note.
The note had been written in flawless block letters, as if by an engineer. Or someone who had learned English as a second language. It read: "I left you a bullet. Tirdal San Rintai."
From the bushes to the right, there came a rustling, followed by a chittering.
This time, Dagger's shrieks were unsuppressed.
Chapter 20
Tirdal was now truly alone. He could rest and would, but first he must recover that box. Then, he must stay hidden while traveling. Certainly the Tslek base was a decoy, but if they'd detected any of this fight, they'd come to reconnoiter, and Tirdal could hardly hold off even a lone bot with just a pistol and Dagger's rifle. And it would be obvious from their presence that the team had discovered the Tslek ruse.
Once he had the box, he'd have to move fast, resting briefly. When he was at last aboard the pod he could relax. For now, the schedule remained to eat and move. At least he'd be able to reduce the pace and eat vegetable matter rather than meat. His overmind was calmed by that notion, his submind outraged. More meditation would be necessary to reconcile all the conflicts between thought and emotion.
For now, he had to recover the artifact. Dagger had had no idea of its real worth. It was worth far more than money. And it was worth more than life to Tirdal, who intended to recover it at once.
He still needed the damnable tal to operate! Injured, exhausted and hungry, it was all that could keep him functioning. He drew his awareness in to a bare few meters, alert only for predators. Should the Tslek show up, there was nothing he could do, so it was not something to be concerned about. With less noise intruding into his mind, meditation while hiking was a viable option. He ran simple exercises to calm his overmind. His submind would have to wait, a caged beast clawing at his consciousness.
He had the captain's tracer to find the box and the herd. The beasts had moved a good five kilometers, and it was getting dark again. That meant there were six days to reach the northern exfiltration point, and that was possible. Or might it be better to simply head south and use that day to gain distance?
The device was to his north. Additionally, he was running low on energy. A rough three- to four-day hike was better than a ten-day hike. If he failed in the first, he still had the option of the second. That decided him as much as the fatigue and even growing frustration did.
At a trot, his gait odd from accumulated wounds, Tirdal made his way to the north and west again, following the signal. Tangles gave way to low scrub to grass, and he swallowed water and food on the run, occasionally fortified with pain medication and nanites for healing. He could meditate the pain away, certainly, but his mind was bu
sy enough as it was. He hoped his Masters wouldn't be too disappointed with that decision, under the circumstances.
It was an amusing thought. For the second time this day, his ears flicked.
He took a few bites from his processor and swallowed some water on the run. He still had a schedule to keep. The sun was oozing below the horizon, and the air was perfectly comfortable to him. Shortly, it would chill below even his tastes, and he'd simply adjust the suit accordingly. No longer did he need to cook or freeze, and the pleasant environment helped calm him, almost as much as the meditation and medication did.
It was full dark before he got near the herd, but if the tracer was correct, the animals ahead were his target. He approached slowly, alert for predators that might pursue them, or any kind of problem. Then he drew more tal (again!) and focused his thoughts for projection.
He wandered through the herd from the rear, still amazed that his projection was working, and he not seen. Or perhaps part of it was the chameleon. He'd elected to use it, since it wouldn't be needed for anything else. He would have appreciated the irony of Dagger having that same thought the day before, had he known.
The tracer simply told him that the box was ahead. There was a way to change the sensitivity and focus in closer, but it would take time for him to figure out how and there wasn't much point, as it had to be on one of these beasts.
There. That protrusion above the curving back of that one. It was visible by the starless shadow it left, and the visor showed it clearly in various frequencies. It was still securely taped.
Tirdal moved closer. The sounds of thick stalks being cropped echoed between the shells. Occasional rumbles of digestion or eruptions of gas provided cover for his footsteps. Whenever he'd seen this particular species, it had been eating. Did these creatures not sleep? Sleep only briefly? Sleep with part of the mind still alert? It was hard to tell, and not something he need concern himself with. What he needed to concern himself with was recovering that artifact. But they did seem to consume a prodigious amount of grass.
He was considering ways to climb or jump up and pull at the tape, the way he'd attached it, when it came to him that if he could cause one side to pull lose, the artifact's mass would cause it to drop off. That was easier than trying to jump in his present condition.
He lined up along one side, drew his pistol and sighted carefully. It was actually practical, given the animal's carapace, to simply shoot. The light load would cause no damage, indeed might not even be noticed. It would rip the tape, however. He thumbed the selector to automatic and fired. A ripping sound of projectiles tore through the night air.
He'd anticipated a reaction. The herd might scatter, spooked. They might charge each other or Tirdal or anything. They might rear and attack. He wasn't prepared for the reaction he got, however.
Nothing.
The tape had been sheared cleanly, and the artifact wobbled as the creature wandered forward. Tirdal followed, alert for trouble that never came, and within two hundred meters the box tumbled off one side, dangled from a strip of tape, then fell. He walked over, grabbed it by the handles and hefted it over his brutalized shoulders.
Step One accomplished.
He was quite loaded down with gear once again, but no one was pursuing so he could rest periodically and walk upright in the near silence. Those two simple things made it a much easier task. He decided to travel at night and rest days, as they had before. Daylight would make it easier to find a secure resting place, and the life here seemed in general to be diurnal, so predators would be stalking in the daytime and less likely to cross his path.
He turned again, back to the north and east. It would be his last direction change, he hoped.
The real advantage to the current state of affairs, Tirdal reflected, was that he could move as he should. The Tslek presence was far behind and no longer sensible. There were no humans to play down to, and he could trot at a good rate. He stopped twice a day for food and water and rest, slept once for five hours and was at the second extraction point in less than four local days. It was a moral victory only. Ferret had been wounded by the neural grenade and then shot. His own injured heel—from Dagger's shot—had gone numb and would need treatment. His injured shoulders—from Dagger's shot—were tight and painful, and might be becoming infected. The wound oozed and was starting to smell. His chest plate—from Dagger's shot—would need surgery to correct the way it was crookedly healing. The wound in his thigh from the beasts would need attention. His ankle was swollen and only medication and Jem discipline let him ignore it. In fact, he was only the winner by a lucky chance of the scavengers, but luck was an essential if unreliable part of warfare. The load he carried made it worse, but the artifact had to be recovered, and Dagger's rifle was the only weapon heavy enough for any real fighting at this point. He was reluctant to abandon its ten kilos, especially after a smaller predator form had tried to leap on him. There were other issues, too.
Converted leaves kept him fed sufficiently, though there was a demand for that taste of meat in his mind that would take much work to suppress. He would suffer the privations necessary to avoid meat, and further drowning in tal. His water was adequate; Darhel have very efficient "kidneys," and he didn't need that much to stay healthy if not comfortable.
He could see what was likely the shore ahead. He took a cautious look around, realized it was unnecessary, then decided to do so anyway. It would be a supreme irony to die so close to the end. He sent the signal, then repeated his surveillance.
Everything appearing clear, he crept forward over rolling hummocks of sand with tough grass clinging to them, dragging gear behind him, and slipped into the water among a patch of reeds. Shortly, he was submerged to his neck. Then he considered that there might be vicious aquatic predators, which might mean the shore was, in fact, safer. It was too late for indecision now, however. He'd remain here.
He was nervous for a while as the pod approached, slowly and deliberately, a rising dark dome like something from a human horror story . . . Cthulhu? But it came as ordered. Then there was another brutal swim. Swimming was not something Darhel did, because of their density, especially not when burdened with an Aldenata artifact. He'd abandoned everything else save one item in the grass behind, and left an enzymic package to hasten the destruction. Even on this duned shore, the plants should quickly grow over the nondegradable materials left, and it really wasn't a concern.
The gentle chop of the waves was enough to exhaust him. Still, swimming, while draining, was low impact, which relieved much of the pain in his heel. It hurt his ankle beyond what he could handle at the moment, so he reduced his stroke with that foot, letting himself bob in the water. He was gasping, pulse thudding, before he reached out a hand, grabbed an extruded stanchion, and swung himself up into the hatch. He took one last look around. Less than fifteen days he'd spent here, yet it would be part of him forever, with all that had happened. The team. The encounters with insects and flyers. The Tslek "base." The chase. Ferret, without question. Dagger most of all.
Part of the past. Now was time for the future.
Thrust tapered off as the ship injected into low orbit. Tirdal San Rintai looked at the hologram of the planet in the tank before him. An off-center quarter was visible from this angle, swelling toward him with the terminator a knife-edge across it. A pleasant enough place for humans, if they ever drove back the Tslek. With their enviable ability to kill, they could keep the predatory insectoids controlled. An interesting place for Darhel, but not a home, even if the climate was so enjoyable.
He touched the telltale from the garbage eject then and the Aldenata box began its slow tumble through space to annihilation. Attached to it was Dagger's rifle. He couldn't say why he'd done that, but it seemed appropriate. It was probably his imagination but he thought he could just see the box begin to burn up on reentry, an orange pinpoint in the hazy arc of atmosphere. It was a shame to destroy it after all this trouble, but it couldn't be allowed to fall into human hands
. Or Tslek pseudopods. Atmospheric friction and impact would accomplish what heavy energy weapons would otherwise have been needed for.
He lay back in his contoured couch and pondered the humans' probable reactions.
Chapter 21
The room would have been recognizable to a human martial artist. It had that spare look that avoided excess visual stimulation, while being elegant and attractive. Knifelike and spearlike weapons covered two of the walls in geometric precision that was inhuman but logical. A trained human fighter would have deduced the means of using most of them.
Tirdal sat, legs folded, near a small charcoal brazier above which was suspended the Darhel equivalent of a teapot. The steeping herbs within were fragrant and rich. All of this added to the environment, making it tastefully exotic to the untrained but familiar and conducive to proper mental energies in those who understood the Art. The mysticism surrounding any good martial art is not so much religion as mindset. One must feel the form. The clean, charred smell of the fire came to Tirdal, too. For a moment, the steeping beverage reminded him of Gorilla's tea. It had taken days to reach this level of calm, and he was almost back to normal, that "normal" having been imposed on his species by a race that dared to play deity. Then he reached the critical point and suddenly he was . . . there. In touch with himself mentally and physically, in touch with his Master, in touch with the universe. The pleading, demanding tendrils of tal, pulling at his mind and spirit, receded below the threshold to what was considered safe and untroublesome. Their retreat left only memories, which could be assimilated with his mastery of the Art into greater control for next time it became necessary to court lintatai for survival.
What to make of the ending? The "tiger beetle" attack was instructive in that he'd been able to kill, fortuitous in that Dagger had died as a result. Yet he had not been able to deliver that final death to the sentient, even though dealing death to the lesser forms was manageable. And Dagger had had the greater position until the very end, even exhausted, enraged and afraid. There was much to consider about humans, still. They were amazingly hard to kill, and could make very determined and deadly enemies. Generations long past had seen that. They had been correct in their assessment of the potential threat. A new study and evaluation would have to be made.