Was Once a Hero (8 page)

“First
Sergeant Daniel Rigg,” said the big, gray-eyed human, “reporting aboard the
Sidhe—”

“It’s
pronounced
Sheeee,
” Fenaday
interrupted, “the
d
is silent.”

“Then
why put it in?” asked the blue-skinned Morok, giving Fenaday a fang-filled
grimace.

“So
we can tell who isn’t Irish,” Fenaday said.
 

“This
is my assistant team leader, Sergeant Rask,” Rigg continued, ignoring the
by-play.

“Welcome
aboard,” Fenaday said.
 
“You’re a long
way from Morok, Sgt. Rask.”

“Nah,”
the red-eyed, apish alien said.
 
“I’m a
local boy, born on Mars.”

Fenaday
barked a laugh.
 
He took an immediate
liking to the Morok, if only because he was shorter than Fenaday.
 
Mmok, Rainhell, Telisan, and now Rigg made
him feel dwarfish.

The
last to be introduced was a petite, striking woman of about twenty, with dark
red hair and an olive complexion.
 
She
wore a Confed flight suit, discoloration showed where the uniform insignia had
been recently cut from it.
 

“Pilot
Angelica Fury,” she said.

“Did
your parents hate you or something?” Fenaday asked.

Fury
glared at him.
 
“Fourteen combat drops in
Dakota
shuttles, two confirmed kills
air to air,” she replied woodenly.

“Welcome
aboard,” Fenaday said.
 
“The
Pooka
doesn’t have a regular pilot.
 
She’s yours.”

She
snapped a salute and joined the others.

Gandhi
handed Fenaday a data chip.
 
“We’ve kept
this under wraps so far but the press will get wind of it shortly.
 
Even if they don’t learn it’s about Enshar,
which they shouldn’t, they can be trouble.
 
How soon can you lift?”

“Normally,
I would have said two weeks,” Fenaday replied.
 
“With you footing the bill and the twenty-four hour full shifts you’ve
put on her, I can take
Sidhe
up in
about three to four days.”

“That
may be too long.
 
There are people who
would like to stop this mission.”

“Me
for one,” Fenaday snapped.
 
“How about
some details?”

“None
to be had for now,” Gandhi lied, having the grace to look somewhat
uncomfortable about it.
 
“We’ll get you
what you need, when you need it.
 
The
disk contains a number to reach me at.
 
Be alert, be wary and get off Mars as soon as you can.”
 
The bland man turned and quickly walked away.

Fenaday
turned to Shasti.
 
“Put Mmok and Rigg’s
team in separate compartments where your people can watch them.
 
We’ll be safer that way, I think.”

“Yes,
then what?”

“Then,”
he said with a smile, “get ready for dinner.”

*****

Belwin
Duna and Telisan waited for them at a private room in the back of the
Excalibur.
 
Dinner at Mars’ premier
restaurant would be staggeringly expensive, but Fenaday didn’t care.
 
If ever anyone was entitled to live by, “Eat,
drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die,” they were.
 
Fenaday decided to stick Mandela with the tab
instead of Duna in a small bit of revenge.
 
He also planned severe depredations on the wine cellar.
 

Fenaday
had worried about Shasti’s reaction to Telisan.
 
However, the tall Denlenn, still five inches below Shasti’s height,
managed to charm even her.
 
He held out
chairs and poured wine for her while they waited for their table in the
exclusive elfin towers the Excalibur was known for.
 
Fenaday was surprised by the slight stab of
jealously he felt while watching the two of them.
 
He began to understand why Telisan made Wing
Commander.
 
The alien’s natural
diplomatic skills and easy manner made Fenaday envious.

A
waiter took them upstairs to their private table in tower with a fantastic
view.
 
They could see most of the Mars
colony spread beneath them.
 
Lights moved
everywhere in the purple-red dusk.
 
In
the far distance, the occasional flare of spaceship engines threw harsh glares
and shadows.

“Beautiful,”
Duna said.
 
“It is good that life holds
such sights.”

“Quite,”
Shasti added, to Fenaday’s surprise.
 
“A
cold beauty, but a beauty none-the-less.”

Words that might apply to Shasti herself
,
he thought.
 
She looked at him and he
wondered if she had somehow divined his thoughts.

“You
must see Denla sometime,” Telisan said.
 
“There you will see warmth and beauty combined.”

They
looked out over the shrouded world in companionable silence for a few more
seconds.
 

“I
had a visitor two nights ago,” Fenaday began.
 
“He uses the name Mandela.”
 
He
glanced at the others.
 
Either they were
good poker players, or the species difference made their surprise
invisible.
 
“Does the name mean anything
to you?”

“No,
Captain,” Duna replied.
 
“Does it concern
our business?”

“Yes.
 
Mandela isn’t his real name.
 
He’s with the Confederate Government, one of
those nameless and faceless who wield the real power.”

“If
he is trying to stop us—” Telisan began.

“Quite
the opposite,” Shasti said, watching the Denlenn narrowly.
 
“He’s the reason we are going.”
 
This time the old professor and the ace pilot
did look surprised.

“Yes,”
Fenaday said.
 
“He is most
persuasive.”
 
He repeated the speech he
had earlier given Rainhell.

“This
Mandela is unknown to either of us,” Duna said after Fenaday finished, “but all
you relay is logical as to the Confederacy’s motivations.
 
I sorrow that this has happened to you.
 
I hoped this would be your free choice.”

Fenaday
shrugged.
 
“The government would put me
out of business one way or another.
 
I’m
lucky to get as far as I did.”
 
For all
the sympathy, Fenaday noted that Duna didn’t offer to go to Mandela and get
them off the hook.
 
The Enshari was a
desperate being.
 
In his place, Fenaday
wouldn’t have let them off either.
 
Accustomed as he was to enlightened self-interest, Fenaday didn’t take
it personally.

Waiters—actual
people, not servos—showed up with their meals.
 
Fortunately, Fenaday and his companions were all omnivores with
sufficiently similar tastes that nothing disgusted the others.
 
In his previous life as a merchant, Fenaday
had learned to have a strong stomach.
 
He
was glad not to need the skill tonight.
 

As he
looked at the others in the soft candlelight, a feeling of unreality gripped
Fenaday.
 
I used to live like this,
he thought with a faint shock.
 
Evenings in good restaurants with
intelligent, decent people for company.
 
That life seemed so far away, as if it had happened to someone else.

They
made an interesting sight at the table.
 
The tiny Enshari sat on an elevated chair, next to Fenaday, who wore his
best ship’s uniform.
 
Shasti wore what
Fenaday always referred to as her ‘vampire’ outfit: a black, V-necked,
form-fitting bodysuit with a gold sash under a red bolero jacket.
 
On her chest rested a ruby of eye-catching
proportions.
 
Her skin looked all the
more white and flawless against the clothes.
 
Telisan looked somewhat incongruous in a human-cut suit.
 
Handsome even by human standards, he still
bent in all the wrong places.
 
The
Denlenn waved his overlarge hands as he spoke with animation about flying in
the war against the Conchirri.

Fenaday
asked everyone to hold off further discussion of their mission until after
dinner.
 
The hour gave him an appreciation
of why Duna and the Denlenn pilot were friends.
 
Belwin Duna was the image of a genial
grandfather; for all that he looked much like a large otter.
 
Over eight hundred years old, the Enshari’s
store of knowledge seemed endless.
 
It
complemented an empathy that crossed barriers of culture and species.
 
Duna drew out of Fenaday things he usually
tried not to think of: the family bankruptcy, the suicide of the chief
financial officer and his father’s best friend, other even more painful
things.
 
Duna listened sympathetically
until Fenaday pulled up short.

“My
problems,” Fenaday said, “must seem trivial to you with all you have lost.”

“One
can only feel so much pain,” Duna replied.
 
“If one cares passionately about a person, their death can weigh as
heavily as the death of a species.
 
After
a point, numbers become meaningless.
 
Is
not each person a unique universe, never to be seen again in all time?”

Fenaday
thought briefly about the unique universes he’d ended and nodded.

“It’s
time to get to business,” Fenaday finally said, glad to switch the
subject.
 
“Enshar: theories on what
happened, approaches to the planet, weapons, tactics, any information you have
that might give us a chance of survival.

“You’ve
seen my ship.
 
She’s powerful for her
size, but nothing compared to a cruiser like the
Bengal
.”
 
He spent a few minutes relaying the
capabilities of the
Sidhe
, mostly to
Telisan, who made notes in a pocket comp.
 
Fenaday then gestured to Shasti.

“Our
Landing and Expedition Force,” she said, “is handpicked and trained in light
weapons.
 
I’ve managed to get back the
core of that group.
 
They’re the equals
of any ASAT or Marine platoon except for the lack of heavy weapons.
 
I’ve picked up about twenty newcomers, all
with equivalent backgrounds.
 
By the time
we reach Enshar, I’ll be happy with them or they’ll be sucking space.”

Telisan
looked at the big Olympian.

“She’s
mostly kidding,” Fenaday said.
 
I hope,
he thought.

She
sipped her wine and gave him another of those enigmatic looks reserved for when
she felt he was being too squeamish about the business they were in.
 
Fenaday knew he was a disappointment to her
in terms of sheer ruthlessness.

“We
know what this Mandela has given us,” Fenaday continued.
 
“His stringers arrived today.
 
They’re the sort of professional people we’d
never normally have a chance at, doctors, engineers and scientists.
 
You may even know some of them, a Dr. Mourner
and her associates?”

“Mourner,”
Duna said in evident excitement, “Yes, I know of her.
 
I have read her papers.
 
A brilliant mind.”

“Why
they’re so willing to throw their lives away,” Fenaday said, “I have no
idea.
 
He also delivered twenty-two
ASATs.
 
To crown it all there’s a
cyber-force of robots under a human controller.
 
He’s even got four of those humanform combat robots we heard rumors of
at the war’s end.
 
Well, they’re real.”

“I
know,” Telisan nodded.
 
“Confed used them
in the final assault on Conchir.
 
I never
saw one but I heard much of them.
 
They
are deadly.”
 

“Yes,”
Fenaday said, “they looked it.”

“Machines,”
Shasti said, an undertone of contempt in her voice.
 
Olympia,
the homeworld of human perfection, did not allow robots.
 
“Just slightly better toys.”

“It’s
the human who worries me,” Fenaday said, as he reached for a wineglass.
 
“Their controller is a cyborg named
Mmok.
 
I figure him to be Mandela’s lead
watchdog.
 
Somehow I have to integrate
this mob into a proper crew.”

“And
keep them under careful observation,” Telisan finished.

“Just
so.”

“Like
you, I do not trust this Mandela and his largesse,” Telisan said. “The
government only agreed to this mission in order to prevent the suicides and the
embarrassment.
 
If we disappear en route,
they could always claim the Enshar plague got us and fake whatever evidence
they need.”

“The
thought occurred to us as well,” Shasti said.

“What
steps have you taken to guard against such an eventuality?” Duna asked.
 
The Enshari’s fur twitched and rippled with
anxiety.

“There’s
little we can do,” Fenaday said grimly.
 
“We’re a privateer, not a navy ship, or even a company ship, where the
crew and captain might have served together a long time.
 
We draw self-interested adventurers, people
with blots on their records of one nature or another—drunks, druggies and
dregs.
 
I have a few officers I
trust.
 
Shasti leads the list.
 
Karass, my lead shuttle pilot, follows.
 
Then there’s Chief Engineer, Carlos Perez,
within limits, and a Frokossi ex-princeling named Dobera.
 
He serves as quartermaster.
 
On a regular mission I might trust some of
the others, but not under these circumstances.”