Carpe Diem

by Sharon Lee

  "Ne'Zame!" the comm snapped. "Orbit and open, or we'll board by force! Who authorized this unfiled flight—"

  Clonak reached out and tapped the button.

  "This is Clonak ter'Meulen," he said calmly. "I have authorized this unfiled flight. Administrative Override is in force."

  "We do not recognize your authority, ter'Meulen. Ne'Zame has been detached to this Department! Orbit and open!"

  Ship screens were full of ordinary traffic and, as the ship rose, they began to track the trajectories of the orbiting ships, the crawl of the suborbital transports, the— There was no sound. The lights were bright yellow.

  Clonak glanced at Shadia, smiling.

  She grimaced. "Intercept alert. My screen three."

  "I had no doubt. Three ships on screen three. One of the warship class. What would have happened if you'd have been asleep?"

  "I know, I know. I'm supposed to have that on audio, too, but it just gets so useless in the meteor . . ."

  "Not to worry, my lovely. We need a Jump-ready status."

  "Ready as I can be. We've still got too much pressure—"

  "Right. Where's the moon? Ah. Let me give you the orbit."

  Shadia stared at him. "Without the comp?"

  "Of course without the comp! They're reading every bit they can! They may be able to pick up our control codes."

  Clonak forgot about the residual ache in his chest, forgot about the meaning of the three dots bearing down on their tiny scout craft, forgot about the people—the enemies?—dead or dying at the dock. Reading from the screen, he computed the orbit they were to achieve and began to dictate it, watching the course board with half an eye.

  "Pressure's down." Shadia said, all business. "Can they make that reassignment stick? Will you get in trouble?"

  He called out six more numbers before answering. "I'm already in trouble—and so are you. Department of the Interior's been sharking about for information on you ever since you made contact with the ship out on Vandar. Collected the beam report, I suppose. Your bad luck, Shadia."

  "What comes of following the book. Damn!"

  The ship shuddered; Shadia hit buttons and read numbers off to herself. "Laser carrying a charge beam. Close. What do we do?"

  "Start to roll—just like you're going to orbit. When I say now, we Jump. Instantly."

  "Clonak, that could kill us this close in!"

  "They'll kill us, my dear. They will. Jump when I say."

  She cleared a screen and watched the gravity wells of the moon and Nev'lorn and the minor blips of the other ships. "You got it."

  The ship shuddered again; she switched to a backup board without hesitation. "Charged all hell out of my circuits!"

  Alarms, both sound and light, came to life.

  "They've fired. Rockets," she said quietly.

  "Right."

  Her hands went to buttons microseconds after the automatics had done the job: all shields up.

  "What's going to happen to Nev'lorn?" she asked suddenly.

  "It'll be empty within minutes, I suspect. Project Orange will go into effect, and with any luck at all the Department of the Interior will get a nasty—"

  Flash!

  Blinding light exploded inside the ship, sparks bouncing across the walls.

  "Kill my ship, you clanless—" She stopped with her finger on the switch. "Liadens. Clonak, what should I do? They're Liadens! How can I return fire, even with this popgun?"

  "Administrative Override, my dear. I order you—as Chief of Pilot Security—to react as occasion demands. You have one half-minute before we Jump."

  Her hands flew over the board; the ship tumbled with the program, its self-defense rockets spewing suddenly, hopelessly, across space, toward the destroyer bearing rapidly down on it.

  Flaaassshhh!

  Again boards were blown; again she hit the circuit overrides.

  There was another strike, and the ship protested—there was a high-pitched scream of air . . .

  "Breached!" she cried.

  "Now, Shadia."

  Her hands continued their motion—a last firing in defense, in rebellion; they skipped in a single motion to the bright red button and slapped it, hard.

  The enemy's charge hit as she hit the button—and the ship began to come apart as they jumped.

  LIAD:

  Trealla Fantrol

  The Memory was hard upon her, and Nova sought to relax into it as the Healers had taught her, trying to forget how much she hated her talent, how much she had always hated it—how helpless she was against the rising of its tide.

  This Memory had belonged to one called Bindrea yos'Phelium. An ancient Memory—Trealla Fantrol had not yet been built when Bindrea was alive—but for all of that potent and quite impatient. Nova had had a brisk tussle at the outset for control of the landcar, managing to keep it in her hands only by driving much faster than she would have preferred, no matter what the emergency.

  It was madness to go so quickly, no matter how well she knew the road. She shrugged to herself. All that she did was madness just now.

  The children would be off-planet already, as well as Cousin Kareen yos'Phelium and Mr. dea'Gauss' heir. The old gentleman himself had refused evacuation.

  "But the danger, sir!" Nova had protested, squandering moments of her own escape time.

  "I am quite safe, Lady Nova," he had returned calmly. "Word has been left for the Accountant's Guild in my name, should anything untoward befall me."

  "The Accountant's Guild?" she had demanded, while that minute and another slipped away.

  "Exactly. It is to be hoped that the—persons—in question are canny enough to ask themselves what would happen should every accountant in Solcintra step away from their computers at once." He had smiled coolly. "Also, I have set inquiries about in the business of Korval. It is only proper that I be here to receive the answers."

  "As you will, then, sir," she had said and cut the connection with scant courtesy, for the Memory crashed full-blown into consciousness then; time was suddenly far too short and even the use of a secured line was none too wise for so long a time.

  Anthora had also refused to go, and time had fled so quickly that there was nothing left for Nova but to give a fierce hug, laying cheek against cheek, and go, leaving a sister—a member of the Line Direct—alone in the empty vault of their home.

  Quite right, Bindrea's Memory interrupted. Can't leave the Tree unguarded. Can't leave the Clan without representation. Might want to come back. Gods damn you, girl, drive! Is it your life you're saving or a game?

  Nova gunned the car, which seemed to pacify the Memory, then turned back again to her tally of madness.

  Word had been sent to Shan and to Pat Rin; and to Shan had also gone a transcript of the Department of the Interior's Objectives. Nova shuddered. That Val Con owed those people duty—Val Con, who had been raised as a brother to his half-Terran cousins, who had called a Terran woman 'Mother,' who was a Scout, and who, by all reports received, had chosen to share his life with a woman who counted herself Terran.

  Madness was everywhere, not the least of it having to do with the First Speaker of Clan Korval haring away from her Line House mere minutes ahead of those who must be deemed assassins—or worse.

  The landcar swerved, took the curve into Jelaza Kazone's drive badly, straightened, then accelerated, seemingly straight for the Tree itself, which was impossibly tall and no comfort to her at all, though before it had always been so.

  She roared into the front court and never slowed as Bindrea's Memory sent her charging toward a serviceway between two garages.

  The serviceway ended before an outbuilding of the old style, built of rough-hewn red stone. Nova killed the car's power, fumbled with the door catch—and Bindrea was with her fully, moving her out of the car and sending her at a dead run across the thin court to the outbuilding's door.

  It was Bindrea who slapped two locks—the first visible at shoulder height; the second invisible by her knee—and B
indrea who was relieved to see that the sleek little two-seater was still where she had left it.

  It was Nova who slammed the hatch, fed power to the coils, cycled the magnetics, and began the test cycle. She called up the course computer and began to plot evasive maneuvers, drawing on what she knew of the planetary defense screen. Fingers moved so rapidly that it hardly mattered who controlled them; she locked the plan in; seeing a flicker of green light at the edge of vision, she frowned at the non-standard readout.

  No worry, Bindrea's Memory assured her. We're just interfacing with the world-net. Jelaza Kazone was the first defense base. We stayed tied in—unofficially—after they set it up permanently. That's the way it was when I was Delm. Any Delm who let that liaison lapse would've been a damn fool or worse. In my day, yos'Phelium didn't grow fools that benighted.

  The little ship reported ready, and Nova slapped the "Go" sequence, webbing in belatedly as her craft accelerated smoothly across the lawn and lifted effortlessly, its nose angled toward the blue-green sky of evening.

  In Liad Defense Station Five, Pequi pel'Manda swore and hit RESET. Her screen wavered and solidified, showing static gray, and she punched up the auxilliary boards, swearing some more as the screen kept to gray—and then shimmered into normality. Across the top margin was the legend: POWER OUTAGE, MICROSTATION 392. SELF-CHECK POSITIVE. RESET.

  Sighing, Pequi reset the board again and settled down to scan the small part of the planetary defense screen that was the responsibility of Station Five.

  LIAD:

  Trealla Fantrol

  Agent-in-Charge Rel Vad Yoltak laid his hand against the annunciator. The five additional agents making up the mission team scattered as ordered, and Yoltak imagined they might be laughing at him. For which he could not in justice blame them.

  Six—two of them experienced off-planet agents—sent to bring away one man! It was laughable. That the Line House they were sent to for pickup showed none of the bustle and busyness of an inhabited house only lent spice to the joke.

  He paused. The Loop suggested a 22 percent probability that he would meet resistance there: Abnormal conditions noted.

  Yoltak put his hand against the bell again.

  The door opened a crack, then swung abruptly wider, revealing a dark-haired woman with extraordinarily light blue eyes, unattractively full at breast and hip, and perhaps even a shade too tall. She was dressed in house-tunic and soft boots, and just behind her stood a towering monstrosity of a robot.

  "Yes?" the woman said, smiling at him brightly. Her eyes moved after a heartbeat, scanning the guest yard, looking directly at each of the half-dozen of them, even yos'Rida crouching, well out of view, behind the armored car. The Loop could not read the meaning of that: Abnormal condition noted.

  Rel Vad Yoltak bowed slightly. "We are here," he said in the mode of Command, "for Val Con yos'Phelium."

  "Are you?" The light eyes widened innocently. "Then I regret to inform you, sir, that he has not been here for several relumma. Leave your name, do, and I shall deliver it to him when he returns."

  Yoltak frowned; the tactical radio in his ear sounded a minute tone, informing him that all team hand weapons but his own were now armed.

  "We have been reliably informed that Val Con yos'Phelium was here not more than an hour ago," he told the woman in the doorway imperiously. "We have urgent business with him regarding his duty to the Department of the Interior."

  The smooth brow knit slightly, and the wide eyes became shadowed. "Department of the Interior?" she wondered, then shook her head, Terran-wise.

  Yoltak ground his teeth. "You will," he informed her sharply, "surrender Val Con yos'Phelium to us, or we will enter and retrieve him."

  "No," Anthora said softly. "No, I really don't think so, sir."

  Behind him, one of the company shifted to lay her hand on the butt of the gun riding her hip—and cried out, snatching her hand away from metal suddenly grown too hot to touch.

  The flash missed Yoltak by bare millimeters; his face still warmed to it. The Loop rendered odds approaching surety that the robot was armed: Abnormal condition noted.

  "Weapons are not allowed to be drawn within the borders of Korval's valley," Anthora said quietly. "Please do remember it. The next reminder will not be as gentle."

  Yoltak moved his right hand, intending to signal the charge—and found himself halted by an extraordinary pair of silver eyes.

  "Rel Vad Yoltak," she said experimentally, though he had not told her his name. "How strange of you to think you might walk into this house at your will. I am quite sure that Line Yoltak does not at all look to Korval. I may be wrong, of course, but it seems to me that Yoltak belongs to Clan Simesta and takes guidance from Derani sel'Mindruyk, who is Delm."

  "What if it does?" he snapped, still in the Command mode.

  Anthora sighed. "Why only, if it does, then you are sadly lost, sir, and must make haste to Solcintra-city. You will be able to find a shuttle there, I am sure, to take you to Chonselta, which is your Clan's seat, if you have such need to enter a Clanhouse. This is Trealla Fantrol, yos'Galan's Line House, and the seat of Korval's First Speaker. You are—forgive me—neither welcome nor invited here."

  "We are not concerned with Clans! I have said that we are here for Val Con yos'Phelium. We do not leave without him."

  "And I, Anthora yos'Galan, have said that Val Con yos'Phelium has not been here for quite some time. Forgive me yet again that I send you forth unfulfilled." Steel glinted in the deep velvet voice, though the eyes remained as guileless as always. "You were allowed within our homeplace because it was not certain that you were a threat. Now that you have made threats, the house recognizes you as—undesirable." She glanced at the monster behind her. "Jeeves."

  "Working, Miss Anthora. The representatives of the Department of the Interior have four minutes to gain the valley access road before Trealla Fantrol takes further action to protect itself."

  Rel Vad Yoltak moved one step toward the half-breed bitch in the doorway—and found himself suddenly flung backward down the curving stairs, though no one had touched him! He snatched at his weapon, and the Loop countermanded the reaction so forcefully that his arm muscles spasmed. Exposed as he was, touching that gun could mean death: Abnormal condition noted.

  "Three minutes and one-half," Anthora yos'Galan snapped as he came to his knees on the stairs. "I would move my folk with all due speed, were I you, Rel Vad Yoltak. Not," she added as an afterthought, "that it is my part to give a person of another Clan advice of any kind."

  In the driveway, the car came suddenly to life, motor snarling. One of the agents lunged toward it, got into the driver's seat, and tried to kill the power. The car roared louder, bucking against the brake.

  Yoltak's Loop gave the CMS as .15 and offered no information as to how their car's emergency remote had been subverted. Nowhere yet was there any sign of another human—only that woman with her icy, Terran-tainted manners and the monster, hand-built robot. The Loop indicated a .85 probability that yos'Phelium had been in the house, accessing Departmental files. The probability that he was still inside—and commanding this farce—went steadily down, though it remained well within the boundaries of what was possible.

  Yoltak brought up his reserve of Loop energy and invested it in control of the Command mode.

  "I command Val Con yos'Phelium to return to his superiors at the Department of the Interior!" With all that energy feeding it, the nuance should have been strong and nearly overpowering; instead Yoltak sounded like a schoolboy, even to his own ears.

  A trace of some emotion flickered across the woman's face; his Loop read it as rage. She then seemed to peer into the far distance before returning her gaze to him.

  "None of Korval is now under the dominion of the Department of the Interior," she said with a surety so sincere that his Loop read it as incontrovertible fact. "And you cannot shout hard enough or long enough to Command me. Time passes. Rapidly."

  Her eyes sharpened, bri
ght silver and scathingly intent.

  "Run, Rel Vad Yoltak," she told him. "You are outmatched, your position weak, your numbers observed. Run! And do not come here again."

  Yoltak gasped, his Loop flickering as if each word she spoke struck it directly, and saw that his Chance of Personal Survival was falling rapidly.

  Heart stuttering, training fragmented and useless, Rel Vad Yoltak took her advice. The car was already moving as he flung himself into it. The Loop was unreadable in its gyrations, except for one recurring message: Abnormal condition noted.

  VANDAR:

  Winterfair

  Zhena Brigsbee was a hero.

  The king said so, giving a pat little speech about her presence of mind during a national emergency. Then he waved at the colorless zhena standing at attention on his right, who obediently stepped forward and carefully pinned a gaudy bronze medal on Zhena Brigsbee's heroic bosom and stepped back while the older woman turned pink and fluttered and said, "your Majesty" and "Wind's sake" until one of the other people from the king's entourage guided her back to her seat.

  Miri smothered a yawn. Borril was a hero, too, with a shiny medal attached to his new red collar. On the whole, she thought, the dog had behaved much better than Zhena B. Which just went to show that breeding did tell.

  Zhena Trelu's name was called by the man with the list. She walked straight up the aisle to the king's chair with her fragile, no-nonsense stride and curtseyed briefly. Miri wrinkled her nose: Catch her performing any such shines in front of a roomful of people!

  The king was much nicer to Zhena Trelu than he had been to Zhena Brigsbee, and Miri's opinion of him rose an erg or two. He did not give her any plastic clap-trap about how strong and upstanding she had been; just apologized, in a voice that sounded sincere, for letting her house get torn to shreds and hoped that the repair job was satisfactory. He did not wait for an answer to that but swept on, his voice taking on a note that somehow reminded Miri of Val Con in his snitzy mood, announcing that the house was thereby proclaimed a national monument, with Estra Trelu as its caretaker and administrator, which position she would hold for the rest of her life, drawing an annual salary of 5,892 speldron. The upkeep of house and furnishings was, of course, the responsibility of the Crown, as were the salaries and upkeep of the militia squad that was to be the all-hours, around-the-year guard.