Carpe Diem

by Sharon Lee

  She set a large mug on the low table near the fire. "You drink every drop, now," she told Miri sternly. "We can't have you getting sick." She turned and went out, pulling the double doors firmly shut behind her.

  Val Con had turned on the bench; he sat with his back to the piano. "Hello, Miri."

  "Hi." She came to stand before him, noting with dread the blandness of his face and feeling stiff with more than cold.

  "I ain't gonna keep you long," she said abruptly. "Just wanted to hear you say it, okay? So I know."

  He considered her warily. "Say it?"

  "Yeah," she said harshly. "Say it. Figure it's pretty clear—you sending me off with the old ladies and then no word. Little surprised—didn't think that was your style. Thought you'd tell me straight. Something like 'Miri, go away.' She took a breath, eyes on his face. "That's what I came to hear."

  Dismay was noted and overridden as the Loop flashed into existence, extrapolating a CMS of approximately .96, with the removal of the woman from the equation. His lips parted; they were dry, and he licked them.

  Miri drifted a step closer, hands clearly in view, stance specifically nonthreatening.

  "It's real simple," she said softly. "Like this: 'Miri, go away.'" There was a small silence before she leaned forward, her eyes holding his. "It ain't like I never heard it before."

  Tension was building; he attended it briefly, found no specific source, and discounted it. He licked his lips again.

  "Miri—" His voice choked out, tension increasing to a level that could not be ignored. He experienced a confusion of purpose; was unable to separate personal desire from the requirements of the mission.

  The woman before him leaned closer. "That's a start. Two more to go."

  "Why?" The word came out of the confusion, lashed with tension, so that it was nearly a shout.

  "You want me to go away," she said. And then, very softly, she asked, "Don't you?"

  Did he? What did he want? Surely nothing akin to what she supposed. Surely whatever he wanted was not a thing so deadly that the mere desiring of it should leave him sick and shaken. He cast his mind back, fighting the screaming tension. Once, certainly, he had wanted something . . .

  "I want—" He heard his own voice from a singing distance. "I want to speak to my brother. Three years—four—and I sent him no word; never went home. Never dared go home—he would see! He would ask questions; he would probe and—endanger himself—Zerkam'ka . . .kinslayer . . ." His hands were cold, and he was shaking.

  "Val Con."

  She was holding his shoulders; he should not allow her to hold his shoulders. She was dangerous; she was Miri . . .

  "Boss." Her fingers brushed the hair from his eyes and touched his cheek. "Your brother's safe, Val Con. You never went home."

  "But I wanted to!" he cried. "Shan—" He reached out and cupped her face in icy, shaking hands. "You do the same—ask questions, put yourself in danger. Miri . . ." He took his hands away, seeing what must be done for her, as once he had done it for Shan. "Miri, run."

  "No sense to it," she said with shocking calm. "You're real fast, boss. Catch me in a second." She touched his cheek again, then put both hands on his shoulders, fingers kneading. "Stiff as a board. You sleep since the fight?"

  "A little . . ."

  "Thought so. You and Hakan look like a couple zombies."

  "Hakan told me he had never killed a man before," he said, not sure what it had to do with anything.

  "Hell . . ." The small fingers continued their massage, soothing in a way that transcended the mere physical. "I tell you what, boss—they shouldn't let civilians have guns."

  "And they should not let soldiers have agents," he said almost drowsily. "Miri—"

  "I don't wanna hear 'run' outta you any more tonight, accazi? I don't know if you know it, but there's a blizzard going on out there. Already walked five miles in it—I sure ain't running nowhere in it."

  One hand left his shoulder, cupped his chin, and lifted it until his eyes looked into hers. "Boss, what's going on?"

  "I—" The Loop flashed, predicting disaster, an adrenaline surge snapped him toward his feet while something unnamed kept him nailed there, eyes looking into hers, trying to find words in Terran or Trade, words that would let her understand what had happened and the peril she was in. "I cannot—locate—the—the switch."

  "Switch?" She frowned in incomprehension.

  "Switch." He paused, groping after more proper words. Switch? Not precise. Key? No. Pattern of thinking? Closer, but Terran would mangle it beyond sense.

  Gods, what a language! he thought savagely. It's impossible to explain anything in it!

  He did not know he had spoken the thought aloud, until he heard her say, softly, "Yeah, but I don't think they did it that way on purpose, do you? Probably just the best anybody could come up with on the spur of the moment, and they thought they'd get back and sharpen it up later . . ." She looked closely into his eyes and moved her hand to stroke his cheek. "Can you give me just the broad outlines? We get you outta this jam, then I'll learn Low Liaden. Deal?"

  Impossibly, he smiled—truly smiled. She saw his eyes light with joy as his mouth curved, and for just a moment she thought they had done it. Then the moment was gone and she was seeing him still, but through the other one—the agent one—as if she were seeing him through bars.

  He closed his eyes, and she felt the effort he was making as if it were her own. She bit her lip and did not dare to move, barely dared to breathe, until he opened his eyes again.

  "When we were on Edger's ship, I left you for a time to dance L'apeleka and relearn the—proper—way to think."

  She nodded, watching with fascination as his hand rose—painfully slowly, fighting his own muscles all the way—and curved around hers where it rested on his shoulder. She squeezed his fingers and thought she felt a slight response.

  "What I did then . . ." he said slowly. "Understand that I—gathered up all that was—that I felt was—wrong—and put it into one small . . .closet, Miri. A closet in my mind. I put a—a lock on the closet. Then I put the key in my pouch and pretended the closet did not exist." He paused and took a breath, his fingers exerting pressure on hers. "Another way: I had cornered the genie, so I found a bottle, shoved him inside, and firmly corked the mouth."

  "And when the army attacked, the genie got loose."

  "No," he said. "No. I opened the door—threw the switch. My choice. The lock was secure."

  "Why?"

  Why, indeed? He struggled for the memory itself, brushing aside datum she would scorn as meaningless.

  "I was afraid," he achieved after several minutes. "I—you were in the house; there was danger. Many hostile people were between us, and I did not know what to do. I—wanted you to be safe, and I knew I would have to be—efficient and very quick. So I—" His fingers were gripping hers tightly, but if she was in pain she gave no sign. "I am not naturally good at killing people, Miri."

  She blinked, then grinned. "Not the kind of thing folks usually apologize for." She paused. "So, you figured you'd go in, wipe out the enemy, shut off this switch thing, and everything'd be goomeky, right? 'Cept you can't find the bottle, and the genie's bigger'n you remembered."

  "I—" Scout understanding signaled acceptance of the simile, and he inclined his head. "Something alike, yes."

  "Hope it's close enough." She frowned. "You're caught up in this—ah, hell—this master program they imposed at spy school, and it won't let you find your gimmick for getting out. Pattern's a mess—you ain't sleeping—getting jumpier and more confused . . .Master program'd rather have you dead than have itself shut off again, boss." There was silence then. "You outsmarted it once with L'apeleka. Done any lately?"

  "There is no room . . ."

  "We'll find you room." She gnawed her lip, considering. "Okay, here's what: Lie down on the rug next to that fire, run through the Rainbow, and get inside your room. Once you're there, you can get yourself some rest, and I'll go rent t
he local gym."

  "No . . ."

  She went very still, eyes sharp. "No? Why not?"

  "I—the militia captain was here to speak to me. His unit will be sweeping the gap, and he wanted whatever information I could give, since we so recently came that way." He hesitated. "They will find the ship, Miri. It is not so well hidden that a concerted search will miss it. I must go and send it away."

  "That a fact."

  "Yes." And it was, though not the fact he had intended—had wanted—to put forth.

  "When were you planning on leaving?" Her voice was almost casual, belied only by the sharpness of her eyes.

  "Tomorrow, after dawn. A single person can easily outmarch a unit. I would reach the ship in late morning, send it away, and be back with Hakan by evening."

  "Simple," she agreed. "No need for you to go, though, boss. L'apeleka's more important. I'll get rid of the ship."

  "You are not a pilot, Miri."

  "Did I say I was? Shut up—I'm thinking."

  Thought took no more than a dozen heartbeats; she squeezed his fingers gently. "I need to move around a little. You gonna be okay?"

  "I will be okay."

  She hesitated, staring into his eyes, then sighed and slipped away. At the sideboard she yanked drawers open and made a satisfied sound as she extracted a pencil and a sheaf of papers.

  Kneeling next to the piano bench, she sketched with utter concentration for perhaps sixty seconds, then leaned back and pointed. "Here's what the board looked like when we left. You show me what it's gotta look like to lift."

  He knelt, feeling the warmth of her body like a torch against his side, and considered what she had drawn.

  The rendition was precise. Drawing a line beneath it, he sketched the pertinent instruments and the settings they had to achieve to engage the magnetics and initiate lift.

  She studied it, frowning slightly, then nodded once. "Can do." Wadding the paper into a ball, she threw it into the heart of the fire. "Taken care of. Lie down on the rug and close your eyes."

  "No."

  "Now what?"

  "Miri—" The unburdening came like a dam bursting; he sat suddenly on the worn rug and her face blurred before his tearing eyes. "On Edger's ship, when I was caught—'battleshock,' you said—but I was caught in the Rainbow. I needed to relax so badly; reached for the best way, the safest way . . .a Scout thing, Miri, I swear it to you! Made myself vulnerable and this other—arms proficiency program—imposed itself—trapped me . . .Nothing is safe—they teach you that. And it's true—the only truth they tell. Miri, I dare not . . ."

  She moved, wrapping her arms around him, and he should have fought, but instead he bowed his head, pushing his face into the soft hollow of her neck, and heard her say, "All right . . .all right, kid. Val Con, Val Con, listen. Are you listening to me?"

  Face against her flesh, he nodded.

  "Good. Now you're gonna have to trust me, okay? I been at your back, ain't that true?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. We're gonna get you down to your safe place—your room. I'll be with you every step of the way. You see anything scary, you sing out, and I'll get you out of it." Her arms tightened around him, fiercely. "Nobody's gonna trap you again, boss—an' you get my word on that one."

  Her grip loosened; he was pushed gently away and found himself confronting a pair of very serious, gray eyes. "Lie down, Val Con. Please."

  It might work. Something so very far away within him that he barely noted its input was screaming, clamoring, demanding that he do as she said; the Loops, for a wonder, were quiescent.

  Slowly he gained his feet, approached the fire, and lay down on his back, arms loose at his sides. Miri, sitting beside him, grinned and saw the ghost of the ghost of his smile in return.

  "Okay," she said, schooling her voice to that tone of friendly firmness she used in the most desperate battle situations. "Close your eyes and take a deep, deep breath." She took one herself, eyes only on his face.

  "Now, visualize the color red . . ."

  When they were at violet, the end of the Rainbow, she asked, "Do you see the stairway, Val Con?"

  "Yes," he said softly. "The stairway is—still there."

  "And are you okay?" she asked, hearing the slight hesitation. "Not frightened? Not threatened?"

  "I am—well."

  "Then do you choose to walk down the stairs?"

  There was a small pause, then he said, "The door is also still in place." There was a hint of wonder in his voice.

  "Will you open the door?" Miri asked. "Go inside?"

  "In a moment . . ."

  She drew a careful breath. "Val Con? Is something wrong? Maybe I can help you."

  "Not—wrong. It is only that I have not been—inside—since . . .Miri," he said suddenly.

  "Yo."

  "Thank you—is it only 'thank you'? Nothing more? Cha'trez, thank you for loving me—for loving me so well."

  "I ain't done yet," she said, managing to keep her voice pitched right. "But you're welcome. You going inside, or you gonna stand around on the landing all night?"

  His lips curved in a smile. "Inside . . ." And there was silence. Miri sat, short nails scoring her palm, eyes glued to his face, teeth drilling into her lower lip so she would not shout and break the web.

  "Miri?" It was a whisper. Then it came again, louder. "Miri!"

  "Right here." And what to do if something was wrong? After all that bluff about not letting anything hurt him . . .

  But the expression on his face was joy, and when he spoke again he nearly sang the words. "Miri, it's still here! Still whole. They never got inside!"

  "You happy?" she asked inanely against the beat of her own rising joy, not quite understanding what was happening.

  It almost seemed as if he would laugh. "Let us not overstate the case . . .A moment." There was a long silence. "I will sleep now," he said then, "and key myself to begin L'apeleka tomorrow. A large space, cha'trez, if you can. If not, I will dance outside."

  "And put Hakan to all the trouble of explaining to the neighbors that you were okay yesterday and then just went bang off your head? I'll find you something with a roof over it. And don't worry about the ship. Good as in orbit already."

  "Yes, Miri."

  "Bastard." Grinning in spite of herself, she rose and stood looking down at him for a moment.

  His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of deep relaxation, his body limp, his face looking years younger—a boy's face, fast asleep.

  Cautiously she inspected the new pattern inside her head and was able, after several moments, to be satisfied. It was not nearly as screwy as it had been earlier in the day, when she had made the decision to hike over and talk to him, face to face. Maybe it'll work, Robertson, she thought, and went silently across the room and out the door, taking care that it was shut tightly behind her.

  VANDAR:

  Hellin's Surcease

  Hakan, looking up as Miri came into the kitchen, lay a muting palm on the strings and set the guitar aside.

  "How's Cory?" he asked, voice almost soft.

  "Better," she told him, dropping into the chair Kem pulled out for her. "I think better. He's—asleep."

  "Good," Hakan murmured. He leaned forward slightly to peer into her face. "Porlint isn't a cold place, Miri. It's near the equator, so it hardly ever snows."

  She blinked, then she bowed her head with a touch of Cory's formality. "Thank you, Hakan. I'll try to remember."

  "That's all right." He eased back a little. "Do the two of you want to go back to Zhena Brigsbee's? I can drive you."

  "Tomorrow," Kem amended softly.

  Miri flickered forward and touched his hand, flashing a smile to the other woman. "Hakan, thank you again. But it would be better . . .Do you know a place—a big, empty place—Cory could use for five days—six? If you do, he should go there. Me, I need to be someplace else tomorrow, and then I go back to Zhena Brigsbee."

  At Hakan's distinctly blank look, Miri bit h
er lip and tried again. "The battle is not easy for Cory—he only comes because I need him . . ."

  "Cory was in Gylles! How did he know you needed him? Came running in to the store, asking me to take him home . . ."

  She was aware of a strong desire for a slug of kynak, a quiet room, and a book; instead she took a deep mental breath. "You and Kem are together long enough, you will know when something is not right with the other one."

  "That's right, honey," Kem said. "But why does Cory need a big, empty place? If he's depressed from the battle, wouldn't it be better for him to be with you?"

  "Not until he—" She sighed, hearing the echo of Val Con's voice, snapping with frustration: . . .You can't explain anything in it! "He must—exercise so body and thoughts run together . . ."

  She flung her hands out, silently damning the tears that were filling her eyes again. "Hakan, I don't explain so good, and I'm sorry—you and Cory have to fight, and it is my fault!"

  "Your fault? A troop of Bassilan rebels walks in on you and it's your fault? Miri—"

  "Honey, it isn't your fault—" Kem started, but Miri cut them both off.

  "My fault! Because one of them kicks the door down, comes in, and points his rifle at me. Borril jumps, and the man hits him with the rifle; Borril jumps again, and I take the rifle away—shoot the man—and another man comes, so I shoot him—I am stupid, you see? I think they are bandits—maybe five, maybe six—the rifle, it is bad—rust, not oiled. I think I can stay and fight—"

  "Stay and fight?" Hakan demanded. "Against six armed men?"

  "Hakan, if there are six, already I take two—problem is not bad. But the third man—he doesn't come to find his friends. This one has a—a big gun—and I see him set it up and I see others behind him and I know I am stupid and there is no way to run. I have this bad rifle. I have my knife, but I am not Cory, who is good with knives. I am worried—Cory comes and he brings you—neither one a soldier! My fault, Hakan. I should have taken Borril and run away."

  "Cory killed a lot of people, Miri—and I killed some, too."