Was Once a Hero (3 page)

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.