Was Once a Hero Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Robert Fenaday sat alone in dark wood and leather of Luchow’s Marsport bar, trying to get drunk. He wasn’t much of a drinker, another of his father’s several disappointments in him, but a man had to be somewhere. But tonight was the fifth anniversary of the day the young officer had come to his door bearing a flag and condolences that Lisa was missing, presumed dead along with her ship.

  Here’s to you Dad, he thought, too bad you aren’t here to share it with me.

  The bartender walked over to Fenaday’s corner table. “You gonna nurse that all night, spaceman?” It was early, and the bar was far from full, but Fenaday had a prime table to himself.

  Fenaday barely glanced up from the glass. “Put another one down,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

  “Sure,” the bartender said, giving him a frankly curious look, as if he somehow sensed Fenaday was not the usual freighter officer.

  Fenaday was used to the scrutiny. His uniform was not standard military, but the black leather jacket held a captain’s bar. Like most things on his ship the jacket was second hand, its name badge being newer than the jacket’s old, worn leather.

  I probably look as worn as the jacket tonight, he thought.

  The bartender walked off, to return with another glass of amber liquid. “Drinking Olde Henley, huh?” he asked. “That stuff will kill you.”

  “I’m not that lucky,” Fenaday said.

  A couple of businessmen came in. The bartender, apparently smelling better tips, moved off, leaving Fenaday to his drink. He lifted the glass and held it at eye level, studying its shifting amber color in the low light of the bar, but didn’t raise it to his lips. It wasn’t alcohol he wanted; it was distance and numbness. Distance from the memories of a lost home and a lost love. Thoughts of Lisa crowded close and jagged tonight, and the traditional medicine of the Irish wasn’t helping him. Maybe the ancient spirits of the island he knew only from books were having fun at his expense. The Sidhe loved tragedy and the struggle of mortals.

  They must love me, he thought, a lost man searching all of space for his wife. Show’s over, he thought to the spirits. His ship, the Sidhe, sat in dock, probably never to fly again. The end of the Conchirri war and the bounties it generated made it impossible to run a private warship. Backers in the syndicate that financed the privateer dropped off. Sidhe had made port on Mars with barely enough to pay off her crew.

  Fenaday had spent the last few days looking for work in the bars and haunts of the huge spaceport, refusing to give up. Now he found himself alone in a Marsport bar, staring at the turgid liquor.

  People began to fill in, office workers and maybe more prosperous spacers. Fenaday had posed as one of those more prosperous. The deception had failed. His last hope had just left. The shipping agent for a small firm plying part of the Fringe Star sector had expressed her regrets. With the war over and the navy free to patrol again, her company no longer needed a privateer escort.

  God, he thought, putting the glass back down, there has to be some way. Pick yourself up, man. Find something. Think.

  Nothing came to him. A warship or exploring service would not take him on as a passenger. He was only thirty, but there were hundreds of younger regular navy captains looking for berths in the rapidly contracting Confederate Space Force. Merchants rarely traveled in the Fringe Stars, and then only to the settled worlds he’d already searched for any sign of Lisa or her ship, the Blackbird. Sidhe was the only instrument for his search. Now he and the ship lay useless on Mars.

  Fenaday dropped his head on the table so no one could see his face. “You can’t cry,” he whispered. “You can’t start; you’re a tough pirate captain.” It didn’t help. Hot tears slid down his nose. Lost in his own private misery, it took him a while to notice the being who walked up to his table, to react to the sudden drop in the noise level of the bar. Only the rare and bizarre drew attention in a place as blasé as Luchow’s Marsport. The hush finally drew Fenaday’s head up from the table. He met the alien’s stare with a startled expression.

  The being stood slightly over a meter tall; resembling a large otter, save for the face that suggested a human ancestor, Homo Habilus.

  “You grieve, human,” the alien said. Its voice was low for the small body and whistled in parts, but it spoke Confederate Standard clearly. “Enshari understand grief.”

  “With enough cause,” Fenaday said, regarding the small being with wonder.

  “Ah, then you know the story of my people.”

  Fenaday straightened in his seat, glad for the distraction. “I can’t imagine that there’s anyone who doesn’t.”

  “You might be surprised by the shortness of memory for tragedy,” the Enshari said. “Tell me of what you have heard.” It seated itself unbidden at Fenaday’s table in a fluid motion that heightened its resemblance to an otter. “Please.”

  “All right,” Fenaday replied slowly, trying to guess the other’s motives. “Three years ago, while we were scrubbing the last of the Conchirri out of the universe, they struck at Enshar. A freighter discovered the disaster—”

  “Yes,” the alien said, “disaster, the very word, complete and utter disaster.” It seemed to fold into itself a little, as if in remembered pain.

  The bartender appeared at the Enshari’s elbow. It seemed that Fenaday’s stock had risen. The alien pulled himself together and ordered a wheat beer. Fenaday waived another drink.

  They waited for the bartender to return. In the background, music started. Mercifully, it wasn’t the crap teens listened to, but a blue jazz piece. The bartender returned with a large bottle of nut-brown beer and an Enshari-scaled mug. Fenaday poured for the Enshari, who nodded his thanks. They listened for a minute while the small being drank some of his beer. After a few sips he looked up at Fenaday. “Yes captain, please continue.”

  “The Confederacy,” Fenaday began, “sent a fleet, which was very nearly destroyed by some form of electronic attack. Anything and anyone who tried to land was annihilated. Not that it stopped returning Enshari ships from trying.”

  “Like moths to a flame,” murmured the small alien.

  “I guess so,” Fenaday said. “The fleet dropped guard satellites and fled. The Government banned travel there. The only contact is a warship dropping into the system to pick up the guard satellite’s information. Even that is done from the system’s edge. No vessel has entered Enshar’s orbit in nearly three years.”

  The Enshar made a whistling sound in its own language. “Just so, Captain Fenaday. You know the tale of our grief well, far better than most. That grief brings me to you. I’m Belwin Duna, Scientist of the First Order of Enshar.”

  “You know my name, Mr. Duna. Which means this is not a chance meeting. What do you want with me?”

  “I’m going to Enshar.” Duna replied. “I want you to take me there.”

  “Whoa,” replied Fenaday, raising a hand. “Let’s back up here. You may remember there is a death penalty for taking an Enshari to your system, Mr. Duna.”

  “Of course,” Duna replied, “I have obtained permission for such travel."

  “Can’t be—” Fenaday said.

  “Please listen, Human,” interrupted the Enshari. The Enshari’s alien face and eyes conveyed no cues Fenaday could interpret. Yet, the tension in the small body, the near desperation conveyed itself. It was almost a smell. “I alone, of the remaining eleven-thousand survivors of our species, have received authority from the Confederate Government for this final attempt to determine what destroyed us.”

  The past tense sent a shudder down Fenaday’s back. “How did you manage that?”

  “Very simple,” the alien said. “My surviving people have our compound, where we are cared for and protected, but they announced to their wardens that unless I was permitted to make the attempt, we would begin mass suicides. After the first dozen, we gained permission for one Enshari and one attempt. I am the foremost scientist and scholar left to my people. I’ve studied every scrap of
information that could conceivably be related to the disaster. I have every authorization; you may check that with your government.”

  “A dozen suicides with so few in the gene pool,” Fenaday murmured.

  “You do not understand grief as well as I thought,” Duna said. “The grief of the Enshari is itself a waking nightmare.”

  “My grief is my own concern,” Fenaday growled.

  “But known,” replied Duna. “You seek your mate, a naval officer, lost in the long and dangerous borders of Fringe Space where only warships go. Your ship sits in a launch cradle. A private warship is an almost impossible expense, even to one with your former wealth and contacts. Your quest ends soon.”

  Fenaday passed his drink from hand to hand. “Soon,” he acknowledged softly. At the bar a couple of young women laughed brightly, as if pain and terror didn’t exist in the universe.

  “Perhaps not,” Duna said, leaning backward, a confusing body language to a human. Fenaday, suddenly intent, leaned forward.

  “All Enshari property off-world is owned by the Exiles, as we call ourselves. In the material world, we are all wealthy, for the little consolation that gives. Take me to Enshar. The wealth we will bestow on you and your crew will allow you to fly forever. We will help you in your search for Lisa Fenaday in any way possible.”

  Fenaday’s bark of disbelieving laughter startled the alien. It curled defensively. From the corner of his eye, Fenaday caught a sudden shift among several humans and a tall, elfin Denlenn, standing at the now crowded bar. Their attention fixed on him. As he suspected, the Enshari had not come alone. Duna was a VIP. Fenaday wondered if an Air Space Assault Team sniper had a bead on him.

  “Apologies, gentlebeing,” Fenaday said, sitting quite still. “That’s not an expression of humor. You startled me. I sympathize with your quest, but it’s even more hopeless than my own. Mine may lead to death, but yours does without a doubt. Nothing has survived the attempt to land on Enshar.

  “Why talk to me anyway? Surely the Confederate Space Forces would do it. This is a fleet job. You need dreadnoughts, bio-ordinance specialists and Air Space Assault Troops, not a privateer.”

  “The fleet that went did nothing, accomplished nothing and left,” Duna answered.

  “Leaving three shuttles, a destroyer escort and later a dozen Enshari vessels behind, lifeless,” the human retorted. “All we could do is die alongside them.”

  “Perhaps not,” Duna repeated. “The fleet and other landings occurred just after the disaster, when whatever happened was still in effect.”

  “You have reason to believe this has changed?” Fenaday asked.

  “We do not know, but it’s been well over two years since the last landing attempt. There is no way to tell. Animal life survived on our world as did test animals from other worlds when they were crash-landed on our world. Your government would not allow our volunteers or condemned prisoners to be used in such fashion.”

  “What makes you believe conditions are different?” Fenaday asked.

  “Perhaps after almost three years... it sleeps,” Duna said.

  Fenaday stared with pity at the poor creature. He often feared his own grief would end in madness. It chilled him to see it in another’s eyes.

  “Bio-ordinance,” he said, looking away, “doesn’t sleep.”

  “Nor does it destroy space stations and ships,” Duna replied.

  “The Conchirri...” he began.

  “Were never there,” Duna stated. “We studied every record from the war, including theirs. The Conchirri Xenophobes did not do this. We do not believe it was bio-ordnance.”

  “Then who or what?”

  “We don’t know, but such ordnance would kill all life, not just sentients, ours and yours,” Duna replied. “Like all other survivors, I was off-world, on sabbatical, when the disaster struck. I am old and past fathering offspring, though we live much longer than your species. I know Enshar, our people, our world, better than any creature alive. I’m best suited to chance a landing and find some defense against whatever murdered our world.

  “The peoples of the Confederacy are weary of the expense and disruption of war. They are demobilizing quickly, too quickly in a universe containing the Dua-Denlenn and the unknown. Your fleet and your people will not risk lives and treasure on the closed book of my race. I cannot go unless I hire a vessel. You have a powerful warship and a reputation for escaping tight spots, and finally, you may be the only being I can find who is as desperate as I.”

  “And if you cannot find someone?” Fenaday asked.

  The alien leaned back again. “The Confederacy has been kind, particularly your species and the Denlenn, as if they feel they have to make up for their half-brothers in their systems, the Dua-Denlenn. Even the Moroks have helped.” Duna hesitated. “But you are aliens and you cannot understand, though you mean well. Without our homeworld we will not survive. There is no separate word for our homeworld and the members of our race. Without Enshar, there will be no Enshari people.

  “If we fail, I at least will leave my bones on Enshar,” Belwin Duna whispered.

  The eyes showed no emotion but the human could see the fur ripple and twitch. Enshari tears, he wondered?

  The Enshari produced a data disk from its jacket. “So, Human, here is everything: the contract, payments, authorizations, and a file marked confidential that I would ask you to read before you reject my offer. You may reach me at the Hotel Paradise. Think hard on it, Captain. For if you and I do not hunt the same trail, then it may be that we will hunt no trail separately. Humans do not live long, as we measure it, but you may live long enough to see the last of my kind.

  “Good night, Captain.” The Enshari slid out of the chair and left without looking back. Four large humans quickly flanked him. Fenaday looked up and right to face a Denlenn, the same one who had stood at the bar earlier.

  The slender Denlenn looked down at Fenaday from his nearly two-meter height. In low light he could almost pass for human, save for eyes that resembled those of a terrestrial cat, yellow or bronze, set in a tan face with skin that looked like supple leather. Those eyes caught and reflected the light, seeming to glow. His rough hair falling to his shoulders gave him a leonine look. This Denlenn wore a Confed flight jacket over civilian clothes. Badges and decorations spoke of hard service during the war.

  “Help us,” he said in a voice rich in alien accents. “Help Belwin. He is a fine being and night closes in on his people.”

  Fenaday shrugged. “If I even thought there was a chance...”

  “I will tell you a thing that no one else alive knows,” the alien said. “The zone of death does not reach a hundred thousand meters any longer.”

  As the Denlenn turned to leave, Fenaday seized its fine-boned arm. The Denlenn spun back, offended.

  Fenaday stared at him, hard-eyed, “More.”

  The Denlenn studied him, then casually broke Fenaday’s hold in a move that told of extra joints a human did not possess. Pulling back a chair, the long-bodied alien folded himself into it.

  “A hyperbolic orbit,” he began, without preamble, “low, not aimed for a landing, but low, at the maximum speed of a Dauntless Scout. The zone does not go a hundred thousand meters high.” He paused, took a deep breath. “I made an illegal side trip when my ship was diverted to the Enshar system to pick up the last satellite data. I concealed my real purpose, allowing others to think I was gone on a joyride. In the months following the fall of the Conchirri, discipline was lax. I sabotaged my recorder, then made a run at the planet.

  “I have breathed my last as a freeman if you are faithless,” the Denlenn said. “My service would court-martial me at the least.”

  “Why didn’t Duna tell me this?” Fenaday asked.

  “He does not know and must not,” the Denlenn replied. “If word leaked out, there would be no stopping his people. What if I am wrong? It would be by my hand that a whole race might perish. No. I must be certain.”

  “Why? What’s thi
s to you?” Fenaday asked.

  After another long silence the alien replied. “Belwin was my teacher at the university on Denla. We became great friends.

  “Then the war broke out. I served on the fleet carrier, Empress Aran. During the first assault on the Conchirri homeworld, a particle beam hit my fighter and I was wounded. On my release from the hospital ship Solace, I was assigned to an escort carrier, the Earhart. I flew with the first Enshar expedition. Half my squadron died there, many shipmates, the brother of my best friend.

  “I rejoined the Aran for the final assault on the Conchirri homeworld. I have watched a species wiped out of existence in this war. For all that the Conchirri richly deserved their fate, it is a terrible thing to behold. I will fight to not see such a thing again.”

  Fenaday studied the alien. “Big difference between a hyperbolic orbit and a landing.”

  The Denlenn stood, rising on his arms. The extra joints made Fenaday queasy just watching. “The zone does not reach a hundred thousand meters,” he repeated. “Read the chip, read the confidential file on it. I risked my life to obtain both.” He began to walk away.

  “Are you going?” asked Fenaday.

  The alien half turned. “My name is Telisan,” he replied and left.

  Chapter Three

  Fenaday paid the tab and hurried back to his room at the Spacer’s Lodge near the outer edge of Marsport’s dome, facing the industrial zone. He locked the door, turning on the battery of jamming devices he kept secreted in the room. Only then did he pull out an unlinked portable computer to scan the data disk.

  Authorizations came first. They looked authentic. He’d have them checked by a lawyer if need be. Next came the contract. Fenaday gaped at the figure, one billion Confederation credits, exclusive trading rights to Enshar, citizenship, diplomatic immunity, protection from extradition for any past misdeeds, free docking and port privileges. All possible assistance in the search for Lisa Fenaday, including support for Fringe Star expeditions.

  “Pity all I have to do for it is die,” he muttered.