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.