The Wraith follow the trail, but they don't know the runner's location on the planet exactly until they come through the gate. This gives a good head start—one can set up several traps, equip ambush sites, and even rest a little. After all, the farther the new planet is from the previous one, the greater the chances that the Wraith won't come right on his heels.
That's how it happened this time. He got a respite of several days before they came again. The fact that the Wraith sent hunters after him quite quickly indicated their impatience. And that hadn't happened before.
When chasing runners, the Wraith don't take hasty steps. He didn't know exactly the reason why beings like him existed at all. Sport, hunt, training, entertainment, self-affirmation?
Essentially, none of that matters. Only survival—his own and other people's, without whose help it's very hard to live. Ammunition, food, medications are always needed.
But doctors, healers who can at least try to remove the tracker implanted in his back are needed most of all. But so far, he hasn't met a single doctor capable of doing that.
However, after recent events, he even stopped trying to do that. Too many victims remain after each appeal for help to people. The Wraith are not inclined to make life easier for their runners.
A month ago, he stumbled upon a settlement in another world where he had never been before. The address was given to him by one of the doctors who tried to cut out the tracking device from his back. Almost two thousand people populated the town where, as he hoped, he could rest and regain strength. The locals—open, welcoming people—accepted him, fed him. Their healer, a funny old man who enjoyed the reputation of a wonderful specialist among his own people and in many other worlds, with tiny glasses on his face, turned out to be caring and talkative. And when he learned about the device installed in the guest's back—the reason for the runner's appearance in his house—he readily responded. But, despite all attempts, like dozens of doctors before him, he proved powerless to extract the Wraith transmitter from the runner. And another scar was added to his back.
The runner stayed only one night—to regain strength after the operation. Sleep on an ordinary bed, in a soft bed, without fear of falling into the enemy's hands, seemed like a real gift from the gods to him. For the first time in many years, he was able to rest fully. And he left in the morning, hoping to confuse the Wraith following his tracks. Going through dozens of worlds devastated by Wraith scouts, he still returned to that town—to replenish supplies, since the locals had been benevolent to him last time. And with his own eyes saw what came of it. All the inhabitants disappeared, and their homes turned into ruins. No one survived—despite not finding a single body, there was no doubt about their fate. Wraith fighters circled in the sky—either finishing collecting people or waiting for the runner himself. Only by a miracle, laying an ambush at the Ancestors' Ring, was he able to escape.
He had stumbled upon this planet recently. Untouched by human or Wraith hands, it had lush vegetation in which it was easy to get lost from ground pursuer squads. The dense crowns of trees didn't allow enemy fighters to find him and pick him up aboard—they wandered in the vicinity for several days while he holed up in the cave. And judging by the fact that the ships left and a numerous squad came—the Wraith still couldn't detect him. And since that's the case, the runner concluded that he could stay here for some time—to catch up on sleep, restore strength.
And now he didn't stop, changing worlds one after another, not lingering anywhere for long.
Noticing two Wraith soldiers walking ahead and a bit lower down the hill, he didn't even hesitate. They—intentionally or accidentally—had come out onto the path leading to his shelter in the mountains. This couldn't be allowed.
With a good run-up, he jumped at the enemies. The Wraith soldiers noticed him only at the last moment. With a kick of two legs into the body of the first, the runner knocked both down, then, instantly on his feet, slashed the blade across the neck of the first soldier. The head separated from the body and flew into the bushes.
The second grabbed his weapon, but the man was faster. A stab with the sword into the shoulder, a circular strike across the chest, a kick to the stomach, and a finishing blow to the fallen enemy. The blade's tip entered precisely under the jaw, piercing it and reaching the brain. The adversary quieted, unable to offer resistance.
"That's better," the out-of-breath runner squeezed out, looking around. No other Wraith were observed nearby. So he pushed the bodies off the path further down the slope, and hid the two rifles among the roots of a large tree.
He needed to keep running. Soldiers don't walk on their own—there must be a commander or hunter nearby. Wraith warriors are too stupid to act independently. So there must be at least one somewhere nearby...
A couple of minutes later, he found out the reason for the absence of the Wraith commander nearby his soldiers. This also explained their sluggish behavior when meeting the runner.
A barely noticeable forest path used by local animals to reach a clearing with tasty berries caught his eye, and among the bushes, a Wraith commander standing full height became visible. His snow-white long hair, black clothing, the length of whose cloak reached his ankles, couldn't be mistaken for anything.
And the stunner pistol lying on the ground under his right hand, along with a couple of conspicuous stones next to the road, suggested to the runner the reason why the Wraith commander hadn't even thought to leave this place.
"You should have watched your step," the man muttered, picking up the weapon of the enemy killed by the trap. But his mouth twisted in pain and glassy eyes betrayed the Wraith as one not too inclined to conversations. The dead don't talk to the living.
And the Wraith commander's life was taken by another trap that the runner had set here. And the enemy stepped into it with one foot. Pressing on the flat base of the primitive lever mechanism, on the other side of which was a platform studded with numerous stakes. The sharpened wooden spikes entered the opponent's chest and neck, inflicting numerous damages to internal organs.
Even a freshly fed Wraith wouldn't recover from that.
Taking the stunner pistol and searching the corpse, the man turned to continue his hunt. And at that very moment, he received a stinging but strong blow to the face that threw him off the path several meters.
Before he could get up, the Wraith hunter was already in front of him. Kicking the runner in the face, he knocked him onto his back, then knocked the stunner out of his hand. Spinning around his axis, the Wraith hunter sent the runner flying with a kick to the chest.
Falling on his back, the man could barely breathe when his body was seized by a familiar cramp of pain. And speaking of pain, it should be understood that it was quite real.
But he had been paralyzed by the stunner more than once, so, albeit slowly, overcoming the pain throughout his body, he began to rise, drawing his blade from its sheath. Ungloriously, but he had only one chance to kill this monster and give hope for salvation.
"You've been elusive too long," the hunter rasped in his face, aiming the stunner at his victim.
The runner managed to let the first shot pass to his right, closing with the hunter by a couple of meters. Stunners have big problems with rate of fire, but... This hunter was clearly a veteran of many battles and had studied his techniques. Breaking contact and avoiding a blade thrust to the heart, the Wraith shot him in the chest with the stunner.
Like a scythed man, the man collapsed to the ground, with fading consciousness watching as the hunter bent over him. Tearing the rags on his chest, the Wraith raised his right hand over the defeated man, demonstrating the feeding organ on his palm—a narrow slit that allowed him and other Wraith to feed on people.
"Of all the runners from our hive, you are the sweetest and most worthy victim," the Wraith said, jerking his hand closer to the human's body.
Already losing consciousness, the runner felt his eyes hurt—some flash flickered before his face, blocking the Wraith and the rest of the world from him.
"I see, they don't like to chat at all," came a voice on the edge of consciousness. "We're taking this one."
* * *
His face was burned by cold that pierced the body like a stunner discharge. The man, uttering an inarticulate sound, jerked, trying to strike the dark figure in front of him. Vision hadn't fully focused yet, but the last memories demanded fighting for his life.
But his fist met only an impenetrable wall on its path. And it seemed a couple of fingers were definitely broken.
"And you're not much of a talker, as I see," came a somehow familiar voice. On pure reflexes, the runner threw another fist, but it too hit an unknown barrier. Which, for some reason, flashed green light. "Calm down, guy, here are only your friends."
The pain finally dispersed the fog in his head and before his eyes, after which the runner realized he was definitely not in the forest. A couple of times he had been in developed worlds—until the Wraith destroyed them. And he perfectly understood what a space or atmospheric ship looked like. Right now, he was inside one such. And for some reason, he was without his jacket, with his torso bare. And his back hurt very badly...
As did the two men and the woman dressed in identical gray-blue suits reinforced on the limbs and torso with something like thin armor. One man was middle-aged, like himself. And the swarthy woman with chestnut hair and the man with short, clearly recently grown dark hair were ten to fifteen years younger than him.
What was alarming wasn't even that they ended up on the same planet with a Wraith runner, but that they had no weapons in their hands. Although in the compartment of the small ship, in the aft of which the four of them were, it was present. Not only unfamiliar firearms that the runner had used some time ago—until the ammo ran out. The weapons lay on the seat, next to his blade. As well as several Wraith stunners—a couple of pistols and rifles. Something told him these were exactly the weapons he had on him and which he had obtained in battle as trophies.
"Who are you?" he tensed, trying to leave as much space as possible between himself and the strangers. This is necessary to have maneuvering space. "What do you want?"
"Straight to business," the older man chuckled. "Alvar."
"Teyla Emmagan," the girl introduced herself.
"Mikhail," the third man named himself. Looking closer at him, the runner was surprised to note that a semi-transparent greenish haze swirled around him. It seemed this was what the runner had tried to attack upon awakening. And the guy's voice was very similar to the one he heard before passing out.
Mikhail. Like a Lantean.
"What do you want?" the runner didn't react to the attempt at politeness. Right now, he had thought of at least three ways to escape from here. But only if he knew how to leave the ship...
"We need your clothes, boots, and motorcycle," Mikhail said calmly.
"What?" the runner frowned.
"Ah, they don't know classics in this galaxy," the youngest of those present sighed. "Okay, jokes aside. We saved you and won't play nobility. I'll be honest—you're not quite the guy I was looking for. But I think you can be useful to us, and we to you?"
"This brings us back to my original question," the runner made a quick move to the side and seized his blade. Stepping back toward the cockpit (at least it was the only place from which the forest was visible, meaning the exit), he pointed the weapon at Mikhail who was in front of him. "What do you want from me?"
"You'll laugh, but help," Mikhail replied.
"Don't come closer!" the runner warned.
"Or what?" the young guy, without the slightest hint of fear, took a step forward and impaled his chest on the tip of his weapon. But instead of a terrible wound in the center of the approaching one's chest, the blade bounced off his figure. The injured hand hurt again. "I think you've already realized you can't harm us. And is it worth doing it to those who rid you of the Wraith beacon in your spine?"
"You what?!" the runner stunnedly reached behind his back, feeling numerous old scars... And a sticky bandage in the center of his back. Right where a couple of doctors claimed the Wraith beacon was located. "How is that possible?! None of the doctors I know could remove it...!"
"That's why I'm offering cooperation," Mikhail extended his hand to him. "You're a fighter, guy. How you handled the Wraith impressed us all. And we wouldn't mind if you joined our team..."
"Thanks for the help, if you're not lying, of course. But I don't work in a team," the runner cut him off. "I'm a loner. And I intend to leave. Now."
"Your right," Mikhail agreed. "You see us for the first time, trusting in such a situation would be foolish, but... In a way, I know you. You're a good man. And you're definitely not alone, Kilrik."
The runner felt everything inside him tighten like a tight spring.
***
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