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 created 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.
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.