Foster, Alan Dean Damned 02 The False Mirror

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He had now acquired weapons and camouflage that, although simple, were a great
advance over nothing at all. With luck, his pursuers would not imagine him
capable of such inventiveness.
He was beginning to think he could roam the wild, heavily vegetated mountains
forever when he was nearly surprised by the Tracker.
Though there had to be many of them on his trail, this one was alone. No doubt
they had spread out to cover as much of the countryside as possible. The
procedure struck him as eminently sensible. Anyone finding evidence of his
presence could immediately call for assistance.
Unless he spotted them first.
The bipedal figure was still some distance away, too far for him to make out the
species without a scope. Probably Massood, he thought. Their height, sharp
vision, and long stride made them notable Trackers.
Not that it mattered. From now on he would move at night, when his pursuers were
likely to be sleeping, and hide himself during the day. Either he would outpace
them or they would pass him by. He began searching for his first hiding place.
In this manner he successfully passed the first week, then a second. No doubt
those local authorities whom the Weave had seen fit to entrust with a minimum of
information about his escape were frantic by now, wondering where in their
civilized midst the dangerous escaped warrior might choose to materialize.
Better yet, they might think he'd fallen over a cliff or perished of hunger and
scale down the pursuit.
He was feeling very good about his situation as he worked his way through a
night-shrouded grove of tall, oddly bent trees and stumbled over the dozing form
of the Tracker.
Because of the camouflage blanket, the low mound had looked like any other clump
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of earth. Only when he started across did it yield spongily beneath his feet and
emit a startled yelp. A blast of heat lit up the night and singed his ear as a
weapon went off wildly under him.
The blunt side of his club was less urbane, but more effective.
There were no more shots. The struggling figure beneath the blanket went limp.
Ranji staggered backward a couple of steps and sat down heavily, gulping air.
Everything had happened so fast that he was only now beginning to sequence the
events in retrospect. Gingerly he touched the left side of his head. He could
still feel the heat of the bolt's passing. A finger length more to the right and
it would have gone through his eye. If not for his extensive training and superb
reflexes, he'd be sprawled out on the ground right now instead of sitting up
considering his assailant.
His instinct was to flee. Instead, he forced himself to approach the motionless
shape under the blanket. If it was dead, its companions would soon learn of its
fate by reason of its noncommunicativeness. Regardless, it might be carrying
much he could use.
After pocketing the surprisingly small gun, he dragged the blanket off the
unconscious form and began to fold it neatly. The Tracker's pack lay near its
feet. It was encouragingly full and would ride easily on his back. That done, he
knelt and felt along the furless legs-clearly not Massood-until he came to the
service belt. Undoing the secure-tight he slipped it around his own waist and
was gratified to find that though he had to place it on the last possible
setting, it fit.
Continuing to probe the body in hope of finding something else useful, he was
mildly interested to discover that the Tracker was female and mammalian, very
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much like an Ashregan in consistency and shape. His interest was wholly
dispassionate. The notion that anyone would find contact with a barbaric,
half-mad, crazed Human in any way stimulating made him shudder. Not to mention
the fact that the individual in question had just tried its best to melt his
skull.
It moaned softly then, proof that his reflexive blow with the club hadn't been
fatal. When he reached the head his fingers encountered the thick wetness
flowing from the scalp. The figure moaned again, louder this time.
He considered how to proceed. The thought of killing another Human did not
bother him-he'd done plenty of that on Koba-but the less damage he inflicted
during his period of freedom, the easier it would go on him if he eventually was
recaptured. Neither side had much sympathy for prisoners who killed while
escaping.
A check of the service belt turned up the expected communications module. With
the aid of the translator that had remained in place in his ear and around his
neck during his flight, he might be able to monitor the other Trackers'
positions as they spoke to one another. That would be more than a little useful.
Ought to be on my way, he mused. Still, if he lingered until the Tracker
regained consciousness, he might be able to acquire valuable information about
the size, disposition, and strength of his pursuit as well as the countryside in
which he found himself. He was not Amplitur and could not mind-probe, but there
were other methods of interrogation-following which he could always render her
unconscious again.
Occupying himself with a cursory search of the pack's contents in the feeble
light of the single small moon, he settled down to wait.
He dozed off more than once during the night, awakening each time with a start
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at the cry or movement of some nocturnal creature. His concerns were unfounded.
The Tracker had not moved.
As soon as darkness began to give way to morning, he rose and walked to the
nearest stream. Using the Tracker's collapsible purifying cup he scooped water
from the surface and returned, putting it to her lips until she began to cough.
Pouring the rest over her face, he settled back and watched, gun in hand. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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