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.