It took long minutes of slow, measured breathing to reach an acceptable level. He opened the front of his suit to let heat vent to the atmosphere. The coolness of evaporating sweat helped, as it was something else real and external. His strength and balance returned, but he remained prone, head on one outstretched arm that was cramping from its circulation-killing grip on the punch gun. He’d wait a while longer before rising.
The lesson here was that he had to rein in his Sense when fighting. It could be an intelligence asset until hostilities began, but then it must be locked away. Some things should not be felt, and battle was one of them. Battle must be a cerebral matter, lest it subvert the mind. So he’d fight as a human did. That was how it was done.
A smile, all teeth, spread across his face. Another valuable lesson had been learned. And it was one he could use at once. Dagger thought he enjoyed killing? Thought he was dangerous?
Dagger had no idea.
Chapter 13
Dark turned slowly to formless grayness, then to twilight. Inside, Dagger calmed and returned gradually to what passed as normal for him. His breathing slowed from ragged heaves to pants and finally to just exerted breathing. He would not admit it even to himself, but he was glad of the light.
He sought refuge in bullying, as he had always done. “Good morning, Tirdal. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Why, yes, Dagger, thank you. I had one of the smaller flyer forms. They taste somewhat like duck, or at least that’s as close as human animals come. I would compare it more to the bligrol of Darhel. But of course, you’ve never tasted such.”
“Tirdal, we both know you’re lying about the meat,” he retorted, angered. The little asshole was so unflappable. Well, he’d flap shortly, when Dagger blew his fucking head off his shoulders.
“You seem sure of your statements, Dagger. So why talk to me? Does it make you feel less lonely? Does contradiction please you? Does denying reality and being contrary fill your psyche? If you drown, should I look upstream for you?”
Dagger ignored the incoming attack and kept taunting, probing as he slogged forward in pursuit. Dammit, there had to be a handle somewhere. “Tell me, Tirdal, will you still take that round in the leg for me?”
“Certainly, Dagger. Where do you want me to meet you?” was Tirdal’s reply as he crunched through the brush. The ground here was covered with something akin to dried pine needles from the variety of trees on this slope. They were slightly slippery, tending to slide and roll over each other, and he bent down to lower his center of gravity with the box over his shoulder. It hurt his chest less, too, though it made for greater exertion at the unnatural angle.
“Why don’t I meet you, Tirdal?”
“Name the place, Dagger. Unless you’re afraid?” Tirdal sparred. “And will you bring Ferret with you? Or will he be stalking you? Or just keeping you company in the dark?”
“Sounds to me like you’re hiding your own cowardice, Darhel boy.”
“Why is that, Dagger? I’ve said I will meet you. If you really wish, you know how to track me; that advantage is yours. You profess patience, yet are eager for me to reduce your task. Who here is more afraid? And afraid not only of dying, but of failing in one’s alleged area of expertise. And against an urbanite Darhel. Perhaps you are not the tracker you would have others believe you are. Certainly you are not the brave killer.”
There was a shift in Dagger’s attitude. It was swift, sudden. “Well, even if we concede the point, Tirdal, the fact is that I’m a killer and you aren’t.” Just like that. Conciliatory, even if only slightly. Less argumentative. What was going on there?
“If it suits you to believe so, Dagger, I’ll concede the point,” he returned.
“Hey, screw you, Darhel,” Dagger shouted. “I’m trying to… oh, to hell with it.”
That was the end of that conversation, Tirdal thought. But what had Dagger so riled?
He thought as he traveled, trusting that the problem would resolve itself in time. Shortly, his self-awareness prodded him. What was it?
His Sense. That was it. As this had gone on, it had gradually increased in sensitivity. He could feel a direction on Dagger, as he could with things that were very close. Yet Dagger was still quite some distance away, he knew. It had to be related to the continuous flow and recent push of tal. Historical details were hazy, but the Darhel had at one time tracked their prey, scarce as it was, across vicious terrain, following the thought images. That had to be what was happening here. It was probably a good thing he didn’t have the full Sense of his ancestors, on a world as populous with life as this. The combined input would likely have driven him insane at once.
The odd thing was that Dagger was not directly behind him, but was following obliquely, as if shadowing. That was interesting. “Dagger,” he said, intending to harass him with that bit of knowledge.
But that might not be a good idea. Upon consideration, the less he admitted, the better. Especially since he didn’t know how Dagger was doing that.
“What is it, Darhel?” Dagger replied, sounding highly agitated.
“How are you doing for rations, Dagger?” he asked instead. “Besides the flyer, I’ve had two local lizards and a large insectoid to eat. They do taste somewhat like chicken. I think I understand that human joke now.”
“We both know you can’t kill, Darhel,” Dagger replied, repeating his previous comments, “So don’t bullshit me.” It was clear, both from his voice and from a niggle to Tirdal’s Sense that Dagger had not eaten anything not from his processor. Interesting. Either he couldn’t hunt, or was squeamish about raw meat, and Tirdal’s blithe comments about it were more spikes in him. Best not to exploit that, yet, either. All these things could be used in their time.
That time might be soon, too, Tirdal realized. The forest was thinning, leaving a large oblate circular area that was likely due to some old burn. It was several kilometers across. Unless he turned to cut across Dagger’s course, he had to enter flat ground, which was a very unappealing option. He could go around, but that would slow him, and Ferret might fan out to flank him. Dagger could cut across, safe with his greater ranged weapon, but Tirdal could not. But he knew now what Dagger’s problem was. It was fatigue and fear of failure. And it had all come overnight. Was Dagger afraid of the dark, too? Was that why he was probing, pushing, trying to provoke a quick end? If so, even more patience was called for.
He paused to examine the terrain. There was always something not seen at first glance that would help. There was what he sought; a stream coming down from the north had cut a gully through the loose soil of this rich field. That’s what he needed. Through there he could move at a decent pace, and even if Dagger found him, he’d get few shots, and those would be obstructed. Girding himself mentally, he trotted toward the shallow creek.
Ferret was tired. This was as bad as Hell Week in DRT school, and he was amused after a fashion. He’d never thought he’d have to push himself that hard again. Yet here he was, injured, partially maimed, hungry, exhausted and strung out, his mind hazed with drugs despite his best efforts to keep the doses minimal. The initial pain had eased considerably; he now had numb feet and a dull ache that manifested itself as he walked. But a new irritation was about. His knees and good ankle were aching from the exertion of carrying unresponsive feet. His hips were starting to feel it, too. And he was still stumbling and inefficient, causing overall muscle cramps and strain.