Carpe Diem

by Sharon Lee

  Miri grinned and attacked her own meal, surprised at her sudden hunger.

  There was a sigh from her right; she glanced up to find him smiling at her. "It tastes wonderful, cha'trez; thank you. I was afraid I would have to eat my coat, you see."

  She laughed and reached to pick up her cup, then shook her head at him. "Zhena Trelu thinks you run off. Wants me to call the cops and have you brought to justice."

  "A rogue," he told his plate, with deep sorrow. "A man without honor." He glanced at her from under his lashes. "You did not believe this?"

  She blinked. "No."

  "Progress," he informed the plate, stabbing a forkful of breakfast. "Good."

  The green eyes were back on her before she could frame a fitting reply. "Has Zhena Trelu brought you more clothes, cha'trez? The shirt is very nice."

  She shook her head. "Funny thing—people from all over Bentrill have been sending us clothes, and books and—ah, hell, I don't even know what half the stuff is. Money. Lots of money, seems like. Zhena Trelu was trying to tell me how much we own right now, but I don't think I got it straight. Bunch of stuff for you piled up in the music room—" She slammed to a halt, catching the frozen look in his eyes.

  "A bounty?" he asked quietly, fork forgotten in his hand. "For the soldiers we killed?"

  Oh. Yxtrang took bounty; Liadens counted coup.

  "I don't think it's a bounty," she said carefully. "The way Kem explained it is people think we're heroes and are—grateful to us for stopping the army when we did. Would've been ugly, if they'd gotten into Gylles." She paused, biting her lip. "The stuff's for balance, I think, 'cause people feel like they owe the three of us something for doing them a favor."

  "I see," he murmured, and returned his attention to breakfast.

  She finished her own, savoring the taste, happy just to have him there, quiet and companionable. Tentatively she reached inside and touched the pattern-place in her head—and nearly dropped her fork.

  The pattern shone. It glittered. It scintillated. She forced her inner eye to follow the interlockings and branching-aways—and felt the wholeness and the rightness and the warmth of it like joy in her own heart.

  She drew a shaky breath, unaware that he was watching until he said her name.

  "Yo." She withdrew from the pattern-place with a little wrench.

  "What are you thinking, Miri?"

  "I—" She blinked. "Where's the genie, boss?"

  "Ah." He leaned back in his chair, eyes on her face. "Subsumed, I think you would say; his powers taken and his vision destroyed."

  "And it's not gonna happen again? You gotta fight again, you won't get stuck?" She shrugged, eyes bright. "Scariest thing I ever saw in my life, when that thing went haywire. I was looking right at it! One second, it's fine; next second, it's totally nuts."

  "I am sorry," he said, "that you were frightened. And, no; I will not get trapped again. There is nothing left to be trapped within—only Val Con, the things he knows and the abilities he possesses."

  She frowned. "The Loop?"

  "Exists," he said calmly. "It is, after all, an ability I have—to observe and to render odds." He saw the shadow cross her face and leaned forward, hand outstretched. "Miri."

  Slowly she slid her fingers into his. "Val Con?"

  "Yes," he assured her, very gently. "Who else? Are you frightened, Miri? I—"

  But she was shaking her head, eyes half closed as she touched the pattern inside her head. "Not scared. The pattern's—it's right. Not quite the same as it was—but it's okay."

  He drew a breath, but she was suddenly wide-eyed and smiling as she squeezed his fingers. "Where'd you come up with the notion of genies, anyhow? Thought that was home-grown Terran stuff."

  "So it is," he said, leaning back and releasing her hand. "But my foster mother was Terran, remember? And she told us stories. One had to do with a man who had found a bottle on a beach. He pulled out the cork and a genie emerged, bowing low and proclaiming indebtedness. He offered to perform three services, as balance for the debt."

  "Sounds like the standard line," Miri agreed, watching his face. "Can't trust 'em, though. Genies are a very slippery bunch."

  "So it seemed. But it must be said that the fellow who had found the bottle was not among the wisest of individuals." He picked up his teacup. "I was enraptured by the tale—it took strong hold of my mind, and I found myself considering how I might have managed the thing, were it to happen that a genie owed me three services." He smiled, eyes glinting in what she recognized as mischief.

  "After much thought, I felt I had a plan which was foolproof. I was, after all, six years old—and very wise for my age. All that remained was to obtain a bottle containing a genie." He laughed a little and set his cup down. "So, I took myself to my uncle's wine cellar—"

  "Oh, no," Miri breathed, eyes round.

  "Oh, but yes," he assured her. "It was perhaps not quite wise of me to have chosen a time for this search when my uncle was at home. Though I still do not understand why he made such a fuss. It was not as if I had failed to recork the bottles that contained only wine . . ."

  She was laughing, head tipped back on her slim neck. "And he let you live?"

  "It was," he admitted, "a near thing."

  Her shoulders jerked with more laughter, and she wiped at her cheeks with unsteady fingers. His eyes followed the motion, and feeling absurdly shy, she held her hand out to him.

  He smiled gently at the silver snake curving about her finger, blue gem held firmly in its jaws. "I am happy that you choose to wear it again, cha'trez. Thank you."

  She shrugged, dropping her eyes. "It was hard to wear it and work around here—afraid I was going to break it or lose it. King's carpenters, or whoever they were, did such a bang-up job of putting this place back together, there ain't nothing left to do but feed the scuppins." She glanced up, half smiling. "We're out of a job, boss."

  "We shall find another, then." He lifted a brow. "What pattern?"

  When she hesitated, he leaned forward, remembering old fears. "Does it hurt you, cha'trez?"

  "Hurt?" She shook her head. "Naw, it's—nice. Mostly, it's nice," she corrected herself. "When you went all bats there during the battle, then it wasn't so nice, but it didn't hurt, even then. It was just—wrong." She bit her lip, looking at him worriedly. "Val Con, aren't you doing it? I was sure— It feels like you!"

  Her shoulders were starting to tense, puzzlement giving way to alarm. He pushed his chair back, captured her hand, and coaxed her onto his lap. Straddling his knees, she looked into his eyes.

  "Boss, it's gotta be you. I knew you were in trouble. Knew it! Saw it. Left you alone for three horrible days, like a certified pingdoogle, figurin' you'd pull out—"

  "Miri. Miri —don't, cha'trez . . ." He ran light fingers down her face, trying to stroke away the lines of pain. "Please, Miri—it was not your failing."

  She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

  "Miri?"

  "I'm okay." She opened her eyes to prove it, and Val Con smiled, very slightly.

  "Good." He paused briefly. "Let us say that it is me," he began, feeling for the proper way to arrange the bulky Terran words. "It truly does not distress you? I am happy if that is so. I was afraid that you would be able to—hear—and that it would hurt you."

  "Why?" She frowned, eyes sharpening. "No, wait—you've got a pattern for me in your head? Does it hurt you?"

  "Not a pattern," he said gently. "A song. I like it very much. It is—a comfort."

  There was silence for a heartbeat or two. "Val Con?" she said then.

  "Yes."

  "What is it? If you're not doing it, but it's you . . ." She shook her head. "I don't think I get it."

  "I am trying, cha'trez—it is not so easy, in Terran." She shifted, and he smiled. "I am not blaming you, Miri. It is only that what I must explain is a Liaden thing. Did you speak Low Liaden, the name itself would tell you about the thing. In Terran, I must try to bend the words—th
ough not so far, eh? Or they will be nonsense."

  "Okay." She reached down and wove their fingers together, then looked up. "Go."

  "Let us," he said, after a moment, "see if it will make sense this way: What you have in your head—what I have in mine—is a fragment of empathy. You, for me. I, for you. 'Alive-and-well,' my song seems to say. Also, I found tonight, it is directional. When I set out from Hakan's, I walked toward Zhena Brigsbee's house; then I thought to touch my song of you and found you had come back here." He smiled. "Perhaps that is why I was almost late for breakfast. How did you know I was coming?"

  She shrugged, eyes on his. "I—ah, damn!—I felt you homing, I guess. Whatever that means." She frowned. "And I knew when you were in trouble."

  "Yes. And I shall know if you are hurt, or in great distress. I think that, over time, one might become more skilled at reading the nuances." He sighed. "Not a good explanation, at all. Does it suffice you?"

  "Gimme a century or two . . .Val Con?"

  "Yes."

  "Do all lifemates have this empathy thing? That's why you married me? 'Cause you could hear this song, or whatever?"

  He shook his head "It is not a thing that is often given—" he began, silently damning the futility of trying to fully share the wonder. "And I have not been able to hear you for very long—certainly not before we came here. In the very old days I think that this was something more, that lifemates were, indeed, understood to be people who had become—joined. I—the tale goes that—again, in the old days, when such things were more common—those so joined became as—one person. Ah, that is wrong! That the thoughts flowed back and forth, one to the other, without need for words. That there was sharing—" He broke off, shaking his head sharply. "Cha'trez, I am very stupid."

  "Naw, it's just a goofy idea. No sober Terran'd believe you." She thought for a moment. "This sharing stuff—that gonna happen to us?"

  "I do not think so. After all, we are only ordinary people, not wizards in the full flush of our powers."

  "Right." She sighed, stared intently at nothing, then grinned. "Guess I'll have to learn Low Liaden real soon."

  "I would like that," he told her, holding her hand tightly. "Do you truly wish to learn?"

  "Yes!" she said with unexpected passion, gray eyes blazing.

  Breath suddenly caught in his throat, and his brows snapped together.

  "What's up?"

  "It is—a strange thing, Miri. I have only just thought." He smiled, though she was not sure of the expression in his eyes. "If I had not been recruited by the Department of the Interior, I would have had no cause to be on Lufkit at all, nor would I have walked down a certain alley at such a time . . ." And all my life, he thought, I would have awakened unwarm, not understanding that I missed the weight of a certain head upon my shoulder; grown ever more silent, unable to know that I listened for the sound of one voice laughing at my side. In the old days, it was told that one had been able to call, searching for the beloved one had yet to know . . .

  "Now that's crazy, whatever language you say it in," Miri was snapping. "Better you'd stayed a Scout and been light-years away from Lufkit than had everybody and his first cousin messing around inside your head, hurting you—" She snapped it off, appalled again by the easy tears.

  He bent forward to lay his lips against hers, meaning only to comfort her, but he felt the passion flare and stood, cradling her in his arms.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

  "Holding you." He was laughing softly. "Shall I put you down?"

  "Naw. Just trying to remember the last time somebody picked me up and lived." She closed her eyes, apparently engaged in a mental tally. "Been awhile," she said presently. "I must have been ten or so."

  "Not such awhile, then," he said. "Five or six years?"

  "More like eighteen or nineteen." She snorted. "Soft-soaper."

  He raised a brow, eyes traveling the short length of her. "So many?" he asked earnestly.

  "At least so many."

  He brought his gaze back to her face. "But—when shall you grow tall?"

  She laughed. "Just as soon as you do. You gonna stand around and hold me all night?"

  "There is merit to the suggestion," he allowed, "but I think instead that we should go to bed."

  "You do, huh? I ain't tired."

  "Good."

  DUTIFUL PASSAGE

  She went without anyone to guard her body, but the way was known and she had relearned caution. Time enough had passed for the seed to grow into consciousness. Time and past to have gone for an answer.

  The familiar aura flared; she traveled the time required and knew that she need travel no farther.

  Cautiously she opened an inner path and found herself again confronted with that bewildering array of defenses. Expanding the path, she discovered him at the core: asleep, at peace, shimmering slightly with the faint violet glow indicative of lust energetically expended.

  There he lay, and there she saw him, and for all of that he was as unreachable as if she had never found him at all. Priscilla experienced a strong desire to grab his shoulders and shake him awake, demanding to know what under the smile of the Goddess had possessed him to build such a citadel around his soul. Had she been in body, she might even have done so.

  As it was, she imposed Serenity upon herself and turned her attention to the bridge, stark and beautiful, and followed it to the scintillant pattern of the lifemate.

  Once again that one was asleep, soul locked lightly behind a single portal. Priscilla allowed the shape and flavor of that barrier to grow before her inner eye and saw suddenly and with surety a large, wooden door, keyhole ornate with shining metal, wood gleaming with age and loving care.

  She expended will, came close enough to try the latch—and paused to allow the landing to solidify about her.

  The lifemate thought with extreme care, Priscilla understood suddenly, and formed her analogs with a firmness approaching physical solidity. A landing was necessary to accommodate the door, and a landing had thus been crafted; it would be discourteous to accost the door outside of context.

  It was at the very instant that the landing came into itself, just a moment before she narrowed her attention to accommodate only the latch, that she perceived sitting on the floor just outside the door: a package.

  Priscilla brought her concentration to bear, discerned the familiar yellow-and-black stripes of the Galactic Parcel Service, and found further a lading slip filled out in a round, clear hand:

  For Priscilla Mendoza only.

  Sign here: _____________________

  Laughter almost destroyed concentration and sent her on her way home with neither package nor contact.

  Sternly she embraced Serenity, then considered the analog minutely before signing her name, tearing the top slip away, and tucking it securely between handle and latch. She paused then and performed the action that, in body, would have been the laying of a hand in benediction upon the door.

  "Goddess love you, sister."

  Obedient to the other's necessity, she bent, picked up the package, and turned at last to go home.

  ORBIT:

  Interdicted World

  I-2796-893-44

  Tyl Von sig'Alda studied the planet below him with fanatic precision. He measured magnetic fields, tracked weather patterns, and located likely volcanic faults and tectonic features. He compared the star's light constant against Scout files, compared once again the computer model against the actuality, and knew within a tolerance even the commander must accept that he was very near his quarry at last.

  His information so far was excellent; the Scout was to be commended for the accuracy of her report. The cloud of debris orbiting the third planet had proved to contain a high quantity of isotopes and alloys not yet discovered in nature.

  There were identifiable fragments collected on the second day—a metallic screw of Terran standards and a ceramic nimlet used in adaptive purification systems were the first
things recognized—and more on the third.

  The Loop showed him a percentage verging on certainty that he had found the remains of Val Con yos'Phelium's escape vessel.

  Satisfied, sig'Alda assigned to the computer the tedious task of backtracking the cloud to a common origin and turned his attention to radio transmissions.

  He was not much disappointed when the study of transmission frequencies, strength, and patterns showed no obvious sign of a call for help from the world below. It was not to be expected that a former Scout would announce himself as an extraplanetary and demand entry to the most powerful transmitters on the planet.

  Dutifully sig'Alda called up the first of the four "survival models" the Department had provided.

  The first assumed that yos'Phelium wished to remove himself from the planet with the utmost speed and cared not into which hands he fell—Scout, agent, rogue, or trader. That reflected the "average survivor" model, and sig'Alda did not think such would be the case. Nevertheless, he had the computer check for the model: voice broadcasts in Trade, Liaden, or Terran in standard galactic frequencies; Trade-code broadcasts superimposed on planetary broadcasts; and sideband broadcasts using planetary frequencies in either code or voice.

  The second—his own choice, based on exhaustive studies of the man—was the "informed survivor" model. It presumed discretion: one would not broadcast indiscriminately in galactic language from a planet under interdiction. Instead, any broadcast would be on Scout or Departmental frequencies, with a slight possibility that it might also be on a private Korval frequency. Code or timed bursts would be used to attract attention to the proper frequency, at which point the listener would respond, creating a dialog and an opportunity for a brief exchange in code or voice.

  The third was the "intentional survivor" concept, and the key to it was that yos'Phelium had chosen this world in particular. He would be waiting, according to that model, for a message, or for a particular time or event—or he had chosen what the Scouts dignified as eklykt'i—to be among the Unreturned. In that circumstance he would need to be tracked and found and, perhaps, persuaded, which was not a task sig'Alda contemplated with any degree of eagerness.