Was Once a Hero Read Free Page B

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