Carpe Diem

by Sharon Lee

  Val Con sat briefly at the piano before the introduction, testing it. He would be playing backup on the guitar in some of the songs, but in the others he would play melody while Hakan sang. A few touches of the instrument assured him; he nodded to someone off-stage, and a white-haired woman in fur boots walked to centerstage amid the stomping of feet and whistling from the audience.

  "Next on the program is a new duo. Hakan, of course, is known to many of us; his partner Cory is a recent addition to our area, and we'll all get a chance to hear them right now!"

  The music started instantly, and the audience chuckled as the emcee hurried off stage. Hakan waited until she had actually made the wings before he began to sing.

  Miri relaxed. So far, no one had mentioned that Hakan and Cory were heroes. She sat back and listened extra hard, studying the music. The Snow Wind Trio was going to have to be damn good to get on the radio.

  The applause died away, and Miri went toward the stage to join the small group at the bottom of the steps. She sighed. If the number of stage-side fans and the volume of applause meant anything, then Hakan and Cory were not the hit they had hoped to be.

  Hakan stopped to talk with some friends, and Miri smiled wanly at her husband, surprised at the amount of joy in him.

  He swung an arm around her waist and hugged her tight, laughing at raised eyebrows.

  "So we are not traditional enough, we two?" he asked in Benish.

  "Looks that way, boss," she replied in Terran.

  He slanted a bright green glance at her face. "A problem, cha'trez?"

  She shrugged and pulled him with her toward the back of the hall. They found seats on the aisle near the door-flaps and settled down just as the next group signaled that they were ready and the emcee came on stage.

  "Problem or solution, I don't know," she said carefully. She turned to look him full in the face. "Someone's sitting upstairs, doing circles over the clouds. Not transport class. Say, an unbaffled ship or an out-and-out jet—can't tell with all this other noise. But doing a loiter."

  "Ah," he said, and she clamped down hard on the need to ask him what "Ah" meant this time.

  "Thing is," she said instead, "I know how to get their attention. If you want to."

  Val Con raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  "All we got to do," she said, as if she was not certain that he had already thought of it himself, "is get on the radio. This trio gig of Hakan's . . .If you and me can sing something in Terran or Liaden—a round, maybe—one part in Benish, one in Terran, one in Liaden." She saw his frown. "Know it's against the rules, boss, but I can't figure it otherwise. Unless you want to hijack the station!"

  "Inefficient, hijacking a station. And you think your idiot sky-pilot will be listening?"

  "What the hell do you think she's doing? Way it makes sense is they were doing the frequency scan, like you and me did, homed in on the radio like a beacon, and now they're circling, trying to decide if it's worth a stop."

  He nodded. "You were wasted as a sergeant, Miri. You might have been a—"

  "Hey! Cory! Miri! Somebody wants us to teach them our playing style!" Hakan called, arriving with two young women and a shy man in tow.

  Val Con smiled vaguely at the group; Miri's smile contained a touch of frost.

  "Hakan, it is to be flattered," she said more sharply than she had intended. "But us—we need to practice. We must be better!"

  Hakan looked crestfallen, his exuberance lost in a mumble.

  One of the young women bustled forward and nodded to Miri, as if to an equal. "I am Zhena Wrand. After you have practiced—and played—Hakan tells me you may compete tomorrow—after that, we will work with you! There is a new feel to what Hakan and Cory do. Not revolutionary, mind. But new, not as hide-bound. All these traditionals want nothing more than to hear exactly what they heard last year! You watch and see who wins—a traditional band! Next year, though, I—we—will be so good they can't ignore us!" With that she turned, lifted a hand to her friends, and stalked away.

  Hakan stared after them strangely, then his eyes lighted as Kem arrived.

  "Hakan and Cory—you did fine!" She smiled, tucking her hand into Hakan's.

  "At least some people think so!" Hakan said, pointedly glancing at Miri.

  Val Con began to say something, but Miri put her hand out, silencing him.

  "Hakan?" she said very seriously. "Do you still want a trio?"

  His face actually paled. "Of course, Miri," he stammered. "I didn't mean—"

  "Quiet," she ordered, and Val Con bent his head to hide his smile.

  "If we have a trio, we do it right," Miri announced. "First, the name. The name should be 'Snow Wind Trio,' unless another—"

  "No, that's good. Real good!" Hakan smiled at Kem, tightening his grip on her hand as Miri continued.

  "Fine. We settle that much. Now." She pointed back and forth between Val Con and Hakan. "You two, you work good together. Me? I sing some. Mostly before I sing at parties, not on stage. And these is bests—the best groups in Bentrill! We have to be very, very good and traditional—like that zhena said—or different! So different they can't compare. We don't have time to be all traditional. So—we practice being different!"

  Miri turned to the other woman suddenly. "Listen, Kem, this fair—it might not be much fun for you. If we do good we can make a name—establish ourselves like Hakan wants to. But we need him to practice hard right now!"

  Kem laughed, holding up a hand. "Miri, don't worry. Hakan is happiest when he's doing his music. If you and Cory can help make the music work—I couldn't ask for more."

  She grabbed Miri's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'll help, honey. I'll bring food, applaud, chase people away, whatever you need. All right?"

  "All right." Miri looked at them all and smiled. "Zhena Trelu sends all this food. You help us eat it and we talk—then practice."

  She led the way into the snow at such a determined pace that it took Val Con a moment to catch up and put his hand in hers.

  VANDAR:

  Springbreeze Farm

  Hell with it, Miri decided and tapped him on the shoulder. "Val Con?"

  He stirred. "You are not asleep?"

  "Nah. You ain't either."

  "No. Adrenaline."

  "Hmmph. Thought you could sleep anytime anywhere." She moved closer and slipped an arm loosely around his waist. "For that matter, thought I could, too. Tried to use the Rainbow, but I keep getting off track."

  He backed into her, sighing. "I am not certain. My hunch is you are correct about this ship and its interest. But there are other matters, and the Loop—"

  "What in the hell can that thing have to say about it?" she demanded. "If the Loop lets you see through clouds maybe it'd help."

  He was silent for a moment before turning to face her.

  "The Loop," he said with emphasis, "indicates that contacting a spaceship is beneficial only if we have plans to leave this planet. Have we such plans?"

  She shifted irritably. "Why ask me?"

  "We are lifemates, Miri," he said softly. "I ask to know. I ask because it is not so bad a place, really, and because life could be pleasant here. No Juntavas, no Department of the Interior . . ."

  Trust him to see her second thoughts. She was silent for some time, trying to work it through.

  "Well," she said eventually. "You got plans. Gotta keep an eye on that family of yours. Got stuff to say to your brother. Got stuff to say to Edger. And I might get bored of singing for my supper in a couple years . . ."

  "Then we have such plans," he said. "In order to leave this world we should make earliest contact with a means of doing so—even the Juntavas or the Department. This is contraindicated if the ship belongs to Yxtrang; yet they would hardly wait, circling a single outpost, when there is a whole world to plunder. The chance of it being Yxtrang is something under one percent, by the way."

  "What chance that it's Edger?" she asked hopefully.

  "Less than ten percent—closer to
nine."

  "Mmmpf. Lots of percents left, huh? What's the odds mean, if you gotta use that thing?"

  Val Con stroked her arm gently. "The odds are twenty-four percent that we have a Scout overhead; thirty percent chance that it is a smuggler, perhaps coming to see what has happened to his associates. There is a smaller chance that it is an accidental discovery, and the odds of it being the Juntavas are rather slim."

  She shook her head in the dark. "You wanna boil it down for me? Long day, long night . . ."

  "The largest chance," Val Con said, trying to phrase things as vaguely as possible yet give her the essential information, "is that it is someone directly looking for us—slightly better that it's the Department of the Interior than a Korval ship. The politics of either are hard to measure at this distance."

  "Depending on what your brother decided to do with that computer code. Which I still don't know was a good idea."

  "They had to be warned," he said mildly.

  Miri snorted. "Tell me, then: All that Scout blood in your family—not to mention your grandma the smuggler—what's the chances of them coming into an Interdicted World, breaking the sound barrier and probably every aviation law on the books?"

  Out of the darkness came a sigh. "Rhetorically? Not high."

  "Look at the damn thing, Liaden. What's it say?"

  He sighed again, then suddenly gave a low laugh. "It says that despite it all, it is only estimating. If it happens that an Yxtrang general wanted to have a holiday shoot, then all the Loop's numbers mean that, as unlikely as the event is, it could still happen."

  "Great," Miri said. "Did I ever tell you about the time I needed to roll five sevens in a row to stay out of trouble?"

  "Did you?"

  "No. Rolled four."

  "Ah—and then?"

  "I had some trouble."

  Val Con grinned in the dark. "Shall I ask more?"

  "Later." She touched his cheek. "Basically what you're telling me is that if we're planning on going through with these shenanigans we're likely to have trouble. And if we don't, trouble might find us anyway."

  "Will," he corrected, reaching out. He pulled her close and kissed her ear gently. "Cha'trez, let us talk the Rainbow together tonight. My hunch is that we are trouble; events flow roughly around us because we seize every opportunity."

  "Carpe diem," she muttered, and laughed. "We seize the day. Sometimes, the day seizes back!"

  He laughed with her and reached to touch the barely seen, much-beloved face. "True. Let us now seize a Rainbow. Red is the color of physical relaxation . . ."

  Eventually they slept soundly.

  MCGEE ORBIT

  The message hit them as they hit orbit. His boss had been sitting in the co-pilot's seat since it had, staring at the screen and frowning. The couple of glances Cheever had been able to spare for the message board during the orbiting drill had not shown anything that seemed to warrant Pat Rin yos'Phelium's frown; a couple of lines of Liaden characters and a rendering of a dragon flying over a tree at the end of it all; like a seal.

  "Right, then, Tower," he said into the mike. "Landing time acknowledged and recorded. Thanks." He checked the board once more, nodded, and leaned back in the chair, wondering what was going on.

  "Pilot McFarland."

  He straightened. "Yessir."

  Pat Rin was still staring at the screen, one hand idly toying with the blue stone in his left ear. "I offer you the opportunity to leave my employ, Pilot—and at once."

  Cheever goggled. "You're firing me?"

  "Did I say it?" Pat Rin snapped. Abruptly he turned the chair around, so that Cheever could see his face. "Forgive me, Pilot," he said more carefully. "I am in every way satisfied with your service. I offer a letter of reference stating so, and a continuance of your pay until you may locate another employer."

  "I'm doing the job, but you're gettin' rid of me," Cheever repeated, brow rumpled in perplexity. "Why?"

  For a minute he thought the little dandy was going to go all high and holy on him, tell him to shut up and pack up.

  But Pat Rin hesitated, then sighed. "Circumstances sometimes overtake one, Pilot. In my—business—one schools oneself to accept reversals and to use them to future advantage." Once again the slim fingers adjusted the blue earring. "Circumstances having thus overtaken me, I am constrained as an honorable man to offer an honorable man the means to avoid possible—unpleasantness—accruing to one in my employ."

  Cheever chewed it over and finally had to shake his head. "Looks me like you're gonna need an extra gun, if these circumstances of yours're liable to turn ugly. Told your cousin Shan I'd keep an eye on you—part of the deal, see?" He thought some more, oblivious to the speculation in Pat Rin's eyes, and finally summed it up. "Might be he knew you were prone to circumstances, huh? Might be he thought you'd be better off with some help this time out."

  "It might be, Pilot," Pat Rin said gently. "Who am I to say?" He stared at the screen again for some minutes, then extended a languid hand and cleared it before looking back at the bigger man.

  "You must understand," he said, "that there may be danger, or there may be none. At the present we will merely extend our itinerary and give over any plans of a return to Liad."

  Cheever frowned. "For how long?"

  Pat Rin adjusted the ear-stone a final time and stood with sensuous grace. He bowed ironically and smiled. "Why, Pilot, only until circumstances resolve themselves. Do wake me when we land." And he strolled off toward his cabin.

  VANDAR:

  Winterfair

  The key was the green light.

  When the green light was lit, the broadcast was going out from the stage. When both red and green were on, it was going out from the microphone on the tables at the back of the hall. The yellow light meant that the hall was on standby.

  Miri studied the competition rules while Val Con kibbitzed with the radio techs. He left the board with reluctance after a technician pointedly asked him not to touch, and climbed the steps onto the stage.

  "No go?" Miri asked.

  He moved his shoulders. "There is not much to be done from here at any rate—a relay board only. To subvert the system, I would need to be in the main shack." He grinned at her. "And we have already agreed that hijacking the station is not efficient."

  "Probably just as well," she said. "Looks like that zhena up there—in the gray—decides what goes on the air." She shook her head. "Rules say they're gonna have each group play twice—two three-song sets. They'll do random drawings for play slots each time. That gives us a couple chances to catch the green light—you think Hakan'll be okay?"

  Val Con sat on a bench and patted the spot beside him. "Hakan will be fine, Mini. He sees that you have done only proper things—the zhena has indicated what is required, and it shall be done. If he is not comfortable with our chances of winning he has not told me."

  "What's the Loop say?"

  He raised a brow. "Nothing. Lack of information."

  "I don't mean about winning, damn it, I mean—"

  "Miri, Miri . . .Both questions have the same answer. We cannot predict how the judging will go because there are different judges. We cannot predict who will be broadcast because we do not know what criteria the zhena in gray applies to her decisions."

  "And if they put us on the air we don't know if anyone upstairs is still listening!"

  "Exactly."

  Miri grinned. "If it's Edger you can bet who'll be right down."

  Val Con smiled and squeezed her hand. "I suspect even he would not be so hasty. Besides, Zhena Brigsbee would only say to Zhena Trelu, 'I told you there was something strange about those two . . .'"

  Miri was sweating, but so were Val Con and Hakan. The first two songs had gone over well, and they had weathered the minor problem of having to use another song for their opening number—the one they had planned to play turned out to be the closing number of the preceding group.

  So far they had followed Miri's direction to play fo
r themselves rather than to fit custom. Val Con's piano solo had certainly scored some points in the first number, and Miri and Hakan's switched roles in the second—he singing the female side and she the male—had drawn attention again. Though whether the attention was good or bad was more than Miri could tell. Worse, the green light had yet to come on.

  Hakan moved against the wave of applause to his microphone, grinning fit to split his face.

  "Now," he said, then paused to catch his breath. "Now, the Snow Wind Trio is pleased to bring you something a little different. We'll sing a song you all know well—first the way Zhena Robersun learned it when she was young, then the way Zamir Robersun heard it as he traveled on his brother's ship, and finally as I learned it as child, here in Gylles. Here, then, is 'Leaf Dance.'"

  The audience was silent. On the board across the room, the green light came on, and Miri gulped; hearing the introduction roll off Val Con's piano, she closed her eyes and broke in on the beat, concentrating on the words she had set to the Benish music. The original was a simpleminded, happy hymn to autumn, admirably suited for rounds. Out of some perverse sense of obligation to Hakan, innocently assisting in the shattering of galactic law, Miri had tried to stay as close as possible to the spirit of the original.

  In what seemed like no time at all her part was over and Val Con took up his, the liquid sound of the Liaden words transforming the sweet little melody into something exotic and sensuous. Miri slid her hand into her pocket, wrapped her fingers around the absolutely forbidden harmonica nestled there, and quickly brought it to her mouth.

  To Hakan it looked like magic: Miri's cupped hands were somehow producing an eerie, unexpected sound, playing haunting counterpoint to Cory's part of the round.

  And then it was his turn to take a step closer to the mike and give the audience the song they had known all their lives, Miri's harmonica a faint, warm buzz beneath the familiar words.

  He finished his verse, caught the signal from Cory, and kept the music coming, while Miri played the harmonica solo to the world, reminding the audience that as leaves dance, they die. The thought hooked her, calling up memories of friends, dancing and dead, recalling her to times when the harmonica had made the sounds the unit had dared not: the laughter, the curses, the sobs.