Carpe Diem

by Sharon Lee

  "Cory," the other said carefully. He gestured. "What happened, man?"

  "I—" Val Con sighed. "Miri is hurt."

  "Alive?"

  "Alive," he agreed, feeling the sluggish beat of her heart and hearing the rasp of her breath.

  "Right. You stay here and I'll get the fair med—"

  "No!"

  Hakan froze then frowned. "Cory—"

  "She has had—aid. The fair doctor will not do more. I—Hakan, will you take us? It is wrong to ask . . ."

  Understanding dawned in the nearsighted eyes. "Hospital's in Vale, Cory. Sure she can take the ride?"

  "She can take the ride," Val Con said, "to the place we need to go."

  "Right," Hakan said again. He glanced around, jerking his head at an alleyway between two wooden pavilions. "Shortcut to the parking lot."

  "All right," Val Con said, and started walking once more.

  Hakan did not speak again until they were clear of the buildings and had started across the field that had that morning been the site of the log-pulls.

  "I can carry her, you know," he said, hesitantly. "Give you a rest."

  Val Con blinked. Hakan to carry her? Nonkin, when there was her own lifemate to aid her? With an effort, he perceived the kindness of it and the concern for both that had prompted it, and noted his growing weakness. It was imperative that he conserve his strength for the tasks ahead, or Miri's lifemate would fail her at the last.

  He smiled up at his friend and nodded. "Thank you."

  "No problem." Hakan took his burden gently and set off across the field in a consciously smooth stride.

  Val Con followed, fumbling among his store of L'apeleka dances. "The Spirit Demands" presented itself and he danced two steps as he walked, his mind encompassing the whole. His heartbeat increased, though not nearly to the level that Tyl Von sig'Alda's had; his breathing deepened; his body began to work with more accustomed efficiency, drawing on stored vitamins and other reserves.

  "Thank you, brother," he whispered to the memory of Edger, and stretched his legs to catch up with Hakan.

  "Turn right," he said sometime later. Miri was on the seat between them, her head on his knee, a scruffy lap rug tucked around her.

  Hakan blinked. "Hospital's in Vale, Cory," he said with a sort of nervous patience. "That's left."

  "We go right." Val Con reached into the High Tongue for the proper cadence of authority. Hakan frowned, his mouth straightening stubbornly—and, slowly, turned right.

  "Thank you," Val Con said softly, but Hakan only drove on, silent.

  Three times they passed spur roads going left, toward Vale and the hospital. Three times Hakan made as if to turn in that direction, and three times Val Con had his way.

  The next time, he thought, seeing the determination in Hakan's face, in the set of his hands on the controls. He'll take the next road left, no matter what I say. He sighed to himself. Maddened with grief, I suppose, and don't know what I'm about.

  "Skel?" Miri asked and shifted fretfully.

  Val Con stroked her wild hair and touched her too-pale cheek. "Skel is not here, cha'trez. Rest now."

  But she would not be soothed so easily; she moved her head on his knee and tried to toss the rug off. "Skel!" she insisted. "Damn weather. Damn weatherman. Take readings five times a day and what's the good? Weather ain't got a pattern down here, Brunner. World's comin' apart—the land's movin', Brunner—like walking on wax. Lost a squad this morning. The hill they were camped on just—fell down . . ." Her agitation was growing; Hakan glanced over and then back at the road as he touched the accelerator, his face tight with resolve.

  Val Con captured the questing hand and held it tightly, one part of him trying to think how to calm her while another coldly and continually counted distance and direction. They must not overshoot the ship.

  "Gonna have to ditch the machine, Brunner, you hear me? Unit's pinned—what's left. Told Liz I'd kill the gun—give 'em a chance to get out . . .What does 'galandaria' mean, anyway?"

  "It means," Val Con said softly, stroking her cheek, willing her to be calm, "compatriot—countryman. Miri—it's Val Con, cha'trez—you must rest . . ."

  She stilled abruptly. "Val Con?"

  Had she come out of her memories then, back to the present? "Yes."

  "Don't leave me, Val Con."

  "No," he said, touching her lips lightly. "I won't leave you, Miri."

  She sighed then, like a child assured that a dream-monster was well and truly slain, and slipped back into unconsciousness.

  "Stop here," Val Con said, and sighed at Hakan's glare of stubborn denial.

  "There's nothing here," the musician said flatly. "Just rocks and snow. Miri's sick, Cory—she needs a hospital, not a walk in the weather." He turned his eyes back to the road. "There's a turnoff about a half-mile up the road, get us to Vale in a little less than an hour."

  "Hakan, stop the car."

  The glare this time was less hard-edged, and the car actually did slow a bit.

  "Miri is sick," Val Con said softly. "She needs the best medical care it is possible for her to have." He extended a hand. "Am I so mad with grief that I will murder my zhena?"

  Hakan looked at him long and hard, then turned away and looked out at the crisp, starry night and the wild tumble of snow-covered rock. "Here?" he asked uncertainly.

  "Actually," Val Con said, "approximately a quarter-mile back." He held his breath as the car slowed, stopped, and began to back up.

  "Thank you, Hakan," he said softly. But the other only shook his head.

  The ship itself was easy to find—merely a matter of following the line of half-filled footsteps back to their source. Val Con held up a hand as the turret beam lit. "Stay here a moment, Hakan," he said, and went on alone, clutching the multi-use key he had taken from Tyl Von sig'Alda's pockets.

  The turret rotated, its beam seeking: Val Con twisted the thing in his hand, brought it to his mouth, and blew two sharp notes. After a pause, he added two more.

  The turret stopped its rotation. Val Con pulled the portable beacon from his pocket, flashed a series of long-and-shorts at the beam, and sighed with relief when it simply went out.

  "All right, Hakan," he called, and went to the ship's belly. He twisted the multikey, used it on the obvious hatch lock, then bent to find the hidden latch and disarm it.

  The hatch slid open, silent in the silent night. The interior lights came up, touching the silver snow with gold.

  Hakan stood holding Miri in his arms, mouth open. "An—airplane?" he asked doubtfully.

  "Aircraft," Val Con corrected softly, and held out his arms. "I will take Miri, Hakan. Thank you for your aid."

  "What?" The stubbornness was fully back in Hakan's face. "You have me drive you to an aircraft in the middle of nowhere, with Miri hurt and raving, and I'm supposed to just leave you here?" He shook his head. "No."

  Val Con considered. Balance, after all, was owed. He bowed, very low. "As you wish. Come with me. Quickly."

  The 'doc was behind a partition directly opposite the entrance to the control room. Val Con punched the emergency access, and the clear hatch cycled open. He had Hakan lay Miri on the pallet and then forgot him as he stripped off her coat and the bloodstained shirt, pulled off her boots, and peeled the skirt down. He scanned the board, relieved to find that the Department had thought enough of Tyl Von sig'Alda to supply his ship with a top-of-the-line autodoc, then cycled the hatch closed and watched the lights flicker as the 'doc cataloged Miri's injuries, taking blood samples, X rays, and brain scan. A chime sounded, and a line of characters appeared in the screen directly above the observation window.

  GUNSHOT WOUND, HIGH RIGHT CHEST. NO FOREIGN BODIES NOTED WITHIN CHEST CAVITY. COMPLICATIONS: BLOOD LOSS, SHOCK, EXPOSURE. TRACES PSYCHOSTIMULATIVE DRUG DETECTED. PROJECTED REPAIR TIME: TWO HOURS FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.

  The observation window opaqued. Val Con shuddered, knees sagging. It was going to be all right.

  "Cory?" Hakan's voice w
as not doing well. Val Con straightened and turned to look at his friend.

  Hakan's face was unnaturally pale, and he seemed to be trembling.

  "Yes."

  "Where's Miri?"

  Val Con pointed. "In the—healing unit. This—" He touched the readout. "This says that she will be—repaired—in three hours." He smiled slightly. "She will still need to rest and regain her strength, but she will be out of danger."

  Hakan frowned. "That machine is fixing Miri, right now?"

  "Yes."

  The musician nodded, glancing around, then squared his shoulders. "I've seen planes before, Cory—and this isn't a plane."

  "No," Val Con said softly. "It's not."

  "What is it, then?"

  Val Con sighed. "An aircraft, say, Hakan—and now forget that you have seen it."

  Hakan stared at him, and Val Con sighed again, moving out of the 'doc cubicle and crossing to the menuboard. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

  "Tea?" Hakan shook his head, perhaps to clear it, and then sighed in his turn. "All right, Cory. Tea would be fine."

  Val Con requested two—sweet for his guest, plain for himself—then took the cups out of the dispenser and handed one to Hakan. He sipped, astonished at how good the spicy Liaden tea was; then he saw his friend still staring about wild-eyed, and waved him toward the co-pilot's chair.

  "Sit down, Hakan, and rest."

  Hakan did, gingerly, and sipped his tea with caution. "Where did this come from?" he demanded.

  Val Con looked at him levelly. "Out of the kitchen. You saw it."

  "I saw you punch a couple buttons on that wall there, and then you handed me this!" The musician closed his eyes and seemed to be concentrating on taking deep breaths. Val Con wandered over to the pilot's station and sat down.

  After a time, Hakan opened his eyes and looked at him, very calmly. "Where are you from, Cory?"

  Val Con sighed. "Away."

  "Not," Hakan insisted, "Porlint."

  "No," Val Con agreed. "Not Porlint."

  "Where, then?"

  "No," Val Con said. "Hakan, I cannot tell you that. Ask me again, and I will lie to you—and I would rather not lie to my friend, to Miri's friend. I should not have brought you here. For anything less than Miri's life, I would not have brought you here." He smiled ruefully. "I have played a sorry joke on you, my friend—you have seen something that you cannot have seen. Not only that, but if you describe this ship—the kitchen, the medical machine—no one will believe you."

  "Why not?"

  Val Con moved his shoulders. "Can you go to a wall in any house in Gylles, push a few buttons, and get tea, hot and brewed to perfection? When you are hurt or ill, do you go to the doctor and have him slide you into a machine for an hour or two, until you feel better?"

  Hakan shook his head.

  "So, these things do not exist, do they? Cannot exist, I think Zhena Trelu would say."

  Hakan closed his eyes.

  Val Con sipped tea, cautiously allowing his body to relax; he ran the Rainbow very quickly and looked up to find Hakan's eyes on him.

  "How long has this been here?"

  "No more than a day," Val Con said softly. "And it will be gone before the start of another."

  Sorrow shaded the mustached face. "You're leaving?"

  "We don't belong here any more than this craft does, Hakan. It is an accident that we are here—a happy accident, as it turns out. We found friends and music—and anything that gains us so much is to be thanked."

  Silence grew as they both drank their tea. Val Con shifted slightly, drawing the other man's attention back to him. "You should go, Hakan."

  "Now? But, I mean, Miri—" He trailed off in confusion.

  Val Con considered. "It is not safe to stop the healing once it is started, and Miri might not wake naturally for some hours after the machine releases her. She cannot say good-bye to you, Hakan, though I know she would wish to. I . . ." He shrugged. "Come back to this spot tomorrow," he said slowly, "and take away what is here." More regulations shattered by whim, he thought ruefully, reaching to touch the other's arm. "Be very careful, my friend."

  Tears shone in the blue eyes as Hakan stood. "Kem's never going to forgive me for letting you two get away like this. She—we—love you both."

  "And we love you." On some impulse he did not fully understand, Val Con extended a hand and touched one stubbled cheek very lightly, as if they were kin. "I see you, Hakan Meltz." He stood back. "Live in joy, you and Kem—and may all of your children love the music."

  "Yeah . . ." Hakan followed Val Con to the hatch and stood looking out at the night.

  "Can you find your way, Hakan? Should I walk with you back to the car?"

  "I'll be all right," he said, pulling up his hood. "Just follow the footsteps out, like we did on the way in." He hesitated. "Good night, Cory."

  "Good night, Hakan."

  Val Con watched until he could no longer see Hakan's outline against the stars and snow, then he sealed the hatch and went back into the ship. The 'doc's timer showed one and a quarter hours still to go on Miri's treatment. Val Con set the ship's clock to wake him in an hour, then reclined in the pilot's chair and went to sleep.

  VANDAR:

  Kosmorn Gore

  ADDITIONAL TIME REQUIRED TO COMPLETE REPAIRS: TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES.

  Val Con touched the query button, frowning as the reason for the additional time took shape on the screen.

  BLOOD FILTERING AND RECALIBRATION OF NUTRIENT LEVELS REQUIRED DUE TO STRONG ADVERSE REACTION TO INGESTION OF PSYCHOSTIMULATIVE DRUG.

  "Psychostimulative drug?" he repeated. Then, face clearing, "Ah." The Cloud-and-MemStim mix she had flung into Tyl Von's face; she must have inadvertently swallowed some of it herself. He shook his head, keying in a request for the doc to send the makeup of the drug to auxiliary screen three. How had Miri come to have such a thing? he wondered, and shook his head again. He would have to wait for her explanation.

  He bent and picked up her clothes and shoved them into the cleaning unit along with his own, adjusting the setting to "superclean" and "repair." The 'fresher also had a "superclean" setting. Val Con chose it and stepped under the deluge.

  The observation port had cleared, allowing a view of a slight, pale body, a swirl of red hair, and a pair of languorous gray eyes. The new scar was a smooth patch of pink above her small breast. Val Con smiled and touched the release.

  "Good morning, Miri."

  "Hi." Her voice was husky, and she moved her head on the flat pillow in a half-shake. "Think I don't know how to fall?"

  He sighed. "I know that kill so well . . ."

  "Yeah. Me, too." She grinned, a trifle lopsidedly. "Don't teach your grandma to suck eggs, spacer."

  "I would not dare."

  She snorted. "Guess not, grandma you got. Feisty old toot, was she?"

  "No more than the rest of us," he said softly, touching her face. "Are you hungry, Miri?"

  "Could do with a snack." For the first time her eyes left his face and looked at the room beyond his shoulder. "Mind telling me where we are?"

  "The agent's ship."

  She frowned. "Just us?"

  "Just us." He looked away, picking up a lock of copper hair and running it through his fingers, studying the process with intensity. "The agent—died. The Loop lied to him—as it did to me, on Edger's ship, you recall?" He looked back into her eyes.

  "Yeah."

  He sighed and shook his head. "He had taken stimulants and the—other drugs. The Loop added adrenaline in a massive dose, into a system already overloaded . . ."

  "He had a heart attack," Miri said very quietly.

  Val Con nodded. "Tyl Von sig'Alda," he murmured. "Clan Rugare."

  She frowned. "You knew him?"

  "No. He told me his name." He shook himself out of the memory. "What will you have to eat?"

  "Whatever it is, I ain't eating it here," she said with an abrupt return of energy. "What kind of shape my clothes in?"


  "The valet was adequate to the task," he told her. "A moment."

  He returned almost immediately with her clothes, but she had already squirmed upright and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the pallet. He shook his head and handed her the shirt, gritting his teeth against his need to help, trusting that she would ask his aid if it was required.

  She finished up the buttons, sighed, and looked at the skirt. "Dump that thing over my head, willya?" He did, and she fastened it, then grabbed his arms and slid to her feet. "You didn't get hit, did you, boss?"

  "No," he said softly. Then he began more urgently, "Miri, you must never—"

  She held up a hand. "Don't say it, okay? Heard you screaming like death, coming up that hill. Ready to jump on him and hack him to pieces, was it?" She sighed and leaned against him, her arms going around his waist with unexpected strength. "Couple certifiables."

  After a moment, she stood away from him. "Don't suppose there's any coffee."

  "This is a Liaden ship," Val Con said, "so it is doubtful. We might check, however." He offered his arm.

  She took it without hesitation, and together they went out into the main room.

  There was no coffee, but the tea he ordered for her was nearly as good: dark and spicy and rich. She sipped her second cup half reclined in the copilot's chair, watching Val Con clean up the remains of their meal and wishing her brain would stop asking "Now what?"

  He's gonna ask you about the Cloud, Robertson, she told herself. Whether that Tyl Von guy was lying to you or not. He's gonna ask. What're you gonna tell him?

  Val Con came back to sit in the pilot's seat, carrying another cup of tea. He settled in and sipped, then lifted his eyes to her face.

  Gods, she thought. Gods, please . . .

  "Miri?" he said softly, and she swallowed a deep breath along with some more tea and met his eyes, level.

  "Yo."

  "Who is Skel?"

  She shook her head in surprise. "Skel ain't nobody, boss. He died on Klamath." She took another breath. "Where'd you hear about Skel?"