Was Once a Hero (11 page)

“A
sack?” Duna repeated, looking a little ruffled.

“Don’t
worry,” Fenaday grinned.
 
“We even have
one with us, just for the eventuality.
 
Shasti will carry you on board on her shoulder.
 
She’s quite strong.
 
Carried me for two miles when I was shot on
Morokat.”

Duna
looked up at Shasti, who gazed down impassively.
 
“One would be quite far off the ground on
such a shoulder,” he said.
 
“I am from a
species that prefers underground dwelling.
 
Perhaps you could...”

“I’m
the captain,” he replied.
 
“She carries
the sacks.”

They
were saved from further argument by the arrival of Telisan with their final
approved exit papers.
 
Security had
admitted the Denlenn, who joined them for coffee, as Duna gathered up his
belongings.
 
Fenaday handed Duna a package
Telisan brought from the quartermaster’s stores.
 
It held a ship’s uniform tailored for the
little Enshari.
 
Duna seemed touched by
the gesture.
 

“Well,
I shall be quite in fashion,” Duna said, looking at the black leather jacket
and sage green clothing.

“There’s
a uniform for you in your cabin, Telisan,” Fenaday said.
 
“For now, we wear civvies until we get to the
starship.”
 

“About
this sack,” Duna said, “I hope you wouldn’t mind if Telisan carried me in it?”

Telisan
sputtered into his coffee.
 
“Sack?”

“I’ll
explain on the way down,” Fenaday sighed.
 
“Grab his suitcase, please.”

Exiting
separately, they took different cabs.
 
The yellow and black robot cars dropped them at the edge of Marsport
proper, the great dome that provided Earth-like warmth and conditions.
 
From there they traveled in separate cars on
the transport tubes, taking the train-like machines to the commercial and
industrial sections.
 
They rendezvoused
at the entrance to the freight area of the port where
Sidhe
lay docked.
 
From the
tubeway exit, it would be a walk on Mars’ own cold surface.
 

After
donning insulated Marscoats and putting on breathers, they set out.
 
The small devices whiffed enough oxygen in a
nose tube to keep anoxia at bay.
 
As they
stepped out onto the frigid surface, Fenaday was glad for the terraforming that
raised the equatorial temperature to about ten degrees Fahrenheit.
 

“This
way,” he said.
 
“No fancy passenger
terminal for us privateers.
 
We live a
hardy life.”

“I
think I would like to get into that sack already,” Duna said.

“Sorry,”
Fenaday said.
 
“You’ll have to suffer
like the rest till we get nearer the frigate.
 
Besides, what are you complaining about?
 
You have a fur coat on under there.”

“Wait
till you are eight hundred years old,” the tiny Enshari groused, “then you can
tell me about how much you feel the cold.”

Fenaday
grinned.
 
“I’ll see you get a cognac in
your cabin after we are aboard.”

Fenaday’s
chronometer indicated well after midnight as they trudged toward
Sidhe’s
cradle, passing silent
warehouses and small docker bars.
 
Fenaday began to feel like a child trying to sneak around the schoolyard
after closing.

They
boarded a slidewalk to take them the final leg to the cheap-seats—as Fenaday
referred to the area around the frigate.
 
Sodium floodlights illuminated some of the port, barely holding the
darkness of the Martian night at bay.
 
The stars shone down brilliantly with hardly a twinkle in the thin
air.
 
Phobos, larger and closer of Mars’
moons, rolled through the sky above them only six thousand kilometers
away.
 
It looked like a chunk of reddish
rock but glittered with lights from homes and installations on its airless
surface.

The
slidewalk ended.
 
From there they trudged
on pavement covered in part by the grit of the Martian desert, which crunched
under their insulated boots.
 
They passed
older warehouses with field equipment parked about them.
 
Some smaller freighters sat on their own
gantry-aprons.
 
Occasionally, a light
glinted from a port or hatchway.
 
For the
most part, the ships in this area sat sealed tight against the inhospitable
air.

Duna
spoke in his soft small voice about his last time on Enshar.
 
Fenaday listened with half an ear, thinking
mostly about a few hours of sleep in a warm bunk.
 
The others trailed behind them.

“Look
out!” Shasti yelled from behind them.

From
the shadows of a warehouse and from between parked trucks, figures sprang at
them.
 
Suddenly the Martian night was
full of bodies, making impossible jumps in the low gravity.
 
Knives glinted, clubs and batons waved.
 
Had there been guns in the attacker's
intentions, Fenaday’s people would have been cut down.
 
Fortunately, it was near impossible to get
firearms in and out of Marsdome proper.

Shasti
intercepted an attacker heading toward Duna.
 
Her booted foot flashed out in a flying side-snap kick.
 
The man’s breath left in an agonized whoosh
and he rocketed away, crashing through an aircar window.
 
Shasti landed upright and immediately
exchanged a blur of ferocious blows with a Morok.
 
The apish alien backed away from her,
blocking as best he could.
 
A roundhouse
kick caught the Morok in the midsection, and he folded like a wet bag.

Fenaday
sidestepped a baton, moving to a hook stance, as the wielder struck at him
sideways.
 
He merged with his attacker, a
bearded human with wild eyes and the stink of liquor on him.
 
Fenaday seized the baton with his right hand,
continuing its motion with his spin, ripping it free of the other man’s
hands.
 
Reversing the circle, he smacked
the baton into bearded man’s gaping face.
 
One down.

He
caught the glint of a knife from the corner of his eye and swung the baton down
in a block.
 
A Dua-Denlenn with a knife
pulled the thrust as if it had been a feint and lunged as the club swept
past.
 
Fenaday dropped into a back
stance, swinging the baton back in a wing block.
 
As his left hand touched the knife arm of the
attacker he clamped on it and pulled the alien forward, off balance.
 
Fenaday slammed the baton into the
Dua-Denlenn’s armpit and ribs then went for the head.
 
He snap-kicked the side of his opponent’s
knee and heard a rewarding crunch.
 
The
knife flew away as the Dua-Denlenn screamed and fell.

Fenaday’s
head snapped around.
 
Assailants charged
from everywhere.
 
The fight seemed to
slow in his eyes, taking on a preternatural clarity.
 
Telisan, fifteen feet away, fended off two
attackers trying to reach Duna.
 
Another
man lay on the ground with the small knife Telisan had sworn allegiance to
Fenaday with, sticking in his throat.
 

The
Enshari wisely dodged behind the big Denlenn.
 
Fenaday could see that Telisan was strong and fast, but not a trained
hand fighter.
 
His barroom swing knocked
one man back, but the knife-wielder closed in.
 
Telisan blocked awkwardly, avoided being gutted by a hair, and backed up
with cut hands.
 
Fenaday lunged toward
him, but too many opponents stood between them.
 
He shoulder-rolled to get clear, came up and flung the baton.
 
It cracked the knifer in the side, startling
more than disabling him.
 
As the knife-wielder
staggered, Duna leapt onto the man’s arm.
 
An enraged Telisan followed up, hitting the knifer hard and downed him.

Someone
jumped on Fenaday’s back, applying a full nelson.
 
Fenaday reached down with his left hand and
found groin.
 
The grip loosened.
 
He grabbed the sensitive inner thigh, gouged,
and the hold loosened more.
 
Slipping a
leg behind his attacker’s leg, he twisted and flung him free.
 

Another
man hit Fenaday in the chest with a flying tackle.
 
Fenaday flew over backward, falling as best
he could.
 
The man landed on his chest,
raising an arm.
 
Shasti appeared suddenly
over the thug’s shoulder.
 
She dropped on
him, wrapped an arm around his neck, snapping it and shoving the body
away.
 
A baton wielder struck her, and
her block did not quite stop the blow.
 
She dropped away sidewise but gathered herself almost instantly.

Fenaday
rolled and tangled the legs of her attacker.
 
The man fell to his knees and Fenaday’s knife-edge palm landed on his
neck.
 
He sprawled bonelessly.
 
Fenaday scrabbled forward, snatching up the
dead man’s weapon.
 
I have a club again
, he thought, as he lunged—not bothering to come
to his feet.
 
Telisan struggled in the
grip of three men.
 
Duna lay on the
ground, kicking upward at a man who struck at him with a club.
 
The Enshari locked his hands protectively
around his head and pedaled his feet at the attacker, preventing him from
getting in a good shot.

Fenaday
slammed into the club wielder.
 
The thug
swung wildly with the club as he staggered.
 
Fenaday parried at the forte of his own club.
 
He kicked the other man’s arm up, thrust into
his solar plexus and followed with a savage blow to the skull.
 
Another man down.

Shasti
lifted one of Telisan’s attackers over her head and dropped him to her
knee.
 
His scream cut short as his spine
snapped.
 
Telisan put his back to hers
and inexpertly boxed with another brawler.
 
Duna stood between them.
 
At least
six of their attackers lay unmoving.
 
More hung back, injured.
 
But
reinforcements rushed from the shadows.

Fenaday
ran, hopping over a club and parrying a knife to get back to the others.
 
The situation looked grim.

“Come
on,” shouted one man.
 
“Let’s get
them.”
 
He leaned close, swinging a
crowbar.
 
Shasti grabbed, pulled and
seized him by the neck, twisting in one fluid move.
 
She flung the body, tripping up a big-bellied
thug who rushed toward Fenaday.

Suddenly
new figures appeared in the fight, thin, slender blurs.
 
Men screamed briefly as the shadowy forms
raced among them.
 
A few turned to
run.
 
They didn’t get far.
 
The figures cut them down with single
blows.
 
In seconds, only Fenaday and his
party still stood.
 
Silent, feminine
figures formed a motionless ring around them, facing outward.

Mmok
walked out of the darkness, his stiff-legged limp betraying him even in the low
light.
 
“It appears,” he said, “that not
everyone wants to run the risk of the Enshari getting their planet back.”

“No,”
Fenaday huffed, trying to catch his breath, “but they didn’t want us dead
either.
 
Just disabled.
 
These aren’t assassins.
 
They’re bar toughs, leg breakers.
 
Pros would have used guns.
 
Or at least they’d have been better
hand-to-hand.”

“They
were good enough for me,” Telisan gasped.
 
The Denlenn had the worst of the fight, trying to protect Duna.
 
His hands were badly cut and he was covered
in bruises.
 
“I am apparently better in a
Spacefire
than a brawl.”

“Cobalt,”
Mmok ordered.
 
“Med kit.”

The
machine turned, detached a small package from its utility belt and held it out.

Duna
snatched the kit from the machine and began frantically bandaging Telisan’s
cuts.
 
He spoke softly, consolingly, in
his own tongue to his friend.

Like
the robots, Shasti stood facing outward, face calm and still, eyes searching
for opponents.
 
The similarity between
the machines and the genetically enhanced woman chilled him.
 
It was almost reassuring to see a trickle of
blood on her ivory skin.
 
Shasti didn’t
bruise worth a damn, but even she could be cut.

“Let’s
move it,” Mmok said.

Fenaday
shook his head.
 
“Things will go better
for us if the Port Police find us here.”

“The
Port Police aren’t coming,” Mmok growled.
 
“Someone else is.
 
You don’t want
to be here when they arrive.
 
All this is
going to disappear and what you don’t see, you can’t be asked about later.
 
We have to go.
 
Now.”