Was Once a Hero

by Edward McKeown

  “Very well,” Fenaday said. “Shasti, call ahead and tell Mmok we are coming in by way of the emergency hatch and to keep the area clear.”

  She nodded and pulled her pocket com, speaking quickly and quietly into it. Fenaday could hear Mmok’s voice rasp out something from the other end. “It’s set,” she said, snapping the device closed.

  Fenaday turned back to Duna. “I am afraid you’ll have to ride the last couple of hundred yards in a sack. One sight of an Enshari, and we might have a half-empty ship.”

  “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 hi
s 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.”

  Fenaday stared at him for a few seconds, trying to read something in the one human eye and failing. “How did you arrange that?”

  The half machine man looked at him coldly. “I uplinked to Mandela as soon as I saw trouble. He’s sending the cleaners.”

  “Let’s get to the ship,” Fenaday decided. “Telisan, can you walk?”

  The Denlenn nodded and they started off, keeping the best speed they could. The HCRs paced them at a distance.

  “How did you know we were in trouble?” he asked Mmok.

  Mmok gestured upward. Fenaday looked up to see a small, saucer-shaped object floating silently, about thirty meters over them.

  “Reconnaissance robot,” Mmok grunted. Despite the limp he had no trouble keeping the pace. “Didn’t see the ambush. They were undercover in the cars and buildings. Saw the fight. Me and the girls came as fast as we could.”

  “It appears that you will be useful to have around, Mr. Mmok,” Fenaday said.

  Chapter Seven

  Mourner and medics greeted them at the gantry to Sidhe and rushed them to the sickbay. The brightly lit bay looked more like a hospital suite now then the rudimentary space it had been only days ago. Medics checked everyone, but Mourner herself examined Duna.

  Fenaday was glad for her expertise. Mandela would take any harm to Duna out of his hide. Fortunately, the old scholar had taken little injury, thanks to Telisan. Mourner decided to keep him in sickbay for observation, assigning a medtech to watch over him. The old Enshari spent from the fight dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

  With the adrenaline rush of the fight over, Fenaday’s bruises and cuts asserted themselves. In some cases, the bruises went to the bone. Telisan’s cuts looked deep and painful, but well within the skills of Doctors Mourner and N’deba. The transformation in his sickbay amazed Fenaday. He had a full medical staff of a quality a regular navy vessel might well envy. Mourner’s skill with a tissue regenerator awed anyone watching. She fluttered about them like a small, active bird.

  “Your injuries barely need attention, Commander Rainhell,” Mourner said, clearly fascinated by the Olympian. “They already look days old and are well on their way to healing. I’d love to do some lab studies of your—”

  “No,” Shasti growled.

  Mourner looked as if she might press the point, but Shasti fixed her cold, empty, jade-eyed stare on her. The doctor found herself suddenly without words, something Fenaday suspected seldom happened to her. Shasti stood, slipping her jacket back over her shoulders.

  Fenaday looked past the two of them toward Mmok. Fatigue weighed on him like a sodden blanket. “We have a few hours to sunrise. See that the ship is secure, Mr. Mmok.”

  Mmok grunted, his chief form of communication.

  “I’ll be in my cabin,” said Fenaday, standing and barely suppressing a groan. “Wake me only if the Conchirri attack Mars.”

  *****

  Sunrise came but the Port Police didn’t. Shasti woke him, bringing a message that appeared on Sidhe’s computer, untraceable, though they had no doubt of its origin. “Press getting wind of the mission, get off Mars.”

  “What now?” asked Shasti.

  “We move up the clock for liftoff,” he replied. “Call everyone to the ship after sunrise. Order them to come in groups of ten or more. Once aboard, everyone but you stays aboard.

  “I want you to scout the area of last night’s fight. Don’t take any risks. If you see anything suspicious, pull out. Use our private channel.” He hesitated for a second, “Take a weapon, screw the regs.”

  She nodded with her usual economy of speech.

  Two hours later Fenaday stood on the bridge, working through the prelaunch checklist with Katrina Micetich when his private com beeped. He walked into his ready cabin off the bridge and clicked on the com.

  “All evidence of the attack,” Shasti said without preamble, “including the blood, has disappeared. Mandela cleaned up our mess very professionally.”

  A chill ran down his spine as he wondered what’d happened to the unconscious and dead they’d left behind. “Okay. Get back here as soon as you can.”

  The next twenty-four hours became feverish as Fenaday made one day do the work of two. The crew came aboard, resigned it seemed, to blasting off into the unknown. Dobera and the stores crew finished loading at 2 A.M. local time. Fenaday ordered the last connections to the docking cradle severed with relief. Sidhe’s own power came completely on line. The ship sealed for space.

  On the bridge of the former Conchirri frigate, Fenaday sat in the center seat. Shasti stood beside him. She had no flight duties, but a monitor gave her details of the ship’s security functio
ns. Liftoff was her favorite part of space flight. She always watched from the bridge.

  Fenaday clicked on the monitor in the arm of his chair. Perez’s face appeared. He and the ship’s engineers, the so-called “black gang” manned the reactors far aft in the ship.

  “All engines ready for all power settings,” said Perez.

  “Excellent,” Fenaday replied. “Standard Mars launch settings then.”

  He looked over at Micetich and a new crewman seated at the ship’s controls. The gunnery stations remained unmanned. Mmok appropriated a seat there, a chill and unwelcome presence. Fenaday forbade him to bring an HCR to the control center. The cyborg was bad enough.

  He turned to the radar and communications specialist, Sharon Hafel, a gray-haired, stocky woman, one of Mandela’s people. “Keep scanning and stay alert for any out of pattern traffic.”

  “Aye, sir,” she replied without taking her eyes from the instruments.

  He noted Shasti’s curious gaze. “Be a bad thing if we were hit by a conveniently out of control aircar.”

  “Not much we can do,” she shrugged. “Mandela is not going to allow us to arm weapons anywhere near Marsport.”

  “Captain,” Telisan called from the companionway entrance behind them. “The port pilot is here. We are cleared for lift.” The port pilot, a rotund fellow, followed him in. His arms were full of forms and a portable com. The pilot would unlock Fenaday’s weaponry and leave in his little cutter after Sidhe cleared atmosphere. The port pilot walked over to Micetich’s station and gave Fenaday a questioning look.

  Fenaday nodded, “Take her up.” He hit the klaxon, which hooted three times. “All hands, this is the bridge. Take hold, take hold, take hold. Stand by for artificial gravity to cut in at ninety seconds after liftoff.”

  Around the bridge people buckled into seats or belted themselves to takeholds mounted in consoles and walls. After the ship’s AG came on, the precaution would be unnecessary.