Was Once a Hero (4 page)

“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 this 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.

A
knock at his door interrupted his reading.
 
Fenaday cut off the computer.
 
He
picked up a lock-blade knife, snapped it open and tucked it in his back belt,
wishing he’d been able to smuggle in something more lethal.
 
He checked the outside monitor.
 
A middle-aged human stood outside, bulky,
once very strong, dark-skinned, balding, and utterly unremarkable.
 
With a pang, Fenaday remembered his wife
telling him what great spies undistinguished people made.
 
Somehow he knew this was such a person.
 
It fitted too well with the night’s
developments.
 
He opened the door warily.

“Captain
Fenaday?” asked the man in a deep, pleasant voice.

“You
know that,” Fenaday countered.
 
“Are you
Foreign Office, or my wife’s old service?”

The
man smiled suddenly, teeth bright in the dark face.
 
“Yes.
 
The branch doesn’t matter.
 
You
can call me, Mandela.”

“That’s
not your real name,” Fenaday said wearily.

“Nope,”
said the man, “one of my heroes.
 
Can I
come in?”

“I
suppose it could be worse,” Fenaday said.
 
“On second thought, I suspect it is worse.”

“Captain
Robert Fenaday,” Mandela repeated, entering the room and examining it casually,
“of the Fenadays of New Eire.
 
That’s
quite a name.
 
Your people turned their
first-landing privileges into land and later, into interstellar shipping.
 
The Shamrock Line’s banner became quite
famous as your family clawed its way to wealth and power.
 
Not too interested in sharing that wealth and
power though.
 
Your great-grandfather
opposed the original Articles of Confederation.”

“Did
you come here to give me a history lesson?” Fenaday snapped.

Mandela
seated himself on the most comfortable chair, placing his briefcase on the
table.
 
“Shall I cut to the chase, or do
you want to go through the motions first?”

“The
chase, by all means,” replied Fenaday, leaning against a table where he could
watch the door and the one window.

“Good.
 
I may even get home in time for the
game.
 
I know you met Belwin Duna and I
know why.”

Fenaday
raised an eyebrow.
 
“And you don’t want
me to help him.”

“On
the contrary, Captain.
 
We very much want
you to help him.
 
We can’t insist on such
a suicide mission.
 
However, we can give
you additional incentives to go and additional resources, the like of which you
never imagined.”

“Why?”
Fenaday asked.
 
“No bullshit, why?”

Mandela
smiled.
 
“No bullshit.
 
Every planetary government in the Confederacy
worries about Enshar.
 
We don't know what
happened.
 
We don’t know if it will
happen again.
 
There’s a threat out
there, Fenaday.
 
It has to be understood
and if possible, controlled.”

“Send
the Space Forces.”

“And
risk having all those nasty pictures from orbit repeated for the folks back
home?” Mandela returned.
 
“All over the
Daily Vid and the Times?
 
Reporters and
Congressman howling about why ‘Our Boys and Girls’ are being sacrificed for
foreign worlds after all we lost in the war?
 
Nope, it’s an election year, Fenaday, bad for the President.”

“Do
it covert,” said Fenaday.

“Plug
in your brain, Fenaday.
 
Every surviving
Enshari is waiting on Duna’s report.
 
If
he isn’t allowed to go or dies before he gets there, we face mass suicides, or
they send another Enshari.
 
Same problems
for the President with the newsies.”

“So,”
Fenaday began, “a highly expendable privateer, who you guys don’t like
anyway...”

“Civilians
ships running around with chain-guns and mass drivers are a loose end and a
menace,” Mandela said.
 
“Some have become
private operators.”

“Not
me,” Fenaday said.
 
“My wife was ... is
Confed.”

“Yeah,”
Mandela replied after a few moments, “sorry.”

“Spare
me.”

“Here’s
the deal, Fenaday.
 
For what it’s worth,
I don’t like it.
 
You may not be a
private operator, but you skate damn close.
 
There is the little matter of a Dua-Denlenn freighter and a surrendered
crew murdered while under parole.”

Shock
spread through Fenaday.
 
Mandela knew
Sidhe’s
deepest secret.

“I
don’t know…” Fenaday began.

“Now
you can spare me,” Mandela fixed him with a glare as he settled further into
the chair.
 
“Your pet amazon, Shasti
Rainhell, polished off the crew.
 
You
covered it up, even hired her as head of security.
 
I’m sure she is quite effective.
 
Not many people can boast a genetically
enhanced assassin for their crew.
 
Olympians are mercifully rare off their mad homeworld.
 
Still, that’s accessory after the fact for
you, beingslaughter, at best, for her.
 
We are aware of your relationship with her.”

“Past
tense,” said Fenaday tightly, wondering how in God’s name Mandela had ferreted
that out.

“On
the disk Duna gave you,” Mandela continued, “are plans Telisan stole for a new
stealth electromagnetic emissions masking program.
 
Doubtless he hoped it might help you sneak up
on Enshar and whatever killed everyone.
 
He needn’t have bothered.
 
We’ll
give your ship a far better EME holosystem.
 
All factory assembled, even has a warranty.

“You’ll
have trouble getting a crew and keeping it once they figure out where you’re
going.
 
We will give you additional
people.

“Finally,
we’ll add to that cash offer.
 
We’ll
throw in pardons for anything you and your command crew have done to this
point.
 
Which is more than you have any
idea of, in regard to Rainhell.
 
It’s
that big, Fenaday.”

“So,
I take them within shuttle range of Enshar and stand off—” Fenaday began.

Mandela
laughed.
 
“No, Fenaday.
 
It’s too easy for an accident to occur.
 
A shuttle explosion, perhaps?
 
You’re not going to drop a decorated war hero
and a Nobel Laureate on Enshar and watch the show.
 
You’ll scout Enshar before they land.
 
You personally, so we know there won’t be any
accidents.”

“You
think I’d do that?” Fenaday demanded, his lips drawn thin.
 

“No
one pays me to think or to guess,” Mandela said, his smile fading.
 
“My job is to know.
 
For what it’s worth, I don’t think you would
do it, but there are others on your ship who might.
 
One of them is very pretty and very tall.”

“I
could fight you in court,” Fenaday said.
 
He walked to the window, looking out of it in feigned indifference, but
careful not to let Mandela see the knife in his belt.

Mandela
looked amused.
 
“You got any friends
left, Fenaday?
 
Big friends with
influence?
 
You got money stashed away
for real lawyers?
 
You’ll be fighting us
in our courts.
 
I don’t even have to rig
it to convict you on stock and securities fraud, committed when you sold off
the Shamrock line.
 
Then there’s the less
savory stuff: gun running to Morokat, smuggling, illegal intelligence
gathering, sheltering deserters, taking that condemned Frokossi prince off-world.
 
He was declared a traitor.
 
Do you want to be extradited to a Frokossi
court on a political engineering charge and try out that defense?

“Of
course you might win,” Mandela continued, “but you’ll be broke and
disgraced.
 
As for Rainhell, whatever she
is or isn’t to you, she goes away.
 
The
charges against her just start with murdering prisoners under parole.
 
Assuming she decides to surrender into
custody, which I doubt.”

“Christ,”
Fenaday muttered, as Mandela put a data chip on the table.