Tirdal crouched down and took a drink of water. The trickling stream here probably meandered down to reach the large river to the south, but in this area it ran between clay banks. There were plenty of hiding places and it would have been a fair place to rest for a bit, if he had any idea how far he was from the sniper. The problem was that he was the hunted. Dagger could hit him at any time so he had no time to slow down and rest.
Turning that around would be tough. Unlike the sniper he couldn't track people, didn't have the slightest idea how. He had vague memories of stories about broken twigs, footprints in weeds and similar signs, but he had no realistic hope of doing anything. He'd observed Ferret enough to know that it was part training, part talent and part philosophy. Even if he had talent and developed the thinking, he had no way to get the training, and a mistake while learning would be lethal. His Sense would spot such unusual signs . . . from less than a meter away. Only if he stumbled across Dagger's trail would it help. And he was trying to stay away from Dagger. Until the sniper fired he only had a vague sense that he was near or far.
When Dagger fired he would have to use the tal hormones. But using them had a high degree of danger. He was still bemused at his luck back at the camp; that use far exceeded anything he had tried in the past. He looked at the box and flicked an ear. Damn the Aldenata, as humans would say. It was similar to an ancient Darhel curse. For now, it was needful to seek higher ground, and that took him back the way they had come. He could move all day, must move all night, and try to lure Dagger close.
That had been interesting, Dagger thought. He should definitely try some of the more esoteric foods when he had the money. And when he bagged the Elf, he'd see what Darhel tasted like. Chicken, most likely, but who could say? There was so little known about the damned things. In fact, if he got a handy kill, he should drag the corpse with him. An in-depth analysis of a Darhel corpse would be useful to humans, and likely some lab would pay a few credits for the body. It couldn't match the billion or more he'd negotiate for the box, but it could account for the pain in the ass factor the goddammed thing was causing him. Also, it was evidence to support his position.
Anyway, he had an Elf to stalk. He looped the tracker around his neck to keep it readily accessible, raised his rifle into low port and felt its comforting heft, then checked the surroundings and moved out.
How the hell had the little bastard crossed the river? Dagger wondered, amazed. Well, shit, he needed to get moving. He'd underestimated the Darhel, and that was not good. He took a route directly toward the stream, pushing his way through the brush and not worrying about a trail. Ferret might follow, but Dagger was sure he'd have the upper hand. Sneaking was Ferret's thing. Shooting was not. Not that he couldn't shoot, but he needed a reason. All Dagger needed was a target.
Once he reached the stream, he realized that crossing it would be a bitch. He looped his rifle into a diagonal position, waded out and angled against the current. He'd have to swim, and that was going to be harder than hell. As the depth reached his chest, which put him further out than Tirdal had been, being taller, he pushed off and began stroking.
It wasn't that the water was cold, though it was. It wasn't that drag of all his gear and the suit slowed his strokes and caused muscle strain, though it did. It wasn't even the intermittent cracking of his helmeted head against the rifle barrel and the neck strain caused by tense muscles and all that mass on his head. The combination, however, sucked. He was being dragged downstream, and was soon tired. Yes, he was making progress, but it was slow. Then he inhaled in between strokes and caught a lungful of water that made his lungs spasm. He coughed and cringed, choking and gagging. How had that little freak made it across? And he hadn't even drifted far downstream. No matter. He was nearly across now, and was able to snag an overhanging branch. It kept him from losing more distance—he'd lost at least five hundred meters so far—as he recovered his breathing. Panting, wincing, he got it under control and swam in, dragging the branch with him until it became more liability against his lateral progress than anchor against being swept downstream. A few hard, urgent kicks and he reached shallow water.
He angled at once upstream, intending to cut Tirdal's path and follow it, simply to avoid blazing a new trail. It would be easier to follow the Darhel, avoid the areas where he got snagged, and overtake him from directly behind. He kept his eyes open to the sides for signs of passage . . . like those branches there, the fronds broken and inverted. Something had passed them recently. Looking down and along a line from the river, he saw bent stems and then a bootprint. There. The incompetent little troll was his. He turned to follow and smiled to himself.
Ferret found the stream a relief. He was burning with metabolic heat, from exertion and stress and pain, even with his suit as permeable as it could get. Also, the water took weight and pressure off his feet. He wasn't heavily burdened, and while he was swept a considerable distance downstream, he had no major problems, though his shoulders ached fiercely and his strained tricep burned before he reached the midpoint, as he swam using hands alone. That drifting in the current also brought him past a section of bank that looked very much as if someone had clambered from the water. He'd have to come back to that. His attention came back to his progress, his punch gun on its harness cracking his right elbow and chest as he swam, his improvised crutch catching on his left arm and leg. It might not have been the best idea to shove it through his harness like that. But if he dragged it out now, he might be able to use it to reach bottom.
He tried it and it worked. He reached, stuck it into the mud and was pulled downstream of it by the current. Then he could twist and plant it again and repeat the procedure. It wasn't efficient, but it saved a lot of wear on his arms and stopped him from being swept too far. He could also tell depth, though sometimes it was by shoving the stick down and getting nothing.
Farther downstream, his knees reached bottom and he crawled out on hands and knees, rather than get his feet stuck in mud or risk tripping over rocks. As a result, he was smeared and greased with dank, wet loam before he reached high ground. Then he had to cross a boggy area, the bank here being higher than nearby ground in this rolling terrain. At least he could move relatively fast on hands and knees, even if it was awkward to keep his feet raised behind him. He should be safe here; neither Tirdal nor Dagger should be this far downstream.
It was painful to rise upright, even with his crutch. Damned excruciating. The words didn't do it justice until he whispered under his breath, "This hurts like a motherfucker," while leaking tears from squinted eyes. That felt right. Sometimes, profanity was necessary, rather than just punctuation. This was one of those times.
He was getting the hang of walking, as much as it hurt. He could now move in a step-limp, step-limp that made for okay progress. His left foot was at an angle so he could shove off with it, assisted with the stick. His right was working just fine, except that every step felt as if he were walking on hot coals, and hurt worse as he staggered to throw his left foot out in front. When all his weight hit a foot, he winced and stiffened.
It didn't take long to get to the area where whoever or whatever had scrabbled out of the water. He crept again, easing in under the feathery undergrowth like a lizard or snake. His punch gun was cradled over his arms, and he favored the left elbow to drag himself forward, so his right hand was slightly rearward in case he needed to shoot in a hurry. His crutch kept bumping his helmet from where it was lashed across his pack, and his head itched outrageously as it dried under the helmet, all slimy with sweat again.
The bank had been rather chewed. That set of prints was clearly Dagger's, so that other set with the odd cant were Tirdal's. They were already teamed up, then. Damn. That was no good.
Then, a fleck of mud slipped from the tread pattern of Dagger's track into the muddy water. Ferret took a closer, more scientific look. It wouldn't do to make assumptions.
Tirdal's tracks were older and softer. Perhaps thirty minutes old, though it would depend on the mud here. Dagger's were perhaps five or ten minutes old. So they were aiming for a meeting point.
Ferret couldn't pass them, but he could certainly find them at that meeting point. Dagger was now the primary target, then, because of his greater ranged weapon and readiness to kill. He had a momentary flashback to that shootout between Dagger and Thor, and shivered. Yes, Dagger had to go first and quickly. Tirdal was an unknown, except that Ferret could hide and track better than he.
They clearly didn't expect to be followed, though, so it was time to stop dallying. He shoved back up to his feet with the aid of his crutch, and kept going.
The foothills were well forested, and Tirdal trudged on. The trees were good cover. They were also a hindrance, with undergrowth and roots. These were not like the cultivated copses or semiwild prairie on Darhel. These were thick, tangled forests out of some early epoch of planetary development. Also, he knew he was leaving a trail Dagger could follow. That wasn't much help for his intended ambush; it was better to be invisible so as not to be outmaneuvered. Another problem, after all night splashing in water and half day of running with an artifact on his back was his innate lack of body fat. The strength and endurance of a Darhel did not come without a cost. Although the chemical analog they used instead of ATP was more efficient, the lack of long-term energy storage meant that after a day or two of high-energy activity the Darhel was drawing entirely upon muscle mass. He needed that mass. Also, the lack of fat and blood sugar slowed his reactions.
Most of the food coming out of his converter had been from plant matter. Although it was high in complex sugars there was minimal useable protein or fat. Some plants existed somewhere in this biome to provide both, but he didn't have the time to seek them out. The unpleasant fact was that he needed to eat some meat. He'd trained for it, even if he didn't like it. Even if every fiber of his mind screamed at the idea.
There was another small brook ahead, green and thick along its banks and the mossy rocks it trickled over. That was a good bet for easy-to-corner food. Leaning over slowly to avoid spooking them, he was rewarded by the sight of potential meals crawling and swimming in a group among trailing tendrils of weeds. He gratefully dropped his burdens and settled down.
He reached an arm in to snag one. Then he had to try again. By the third try he had its reactions figured out and at least snagged a tail as it slithered free. The sixth attempt found him with a handful of wriggling creature.
It was slimy and had external gills even though it had legs like a reptile. Possibly it and its ilk were a third animal family that the explorer bots had missed. Perhaps it was a larval version of the "mammalian" types. Whichever, the creatures would be a good protein source and they even scanned as edible to his simple sensor kit.
Now if he could only eat one.
The problem was not disgust; the squirming, wriggling thing in his hand had triggered atavistic cravings he hadn't even realized existed. But they were also triggering other reactions and Tirdal wrestled with his autonomic processes. The tal gland, sensing the coming moment of kill, had gone into preorgasmic spasm. If the gland overcame the Darhel's hard-held control it would dump its contents into his system, permitting him to bolt the food at lightning speed and vanish at a run. And, not coincidentally, trigger the genetic "zombie" switch installed by the long-gone Aldenata.
If the molecular detectors scattered throughout the Darhel's brain reached a certain level of tal hormone they would activate, triggering the condition called "lintatai." If that happened the Darhel would sit there quite happily until Dagger came along and took the box. Or until he keeled over from dehydration, for he would neither eat nor drink nor perform any other fully voluntary function without orders.
So in wrestling with his tal gland he wrestled for his very life.
Using ever scrap of the Jem disciplines he had trained in for so many, many years he got the incredibly seductive urge under control. Tal release was truly orgasmic and his body shuddered in pleasure from even the mere inkling of it. There were many among the Darhel who were tal addicts, playing chicken with their own bodies by watching violent shows or simulating violent behavior. But only the Bane Sidhe had learned, through the opposite approach of rigid control, how to suppress the gland and control it. Use it when needed and otherwise shut those feelings and emotions away. It was only the Bane Sidhe Darhel and their Michon cousins, in fifty thousand years, who had learned to kill and live to tell about it.
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 to 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 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 my 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.' "
"Fuck you over?" Dagger asked, outraged, fear forgotten. "Who's got the goddamned box here? And what do you expect to do with it if I let you live?"
Tirdal said, "The box is none of your concern, since it's only money to you. But since you ask, I intend to take it to the proper authorities."
"Proper authorities?" Dagger yelled, incredulous. "Proper authorities? It's worth a billion credits. A billion. Even after taxes, as if we couldn't figure out some way to avoid them, it's a goddamned fortune. 'Fortune' isn't even enough of a word. It's like winning the lottery, except it's been earned the hard way. That money is mine, ours if you weren't being a fool about it. You want to take it to the authorities? Hell, if you weren't such an asshole, I could cut you in. I even know who to fence it through."
Tirdal replied, "For some reason that last fact doesn't surprise me. So that's your motive here? You killed your whole team for money?"
"Yes, Tirdal," Dagger laughed. He'd outflanked this Elf who thought himself some kind of genius. "That's pretty much it. Call it a weakness, but a billion credits is worth more to me than those whining little wussies. And I get to use you as an alibi. 'The Darhel freaked out under stress, couldn't handle facing the enemy.' You're perfect. You tossed the grenade in panic, I hunted you down and took care of it. I'm a hero. Then I take leave to console myself over the loss of my friends and disappear. Next thing no one hears, I've got women lined up to blow me four times a day and a mansion full of slaves." He was babbling, he realized. Dammit, keep control.
"Fascinating," Tirdal replied. "I'm sure a psychiatrist—is that what you call them?—would have a fine time analyzing your neuroses. Or are they psychoses? I'm not up on human mental ailments. There are just too many of them to keep track of. You may even harbor some as-yet unknown ones. But your cupidity tells me you'd make a rather good Darhel, or at least what you think of as a Darhel."
Dagger was panting now, and not from exertion. Dammit, why was he having a panic attack over this? He had those when confronting things. That was the point of being a sniper, the point of keeping people terrified. It avoided confrontation. And the Darhel was in the next county, he told himself. He shouldn't be twitching like this. "W-what," he said, then got control, "you're just going to turn it in for a reward? Not even a finder's fee? What kind of Darhel does that make you?"
Again, no hesitation before the reply. "The kind with pride in himself, his clan and his race. Not to mention the survival of his race. And your race, Dagger. There are Fringe planets with contacts to species we don't have proper relations with. Do you really want them having access to whatever is in there?"
"How altruistic," Dagger replied. "All thought for others. Selflessness and charity. You'd make a wonderful human wuss."
"And with that insult, Dagger, we are done for now. Goodbye."
"Tirdal? Tirdal? Come back you cowardly little Elf, we aren't done talking!" he shouted.
It appeared, however, that they were, for now.