“Scratched myself on a stick,” Dagger insisted at once. “Not that it matters. I can kill both of you with one hand taped.”
Ferret said, “I’ll take that bet, Dagger. Will you do it now?”
For the moment, Dagger was silent.
Tirdal said, “Dagger, the fact that you’ve had to lie about allies who appear not to support you indicates your position is precarious in your own mind. That weakness of spirit will be your undoing, regardless of any physical threats.”
“Tell me, Tirdal,” Dagger replied now, “what is the sound of one Darhel dying? Why are we having this stupid chat? Everyone comfy now? Can we stop talking and start killing? I know I can, you two seem to be reluctant.” There was a ragged edge to his voice.
“Trying to find a way to shut down the communications, Dagger?” Tirdal asked with a lilt in his voice. “You must remember that only the senior troop can do that. I think this exchange is useful, and would like it to continue.”
“I’m dropping out again,” Ferret said. “I’ve got work to do. But if you kill him, Tirdal, and bury the artifact where I can find it, I promise I won’t kill you.”
“I’m sorry, Ferret, but I can’t make a deal like that.”
“That’s because you’re too cowardly to kill,” Dagger snarled.
“I figured that, Tirdal. Pity I can’t let you live to enjoy that billion. Later, assholes.”
He closed his channel for now. That had been instructive. He and Dagger were both argumentative and childish, likely due to fatigue, and the damned Darhel sounded fresh as a daisy. But Tirdal knew Dagger didn’t have Ferret as an ally. Dagger knew Ferret was in the loop. And Ferret knew they were both sellouts he’d have to kill.
Sighing, he checked his rate of movement and stumped along faster, feeling a new pounding in his calves.
Chapter 15
The coming daylight was a necessary salve to Dagger’s sanity, but it wasn’t enough. Between fatigue and poor rations, he was lagging badly. Now he was wounded, too. He knew he had to catch Tirdal today, end this today, or he wasn’t going to be in shape to do it ever. Then there was Ferret. The little twerp was one hell of a tracker, and tough as nails to still be following. He wasn’t even in it for the money. The asshole was doing this from duty, and seemed to think it would matter.
He reached for his canteen straw and sucked at it, but got nothing. He’d been sweating all night and had sucked it dry. He was going to have to take a break and get some real food, as well as more water. The weather wasn’t excessively warm at the moment, but he was exerting himself a lot. Hell, he had to be exhaling a quart of water a day, never mind what he was pissing away. If he’d had any idea there’d be a real fight after the grenade, he would have made sure he had some rations with him. He’d dropped his ruck because he hadn’t figured to need anything for those few seconds. He was lucky to have the rifle; he hadn’t needed it, but just never put it down if he could help it. The wisdom of that habit was obvious now. He could kick himself for not thinking of food when he grabbed supplies. But who would have thought it? He vaguely remembered a week in training regarding logistics and support tail. He’d slept through most of it, eager only for the afternoon’s shooting and running.
It was ironic, he thought, the position he was in. The reason he always harassed people about their food choices was because he really wasn’t as hardcore as he pretended. He hated raw meat, and he hated bugs, worms and larvae. Now, he was in a position where he had to either eat them or die. He’d trained for it, hated every minute of it, took vengeance upon the world by harassing all others about it, and now had to do it himself. It served to wake him slightly, the rage did. The universe seemed to take delight in fucking him over his discovery of the box. But he’d get out of this, and it would just make the memory that much sweeter.
Somewhere here there had to be some of those flyers or small mammals. He needed food, but would have to be a hell of a lot hungrier to eat raw bug. So mammal it was. Something with its bones on the inside. He kept an eye on the terrain for any area that might contain them, and tried not to think of all the bugs he saw. He was connecting them with food, and that brought back bad memories of that week of training.
Shortly thereafter, he found a depression with scattered puddles. There were lizards there, and he decided that lizard was close enough, being at least a chordate. All he had to do now was get one.
He could have snuck in and snagged one, but that took time. Consciously, he was confident of his ability to stalk, and repressed any thoughts that he might not be. Intellectually, the faster he ate the better. Somewhere below that, he desired to shoot something. That would make him feel better, get out some aggression, and was less involved than trying to grapple a reptile. Shooting was natural for him, and the rail pistol was near silent. If he adjusted the velocity down below sonic speed, there wouldn’t even be a crack from the round. Ten seconds with the controls, five seconds to aim, breathe and pop! he had a lizard. Two more pops gave him two more, as they looked small. The rest scattered, but he’d gotten three in less than three seconds.
He moved up and grabbed the corpses, headless or nearly so from the hydrostatic shock of small beads. He whipped out his knife as he did so. He chopped off the remains of the heads and the feet and laid them on a log. With quick strokes he slit and gutted them, sectioned them into legs and torsos, and grabbed the first hind leg.
He hesitated just long enough to get his brain in control and shut off his senses. Then he bit into the warm, rubbery flesh and tore it loose from the bone. It was slimy and stringy in his mouth, and he choked it down, coughing and trying not to vomit. Perhaps if he’d shot them yesterday, he could have had them dried and chewy by now, instead of as something resembling raw squid. He bit again, almost regurgitated the first bite along with it, and chewed, avoiding touching it with his tongue until enough saliva built up and allowed him to force it back and down.
Grimacing, he stuffed the rest into a pocket, wiped his hands free of sticky lizard blood on his suit, and stood up. He’d need water so he could wash this stuff down in small bites like medicine. He just couldn’t make himself actually chew the stuff. And the taste would linger until he got to some water.
Tirdal had lied, if he’d actually eaten the damned things at all. They tasted nothing like chicken.
Tirdal, for his part, had his own demons to wrestle with. The cat and mouse game, just as it would cause multiple adrenaline reactions with humans, was causing his system to flood with tal hormone. This was dangerous, but to get the absolute most out of his system he had to use it. He had to release the demon and risk the overload, risk the zombie state of lintatai, if he was going to win against the sniper. He’d stretched out his Sense yesterday and been able to see what Dagger was doing. Only by maintaining that state could he gain enough intelligence to outthink and outmaneuver Dagger.
Then there was his need for more food. While Dagger could last quite some time on converted weeds, and likely could shoot an animal and eat it with little worry, he thought, Tirdal had to struggle with each creature in his psyche, but had to, had to, eat several each day. Worse, he was approaching his own fatigue limit, this being forty-seven hours into the chase. Food would keep him going, though he could already feel the stress and damage to his muscles caused by the drain his metabolism placed on his body mass. He was alert for more food now, seeking creatures with the least intellect. If they were self-aware, he could find himself over the canyon of lintatai again.