For now, Ferret inhaled the fetid odors, the grass and strange pollens, the dirt and casts left by things like worms. The local sun was to the west and into Dagger’s eyes. After the four shots, he had the sniper located pretty much within a ten meter square, allowing for sonic distortion from the grass. He was sure that if he could get a look up that way, he could pin Dagger down exactly. He might even get a good shot off, as extreme as the range was.
Then Tirdal was shooting back. So Darhel could shoot and mean it. Whatever philosophy kept them from engaging in war was a guideline only. Tirdal and likely others had obviously gotten over it. It was about time, he thought, that they took some of the load. It was also, he realized as an afterthought, about time that humans kept an eye on them. Militant Darhels would be bad, with the greater access to GalTech they had.
For a moment, Ferret just lay there and grinned. Then his fatigue-sodden brain realized this was the time to move. He pulled his knees in at once and started crawling under the waving stalks, hoping to close a few meters with Dagger. If this could be repeated a few times, he’d be close enough for a good shot from cover, well inside his practical range.
Of course, it would have to be a good shot. He’d get the one only, then Dagger would shoot back. He might hit, too, even if he wasn’t showing the greatest aptitude at present. Obviously, Tirdal was dodging. Ferret had less agility at the moment.
Dagger’s view was disrupted by the incoming map from Ferret. He scanned it at once, wondering what it was, as he hadn’t triggered anything he was aware of. It took a moment for him to realize it was a map of his location. The little bastard was alive and had teamed up with the Darhel. Well, that was fine, because Dagger had planned on killing him anyway, and this would just make it that much nicer. He growled anyway. Asshole.
Then he flinched as the first shot snapped into the cliff. Tirdal was shooting back! He actually could do it. That wasn’t a pleasant thought, if it was going to be a real fight.
Still, it was extreme range for the punch gun, and the Elf had little skill at aimed fire. He hunched to take a shot in case the little bastard showed up again, and he did, but over there. Dirt showered down from the first explosive hit, and the second bolt hit off to Dagger’s left, then another hit beneath him some meters, then another. His flinch had turned to a wince but he was now coming out of it. The pathetic little bastard couldn’t shoot for shit. Even with a punch gun, Dagger could have done better. He cursed himself, angry inside for letting the little twerp make him afraid.
Then the world shifted under him and the bluff started to slide forward toward the trees.
He rose to his knees and tried to scrabble backwards, but it was too late. The landslide was in full motion. He did manage to get far enough back to be against the fresh new bluff face as everything else collapsed under him, and the fall was not far, only about eight meters. The crumbling dirt gave him a soft surface to land on, and then through. It blew up around him and began to compact again.
Holding his breath and trying not to panic, he threw his arms around until he felt air. He half dug, half swam his way up and snorted in a dusty lungful of air. Clouds of the red clay still lingered in the air, and he could smell the earthy aroma of the newly dug dirt, as well as the silicate tang caused by the punch gun’s beam burning dirt to vapor. He spit dirt and wished again for water.
He whipped his head around, terrified that Tirdal or Ferret would be right there. He clutched for his rifle, but it was still buried in the soil. His right knee struck it as he thrashed, and he reached in as far as his shoulder to get hold of it.
Dragging it out was a struggle itself, and the weapon was packed with dirt. He’d have to find cover soon and field strip it. For now, he banged the muzzle as clean as he could get it and fired a round point blank into the dirt. The projectile didn’t make much noise, barely having time to create a shockwave. It did shower dirt and clean the muzzle the rest of the way. Likely, some had plated inside the barrel, but it would have to do for now. He tried to stand and fell instead, feeling dizziness, nausea and pain. What now?
“What now” was obvious. He’d twisted an ankle in the fall, was suffering the beginnings of heat exhaustion, and was burned out with fatigue. He needed rest, water, real food and medical care. What shape was that little turd in? Apparently he had water and didn’t need food… no, wait, he needed a lot of food… maybe he had eaten animals. All right, then what was with his aversion to killing? Maybe it was killing sentients? Some kind of feedback into his brain? Hell, it might just take a few shots of large beasts near him to stun him. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier? And what of rest? What about Ferret? How was that little punk handling? True, he could stop for water, being last, but the injuries and fatigue couldn’t be helping him.
Dagger realized he’d have to rest. Had to. He simply couldn’t go on at this pace, and dammit, it was getting dark again. He let gravity pull him down into the soft earth to catch a few breaths.
Then another blast of a punch gun threw dirt in his face.
He dropped down lower, and rolled off to one side, away from the shot. His brain, experienced at this even if disoriented at the moment, realized the shot had come from the south. That had to be Ferret, then. If the two of them were linking up, Dagger was in a bad place, caught in crossfire. He whipped up his rifle, let the scope follow the rapidly dissipating plasma sheath back the way the shot had come, and marked the location.
Then he slithered down the slope, trading range and position for safety and concealment. So the little asshole was back there, and trying to be clever. He would see about that. It took him only a moment to light the spot on his reticle and squeeze off a round. Ferret might have moved from that spot, but if not, he was dead. If he had, he was about to learn that Dagger could track him back just as well.
Ferret had moved, and fired again right after Dagger did. Dagger rolled, squirmed back, and shot again. His remaining fear flushed from him. This was what he lived for: a challenge to the wits and reflexes. “Bring it on, Ferret,” he said into the communicator. “I’ve got your name on a bead.”
Ferret heard that and realized he’d made a mistake. He should have tried to get closer with Dagger distracted. He’d figured a shot then, with Dagger busy, had a good chance and was relatively safe. He hadn’t thought the man could discern direction and threat so fast, then respond. He was a good shot. He was one bastard of a shot. The first one had been within a meter, even as he moved. The second one had damned near taken his face off.
But there was something about the ego behind them that just begged for a retort. “Hell, Dagger, I’m not worried about the one with my name on it,” he said, preparing to fire and move as soon as he said, “but all those ones you keep shooting addressed to ‘occupant’ or ‘current resident’ are really pissing me off.”
That did it, Ferret realized as another bead ripped past. But he was committed, now. He had a slight depression for cover, only his face and arms were exposed, and any shot that hit him was going to kill him so fast he’d never know it.
His plan was to stay still, watch Dagger’s movements and make his own shots as close to those of a sniper as he could manage. The sights on the punch gun weren’t nearly those of a precision gauss rifle, but were plenty good enough for ranges less than a thousand meters, and the weapon was theoretically more accurate, being light speed and line of sight. It had more punch up close, hence its colloquial name, and any good shot would more than equalize things.