“Pleased to meet you,” said Mourner, a woman with an intense, almost predatory look. “In case you’re wondering, I agree with Mr. Duna’s speeches. No Enshar homeworld, no Enshari. I’d hate to see my specialty become a study of corpses.”
“You come on this voyage,” Fenaday replied, “you’re apt to end up a corpse yourself.”
Ignoring her shocked look, Fenaday turned to Shasti. “Call Quartermaster Dobera to the dock.”
“Dobera will see to getting you settled on board, Doctor,” Fenaday said. “Afterwards, he’ll show you the Sickbay.”
Shasti popped out a pocket com and relayed the order. The medical party walked to the place Fenaday indicated.
A group of five advanced on Fenaday and Shasti. They were enough to startle even a seasoned traveler. The man was about Fenaday’s age, though taller and gaunt. Half his face was covered with a ceramic and metal skullcap that included a prosthetic eye. Most such surgeries were far less obvious and Fenaday wondered why the man wore the disfiguring headpiece. Then Fenaday looked more closely at the man’s companions. They were HCRs—Humanform Combat Robots—inventions of the closing days of the war. The filament hair they used for transmission, ECM and cooling was long and gave them a feminine look.
Actually, he thought after a few seconds, they don’t look all that female. It’s a first impression. The machines stared back at him with doll’s eyes. They wore black jumpsuits, identical, save for a color strip running sash-like across the chest.
Their human controller strolled up. “Kyle Mmok,” he introduced himself, ignoring Gandhi, who returned the favor. He introduced his team, “Cobalt, Verdigris, Magenta and Vermilion.”
Rather horribly, the robots bowed as he called their name-colors. Worse, Magenta curtseyed. A sardonic smile passed over Mmok’s pale face. Belatedly, Fenaday realized Mmok was communicating subvocally. He probably had almost as much machinery in him as the HCRs.
“I have thirty crab-style assault robots and a half dozen general purpose models in a warehouse nearby,” Mmok continued. “We all come combat tested on Conchir itself. Isn’t that right, girls?”
They nodded in unison.
Fenaday kept his face a mask, though the HCRs raised the hair on the back of his head. “Wonderful act. I didn’t realize there’d be a floor show.” Fenaday gestured to the spot where Dobera and Mourner stood. “Over there.”
Mmok nodded without looking at him and moved on.
Dobera, a Frokossi of about middle height for his reptilian people, stood by the first group, scratching a clawed hand over his head. He held a portable computer. Mourner pointed to something on it, doubtless looking at details of the Sickbay. Two of Dobera’s assistants showed up. One went over to Mmok, looking somewhat nervously at the HCRs.
Gandhi introduced an array of shipwrights and engineers whose names Fenaday didn’t bother about. He’d get the list later from Dobera. Before Gandhi finished another group showed up. Twenty-two ground troops, in black and green Air Space Assault Team uniforms, followed a tall, lanky human and an ape-like Morok.
“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.”
“My people,” Shasti added, “are a little better. The nature of ground fighting is such that it builds some bonds, at least in the squads. Again, as the Captain says, there are more we could trust in less desperate circumstances. On my side I count on: Gunnar, Li, Bernard, Connery and the two Morok brothers, Hanshi and Lokashti Tok.”
“What of your Number Two?” Telisan asked. “Or does our formidable lady take that role?”
Shasti shook her head.
“You bring us to my first point,” Fenaday said. “I need an Executive Officer for the voyage. My last one ended up in jail. I don’t want him back anyway. You ran a fighter wing. I looked up your record, very impressive.”
The Denlenn looked oddly disturbed. “Thee would trust me?” he said, suddenly formal, his accent deepening, as if his mastery of Confed Standard had slipped.
For a second, the switch to archaic version of the language threw Fenaday, then a memory surfaced from his days as a trader. Denlenn used different versions of their language for different things. Low Denleni for commerce, Middle for everyday and High for important matters. It would discomfort a Denlenn to speak the same way on every subject, even in an alien tongue. Telisan’s use of the old human form meant he was dealing with a matter that touched his personal honor.
“Not entirely,” Fenaday said, “but I know who you are and what
you want. It may sound funny coming from someone who’s essentially a legalized pirate, but my instincts tell me that you can be trusted. Shasti agrees, and she doesn’t like anyone.”
The Denlenn smiled. “High praise indeed.”
“You do not know how high,” Shasti said dryly. “You’re regular military, good family, never any trouble with the law. Add to that, this is your insane idea.”
“So,” Fenaday added, “I feel I can trust you in matters that do not cross Duna’s interests.”
“But can I trust you?” replied the Denlenn, his face gone hard, flat and alien. “The weak link in our plan has always been you. What prevents you from dumping us in space the minute we leave atmosphere? Your ship is reconditioned. You could flee to the Fringe Stars again. Bad odds, with Confederate forces in pursuit, but better than what you face at Enshar.”
“Thought of it,” Fenaday admitted, to Telisan’s evident surprise, the Denlenn tensed visibly. “Again, this may sound funny coming from a legal pirate, but I wouldn’t do that sort of thing. At least not to people like you. To some of the scum I’ve faced over the years, yes. It’s how they play the game and I’ll use their rules.
“Don’t worry about it,” Fenaday said, raising his glass. “It doesn’t do me much good to run. I can’t search for my wife with the Confed Navy hunting me down. It’s been nearly impossible to keep Sidhe working when I didn’t have to face active government hostility.
“Also, those government stringers aren’t going to just let me go and I suspect we’ll be escorted from a distance from when we lift. As Executive, you’ll be in the middle, able to secure yourself by playing one side against the other. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“All true,” the Denlenn said, “but I want one more guarantee. I want your word of honor, Fenaday, sworn on your hope of ever finding your wife, that there will be no treachery. Give me that and I will serve you as I served my captain on the Empress Aran.” The Denlenn drew a small, concealed blade slowly, so as not to provoke Shasti. He placed it on the table then covered the blade with his hand and looked expectantly at the human.
Was Once a Hero Page 5