Carpe Diem Read online

  "Thank you, sir. Good evening, sir."

  Shan's footsteps faded down the hallway, and in a moment Jeeves noted the opening and closing of the door to the south patio. One of the younger cats, Yodel, mewed faintly and twitched in her sleep. Jeeves moved a hand to stroke her.

  "There, there," he said. "There, there."

  ORBIT: Interdicted World I-2796-893-44

  The sound of the ship around them went from solid hum to pulsing throb as Miri slid into the copilot's seat. Val Con sat in the pilot's chair, hands moving with precision over the switches and keys and toggles as if he were playing the omnichora. All screens were up, showing different and changing views of the world below while the radio mumbled to itself. A number of the lights on the central board glowed red, a fact that Miri decided to ignore.

  "No power left to shunt from the coils," Val Con murmured. "Altitude control jets low on fuel. Rocket thrust? Ah, well, rockets are only a luxury, after all . . ."

  Miri considered the side of his face. "Is this dangerous?"

  "Hmm? Strap in, please, cha'trez. We are approaching a mark." A slim finger touched a readout that was counting large blue numbers down from ten. Miri engaged the webbing as the numbers ran down. There was a sharp push and a heavy vibration as zero flashed. Val Con flipped a quick series of toggles, and the worst of the vibration faded.

  "Is—this—dangerous?" Miri asked again, spacing the words and increasing the volume a tad, on the slim chance he hadn't heard her the first time.

  His smile flickered, and he reached to take her hand. "Dangerous? We are descending with neither reserve rockets nor jet power to a planet without landing beacons, without an actual touchdown point chosen, and without being invited." The smile broadened. "A textbook exercise."

  "Sure," Miri muttered. "And how many people get hurt when a textbook crashes?"

  Val Con raised an eyebrow. "You doubt my skill?"

  "Huh?" She was startled. "No, hey, look, boss, I ain't a pilot! I just gotta know if we're gonna get down—" She stopped because he was laughing, his hand warm around hers.

  "Miri, I will contrive to bring us down as safely as possible, considering circumstances." He squeezed her fingers and let them go, turning back to his board. "As for whether we will get down, the answer is yes. We are no longer moving rapidly enough to maintain orbit."

  She watched him go through another series of adjustments, then shook her head as he leaned back in the chair. "Tough Guy," she murmured.

  He glanced over. "Yes."

  "Tell the troops just enough to keep 'em honest, doncha?" she said, not sure if she felt admiration or frustration. "Got some guts—this stuff here." She waved a hand at the red-lit board. "Playing chicken with the Yxtrang . . .What were the chances of us getting out alive, when you pulled that hysteresis thing and we Jumped outta there?"

  "Ah." He faced her seriously. "The pilot did not expect to reenter normal space."

  "Thought we'd come apart in hyper," she translated and nodded to herself, thinking.

  At the conclusion of thought, she reached over and patted his arm. "Good. Best choice there was. Yxtrang boarding party, against us two, even if we are hell on wheels . . ." She shook her head. "And I wouldn't want to have to shoot you. Heard that was the best thing to do for your partner, Yxtrang ever gets you cornered."

  "There are sometimes," Val Con murmured, "other options."

  "Yeah? How many Yxtrang you ever talk to in person?"

  "One," he said promptly. "Though it is true that I took him unaware."

  Miri blinked at him, then glanced at the ruddy board and at each of the screens in turn. "Remember to tell me about it," she managed at last. "Later."

  "Yes, Miri," he said, sternly controlling his twitching lips, and turned back to the board.

  The planet spun beneath them five times on the inbound spiral.

  Miri watched the screens in fascination—she had never been on the flight deck of anything on a trip downworld before—and meticulously copied information Val Con read off to her: coordinates of major features, drainage patterns of important river basins, the direction and strength of atmospheric jet streams.

  Her duties also included monitoring the radio, which still gave out its gabble of nonsense words and earsplitting music. But on the third pass over the continent south of their target something different came over the speaker.

  Bringing the volume up, Miri heard the excited voices and the boom and thunder of heavy guns.

  "Boss?" she asked quietly.

  He glanced away from his board, frowning at the radio noise.

  "Somebody's having a war," Miri said, and he sighed, hands and eyes already back to the business of piloting.

  Miri kept with it, hearing the despair in the man's voice on the radio and counting the rhythms of the bursts and explosions until they were out of range. She found the station again on the next pass, but it was only playing music. And on the next pass they were inside the ion shield and could not hear anything at all.

  The meager stars had given way to local dawn when Val Con finally brought the ship down. Miri found the switch from a ballistic trajectory to magnetic control unexpectedly harrowing: the deceleration reminded her all too vividly of their close call with the Yxtrang. The final lurch brought forth an involuntary burst of swearing, which she squelched in embarrassment, for by that time the ship was flying smoothly.

  Val Con sealed the hatch behind them and slid the key into his pouch, shivering in the crystal air.

  Miri tipped her head. "You cold?"

  "Only a little," he murmured, lifting a brow. "Aren't you?"

  She grinned, stretching tall on her toes. "Where I come from, Tough Guy, this is high summer." Then she, too, shivered as a random breeze ran through the ravine. "Course, when you get as old as me, your blood starts to thin out."

  "So? I had no idea you were as old as that."

  "You didn't ask; I didn't say." She frowned at the crouched ship, a pitted metal boulder among a tumble of rock. "Should we hide it better?"

  "This should suffice. The country does not look well traveled, and from the air it will seem just another rock. We are only in difficulty if local technology proves to include long-range metal detection." He sighed. "We could send it into orbit, but there might be a way to repair . . ." His voice drifted off.

  "So, for better or worse." She came closer and slid a small hand into his. "Carpe diem, and all like that." She grinned, and he smiled faintly, squeezing her hand as she looked around. "Well, where's this town of yours? I could sure use a cup of coffee."

  "West," he said, and smiled at her confusion. "That way," he elaborated, pointing.

  "Whyn't you say so? Though how you can tell up from down this soon after 'fall beats hell out of me." She shivered again in another eddy of breeze and wrinkled her nose. "Guess we better start walking."

  "It would seem best," he agreed. He slipped away, moving like a shadow over the broken shale, Miri silent at his back.

  An hour later they rested by a stream. Val Con knelt, cupped a hand into the rapid current—and turned his head as if he had heard the cry of protest she had stilled.

  "Cha'trez, the water is good," he assured her. "Nor do I think the vegetables or grains will do us harm. The meat should also be edible. Whether all the nutritional needs of our bodies are met we must wait and see." He cupped his hand again and drank, then rose, sighing. "Had we been abandoned in a Scout ship instead of a smuggler's yacht we would have known these things with certainty before landing. As it is, we ride the luck."

  Miri closed her eyes as he came to sit beside her. "Carpe diem," she muttered, willing herself to relax.

  "What is that?"

  She opened her eyes to find him watching her. "What's what?"

  "Carpe—diem? It does not sound Terran—and you have said it several times."

  "Oh." She frowned. "Actually, it is Terran—at least, it's from Terra. Latin, I think the language was. Real old. I remember reading that two or three of
the languages Terran derives from came from Latin, first." She paused, but he was watching her face with apparent interest.

  "Time I was—sick—right after Klamath," she continued, "I got to read lots. Book I liked best was called Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. It was sort of a list of things that people had said or believed—and sometimes still said—and next to each one was an explanation of what it was really supposed to mean.

  "Carpe diem, now—that's supposed to mean, 'seize the day,' enjoy yourself while you can. Seemed like good advice." She shook her head and smiled. "Great book. Sorry I had to give it back."

  "How long were you able to spend with the book?" he asked gently. "After Klamath?"

  "Hmm? Ah, not too long. Got busted up toward the end of things—my own damn fault. Got cocky." She shifted, breaking his gaze. "You want a sandwich before we get on?"

  Both brows rose. "Salmon?"

  "Got four," she told him earnestly.

  "I think that I am not hungry, thank you." He came to his feet in one fluid motion and reached down to help her up, though he knew she could rise as easily as he, unaided.

  "Besides," he said, pressing her hand warmly before letting her go. "I thought you wanted that cup of coffee."

  The town sat in a three-sided bowl made of mountains, clustered in the center of a valley that was merely a widening of the pass they walked through. It was not a large town, which was good, and no one was yet abroad, though the sun had been up for several hours. In the near distance Val Con made out a field of some type of grain, while closer in—

  Miri was not at his back.

  He turned slowly and found her seated astride a fallen log, staring down into the protected little town, tension sharp in the lines of her face, in the set of her shoulders, and in the slender hands folded too still upon her knee.

  He moved, deliberately scraping boot heel against stone. She started and looked at him.

  "Mind if I rest a minute?" she asked, tension singing beneath the words.

  "As long as you like." Silent again, he went to the log and sat behind her, putting his arms loosely around her waist, feeling her taut in every muscle. Laying his cheek against her hair, he exhaled gently. "What is it, cha'trez?"

  "I was gonna ask you." She flung her hands out with suppressed violence, directing his attention to the valley below. "What is it?"

  He considered. Then, he said softly, "A town. Civilians. Not, it is true, a very large town—but sufficient for our present needs. A pattern such as this many times includes outlying farms or homes. If this place is true to that pattern, then that is very good for us. It may be possible for us to go to a single home and offer to trade labor for—language lessons."

  She drew a deep breath. "That's a town?"

  "Certainly it's a town," he said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. "What else would it be?"

  "The gods alone know. It's so small . . ." Her voice faded, significant of growing tension.

  "So? Then perhaps we should take a few moments to study what we see." He raised an arm, pointing. "That large affair, there, with the many windows? That's probably a government building of some kind. It seems to have the proper hauteur about it."

  She chuckled—a good sign—and it seemed that she relaxed, ever so slightly. "And that squatty one, with the railing around the front?"

  "A trading post," he guessed. "Or a small store." He pointed again. "What do you make of the little blue one?"

  "A barbershop? Or a bar?" She laughed a little, and the tension was definitely easing. "Both?"

  "Perhaps—though I think it would be a bit crowded for either. And the metal objects—they do seem to be metal, do you think?—along the sides of the thoroughfare?"

  "Cabs!" Miri announced with certainty, relaxing back into him. He moved his cheek away from her hair and slanted a glance at the side of her face. She was smiling slightly. Good.

  "So? Then tell me about that one—you see? Over behind the little blue one—with the tower and the knob on the top?"

  She was silent for a moment, then blinked and grinned. "A bordello."

  "Do you really think so?" he murmured. "Perhaps we should go there first."

  She laughed—a true laugh—her head against his shoulder, then abruptly sobered. "Val Con?"

  "Yes?"

  "You're a sneak."

  He lifted a brow. "It is a common failing, I am told, among Liadens."

  "That's what Terrans say." She frowned. "What do Liadens say?"

  "Ah, well. Liadens . . ." He tightened his arms around her in a quick hug. "Liadens are very formal, you know. So it is likely that they would not say anything at all."

  "Oh." She took a breath. "What do we do now?"

  "I think we should take off our guns and put them in our pouches. In some places the possession of a weapon makes a person suspect, even, perhaps, a criminal. And I think we should each have another sandwich—so that we do not grow proud—" He echoed her laugh softly. "After we eat, we should go down into the valley and look for one of those outlying farms I spoke of, to see if we might not trade the labor of our strong young bodies for a roof and food and lessons in language."

  "All that on a sandwich? Well, you're the boss."

  "And when," he inquired, "will you be boss?"

  "Next week." She stood, pulled a plastic-wrapped package out of her pouch, and handed it to him to unwrap while she stripped off the gun and holster and stowed them away.

  VANDAR: Springbreeze Farm

  "Borril! Here, Borril! Wind take the animal, where—ah ha! So there you are, sir! No skevitts this morning? Or did they all sit in the treetops and laugh at you? Ah, now, old thing . . ." She finished in a much sweeter tone, as the dog flung himself at her feet with a whuff and lay gazing up at her, worship in his beady yellow eyes.

  She bent carefully, rubbed her knuckles briskly across his head ridges, and yanked on his pointy ears. Straightening, she sighed and eased her back, her eyes dwelling on the marker before her: "Jerrel Trelu, 1412-1475. Beloved zamir . . ."

  Beloved zamir—what bosh! As if it had not just been Jerry and Estra, working the farm and raising the boy and doing what needed to be done, one thing at a time, side by side, him leaning on her, her leaning on him. Beloved husband, indeed!

  A wind blew across the yard, straight down from Fornem's Gap, ice-toothed with winter, though it was barely fall. Zhena Trelu shivered and pulled her jacket close around her. "Wind gets colder every year," she muttered, and pulled herself up sharp. "Listen at you! Just the kind of poor-me you hate in Athna Brigsbee! Mooning the morning away like there wasn't any work to do!"

  She snorted. There was always work to do. She bent creakily and gathered up the sweelims she had picked for the parlor—she liked a bit of color to rest her eyes on in the evening when she listened to the radio or read. "Let's go, Borril. Home!"

  The wind sliced out of the gap again, but she refused to give it the satisfaction of a shiver. The signs all pointed to a bad winter. She sighed, her thoughts on the house she and Jerry had lived a lifetime in. The shutters needed mending; the chimney had to be cleaned and the tin inspected for corrosion—though what she could do about it if the whole roof was on the verge of falling in was more than she knew. It was a big, drafty old place, much too big for one old woman and her old dog. It had always been too big, really, even when there had been Jerrel and the boy and, later, the boy's zhena—and the dogs, of course. Always four or five dogs. Now there was only Borril, last of a tradition.

  As if her thought had reached out and touched some chord within him, the dog suddenly bounded forward, giving tongue in mock ferocity, charging around the side of the house and out of sight.

  "Borril!" she yelled, but any fool would know that that was useless. She picked up her pace and arrived at the corner of the house in time to hear Borril, in full stranger-at-the-gate alarm.

  Across the barking cut a man's voice, speaking words Zhena Trelu understood to be foreign.

  She rounded the corner and stop
ped in surprise.

  Borril was between her and two strangers—barking and wagging his ridiculous puff of a tail. The taller of the two spoke again, sharply, and the barking subsided.

  "Be quiet, dog!" Val Con snapped. "How dare you speak to us like that? Sit!"

  Borril was confused. The tone was right, but the sounds were different than the sounds She used. He hesitated, then heard Her behind him and ran to Her side, relieved to be out of the situation.

  "Borril, you bad dog! Sit!"

  That was better. Borril sat, tail thumping on the ground.

  "I am sorry," Zhena Trelu continued, trying not to stare. "Borril really is quite friendly. I hope he didn't frighten you."

  Again, it was the taller who spoke, opening his hands and showing her empty palms. Zhena Trelu frowned. It did not take a genius to figure out that he did not understand what she was saying.

  Sighing, she stepped forward. "Stay, Borril." As she moved, the two men came forward also, stopping when shock stopped her.

  The shorter man was not a man at all. Not, that is, unless foreigners of whatever variety these were allowed a man the option of growing his hair long, braiding it, and wrapping it around his head liken vulgar copper crown. A woman, then, Zhena Trelu allowed. Or, more precisely, a girl. But dressed in such clothes!

  Zhena Trelu was not a prude; she knew quite well what useful garments trousers were—especially working around the farm. But these . . .

  First, they seemed to be made of leather—sleek, black leather. Second, they were skintight, hugging the girl's boy-flat belly and her—limbs—and neatly tucked into high black boots. The upper garment—a white shirt of some soft-looking fabric—was acceptable, though Zhena Trelu thought it might have been laced a little closer around that slender throat; and the loose leather vest was unexceptional. But what in the name of ice did a woman want to wear such a wide belt for? Unless it was to accentuate the impossible tininess of her waist?

  "Am I that funny-looking?" Miri asked, and Zhena Trelu started, eyes going to her face.