Nah, he couldn’t be that good. Dagger had seen some real shit. He was letting himself get scared over nothing. Nothing. What kind of wuss was afraid of the dark? He could shoot the bugs as fast as they could attack, and Tirdal was a long way away.
He yelped as something stabbed him in the ribs, then recovered. He swallowed and hit the limb aside furiously.
Then he went berserk.
There was no obvious outer change, though he did increase his pace to a rough, rapid stride, moving in a low lope. He slapped branches aside and didn’t realize he was sacrificing stealth for speed. All he knew was that he was catching that damned Darhel, and he was not afraid of the dark. He tripped over a stray root, and it only served to elevate his rage to a higher plane. He was panting, hyperventilating, heedless of his own safety, but all that mattered was catching that damned Darhel.
Ferret kept pushing his pace faster as his legs went blissfully numb. The pins and needles feeling went the entire length now, and he barely felt the brush he rubbed against. It was a good thing that he was stalking, and he’d have to keep it that way, because he was certainly leaving a trail. But at least the pain was gone. It was odd to not feel his feet, but they were working, even if the left one was a puppet’s wooden foot rather than a real one.
The coming dark would be of help to him. Unless those two, Dagger specifically, as Tirdal wasn’t very good, were keeping a good watch behind, he shouldn’t run up on them. But once he did see an IR readout, he should easily be able to follow at distance. Too, it was harder to move stealthily in the dark. Dagger might not leave much, but Tirdal would, and the two together should be easy.
A wave of dizziness hit him, and he squatted down to catch his breath, or tried to. He sprawled flat in the weeds, feeling them scrape past him and smelling the released sap of several types. The ground smelled slightly slimy, and he’d probably slipped on the surface as stems rolled well-greased between that and his boots. Balance shot because of my feet, he thought to himself. He reminded himself to be cautious. He had no tactile feedback from down there.
He wondered if the nausea was due to his damaged feet, but that couldn’t be it this fast. He realized it was a combination of shock, pain, drugs and lack of food and sleep. He’d been awake almost twenty-eight hours, after days of little sleep, and was in rough shape. And he couldn’t stop now. The best thing for him was to bull through and hope they had to rest at some point, soon. In fact, they were sure to, unless he presented an immediate threat. Another reason to keep quiet.
Still, they had the advantage. If they rested, they could take turns on watch. Ferret had only himself. But, by resting, they weren’t moving.
He checked his tracker again. Tirdal’s lead was less. But they had both widened the gap from them to him. So he’d have to do what he could to increase his pace. Sighing, he reached into his kit for more painkillers and a stronger stimulant. He hated to use them; the painkiller reduced his awareness somewhat, and the stim nauseated him. If he were to have a chance of catching up, however, they were necessary.
That done, he opened the last rat to chew on while he marched, tucked it into his belt, and started moving. Step forward with the right foot until weight hit the knee, then shove the left foot forward. As soon as weight was on it, step forward with the right and push with the left. He resumed his rolling, limping gait, and decided the speed was adequate. The pain was less than it had been, and as the fresh analgesic kicked in, he’d move it up faster.
The tracks weren’t hard to follow, even in the dark. Ferret had grown up on a Fringe world, and had hunted since he was five. To him, the terrain was a book to be read. More bent leaves and abused stems told him someone had passed this way. That scratch on a tree and that bare sweep through brush indicated a long weapon: Dagger’s. Those flat areas were due to feet with a different geometry than a human’s: Tirdal’s.
Then there was the mark left through the stems by a larger local form. He studied that at a near-jog as he crossed it. Yes, something had trotted through there quickly, in pursuit of something smaller. That meant a predator. A predator was even worse in his limping condition, and in that he’d prefer not to fire and give away his location. He wasn’t sure he could handle one with a knife, but that appeared to be his best option for secrecy. As to shooting, it was likely a better option for survival. Of course, both depended on a weapon being able to get through those appalling exoskeletons the local life wore.
It was right then that the predator in question trotted past again. It was about rabbit sized, and it was followed by three more just like it. It was probably his limping gait sending rhythmic but uneven vibrations through the ground that attracted them. Whatever it was, Ferret saw the ground cover twitch and sway, saw the wave of motion turn suddenly towards him and charge. He yanked his field knife clear of its sheath and tried to intercept them.
The first one was easy. He had the blade down in time and the stupid creature tried to bite it. The blade of the knife was a high-density polymer, with a ceramic edge molecularly bonded to it. The bug sheared its own jaw off on the almost molecule-fine edge. For just a moment, it was clearly visible in Ferret’s goggles, a wriggling, Japanese beetle shape as long as his foot. Then it fell under a seedling.
The other three tried to attack at once. The first leapt, and Ferret dodged by falling. He hadn’t intended to do that, and it sent fresh spikes of pain through his legs, but he avoided a bite. A whack at the temporarily confused bug didn’t cleave its chitin, but did crush its legs under itself, as it had no time to retract them. It wriggled and twitched in place in the weeds, but wasn’t going to be a problem.
The other two, however, were on him. One was chewing at his right boot. At least, he hoped it was just his right boot. While his foot was insensate, he still needed it to function for this hike. Then the second one started attacking his rucksack, chittering in his ear and scaring him badly.
First, the one on the foot. It was the easier one to reach. Methodically and calmly, he inserted the blade, unsharpened edge down, between his foot and the bug, and hoped to hell it didn’t try to crawl up the blade and munch his arm. It clung to his boot for a moment, then came loose. The tip pinned it against the bark of a tree, resisted for a moment, then skewered it. It thrashed angrily.
Quickly, he pulled the releases on his ruck’s strap, let it drop, and turned to impale the other pest. With soft ground underneath, he wasn’t able to pierce it, but it did stumble off quickly.
Ferret panted for breath, suddenly wider awake than even the drugs had made him, a warm flush of adrenaline coursing through him. He whipped his head around to see if there were any others nearby.
It was clear. He carefully resheathed his knife, took a quick glance at his boot and was reassured that integrity was good, even if the tough surface was badly scored and peeled. Then he reattached the clips on his pack, shouldered it, shrugged it and adjusted it. Of course, just for a minor annoyance, he couldn’t get the straps back to the original position. It rode differently on his shoulders and would take some time to get used to. But he was alive, mostly unhurt save for a skinned knuckle on his already bug-bit hand and a sore hip, and was up and moving again at once.