Carpe Diem (28 page)

"Honey, it
isn't
your fault—" Kem started, but Miri cut them both off.

"My fault! Because one of them kicks the door down, comes in, and points his rifle at me. Borril jumps, and the man hits him with the rifle; Borril jumps again, and I take the rifle away—shoot the man—and another man comes, so I shoot him—I am stupid, you see? I think they are bandits—maybe five, maybe six—the rifle, it is bad—rust, not oiled. I think I can stay and fight—"

"Stay and fight?" Hakan demanded. "Against six armed men?"

"Hakan, if there are six, already I take two—problem is not bad. But the third man—he doesn't come to find his friends. This one has a—a big gun—and I see him set it up and I see others behind him and I know I am stupid and there is no way to run. I have this bad rifle. I have my knife, but I am not Cory, who is good with knives. I am worried—Cory comes and he brings you—neither one a soldier! My fault, Hakan. I should have taken Borril and run away."

"Cory killed a lot of people, Miri—and I killed some, too."

"Three, Cory said." She frowned. "Hakan, why do you have a gun?"

"Huh?" He blinked. "I—well, it's a hunting gun, for—"

"Hunting? Why do you hunt? There are no stores? You don't make enough money to buy food?"

"Well, but—"

"You had no business shooting at those men with such a gun!" she cried. Catching the flare of pain on his face, she snapped forward to grab his shoulders. "Hakan, you were very brave—maybe you save my life. In battle, who can tell? You learn something now. You learn you can kill people. You learn how you feel about it." She leaned back, loosing his shoulders. "Maybe you should give away your gun."

"What about you?" His voice was husky, his expression still half aggrieved.

"Me? For a long time I am a soldier, Hakan. Soldiers don't break down doors and shoot people. Soldiers come, say they have taken the area, ask people to leave, and give escort, if the enemy is near." She shrugged. "People sometimes think bullets don't go through doors. Think their house won't burn—I don't know what people think." She shook her head. "You and Cory are not soldiers. You know how you feel. You hear how Cory played."

"Bad . . ."

"Like a machine," Kem added, and Miri nodded.

"This is why he needs a place—to be alone and to exercise. Please, Hakan—do you know? Kem? Anyplace, as long as no one goes there."

There was a long silence, and she despaired of their help. Then, Kem said softly, "Hakan? What about the barn?"

He considered the suggestion, his nearsighted gaze on nothing in particular. "Could work—it's sound, and we've still got the stove in there from when that crazy tourist was using the place as a studio." He nodded. "We'll do it. Cory can exercise in the barn till he grows a long, gray beard."

Relieved, Miri almost laughed. "Nothing takes that long. Tomorrow I show him where, then I do my errand and go back to Zhena Brigsbee." She looked at Kem. "If Zhena Trelu calls, you can—tell her something? I ask for a lot . . ."

Kem smiled. "I can cover you for a day, honey. Don't worry."

The tears came yet again, so she saw her friends through a sparkling kaleidoscope. "Thank you," she said, getting shakily to her feet. "Thank you both."

She was halfway across the kitchen when Hakan's voice stopped her.

"Miri?"

Now what? she wondered and turned back. "Hakan."

His expression was calmer, and he held Kem's hand as if he meant it, but his eyes were very puzzled. "Where are you really from, honey? In Porlint—"

"In Porlint," she interrupted tiredly, "little girls are not soldiers. I know, Hakan. Good night."

In a moment, the doorway was empty. They heard nothing for the short space it took her to walk the length of the hall, then only the sound of the parlor door, opening and closing behind her.

"That looks like it, Robertson. Hit the timer and go."

Her hand hesitated over the last toggle, though, and she spun away from the board with a curse and took two steps before stopping to stare at Val Con's map all around her.

"Gods." Crossing her legs and sitting in the middle of it, she touched a duct-tape mountain, then picked up a paper spaceship. One world. One world to spend the rest of her life on, when she had once had her choice of hundreds . . .

"You're stuck, Robertson. Face facts and quit belly-achin'. I don't know what's got into you lately—turning into a damn watering can. You think it's tough here? What about Val Con? Grows up on Liad, goes for First-In Scout—been places; done things—got a family; misses his brother. Hear him kvetch?"

She sat for a little while longer, staring sightlessly at the map and thinking about Liz, about Jase and Suzuki and a dozen or so others. Thought about Skel—and there was no sense at all to that, because Skel was long dead and rotted on Klamath. If Klamath was still around.

"There's worse places, Robertson. Get moving."

Slowly she levered to her feet, moved to the board, and checked it one last time before setting the timer, sealing her jacket, and running for the exit.

She rolled out of the emergency hatch, spinning as she landed, then pitched the ship's key into the narrowing slit and skittered away in the knee-deep snow, heading for a downhill clump of scrub.

Ground, snow, and brush shivered; there was a grating, subaural scream, and Miri dove, twisting around to see—and the ship was already twenty feet up, heading straight into the cloud-cast sky.

She watched until it was nothing but a glint of hidden sunlight on scarred metal; watched until it was nothing at all. Watched until her eyes ached and she came to herself because the tears had frozen and were burning her cheeks.

She scrubbed them away with cold-reddened hands. Then, rigidly ignoring the gone feeling in her belly, she turned and marched back toward Gylles.

Body reported cold and darkness growing beyond closed eyes. The inner sentinel assigned to monitor outer conditions allowed the body to burn more calories, to generate more heat. The dark was of no account.

He danced: beat, breath, thought, movement, without division; only Self and the attributes of Self, thus named: Val Con yos'Phelium Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den, Tough Guy.

He had passed through the three most elementary Doors, taken the designated rest, and approached finally the fourth Door,
B'enelcaratak,
the Place of Celebrating Fragments.

He drew yet again upon his name and focused his celebration, his understanding, upon that special portion: Tough Guy.

There was a flare of bright warmth, perceived wholly, as name brought forth celebration of she who had named. He lived the joy, tears running unremarked from behind shielding lashes, and the dance changed to exultation of so sharp a blade, so bright a flame, so unlooked-for a lifemate—so beloved a friend.

The dance came back upon itself, joy constant, and he moved close to the Door, opened his understanding to the fragment of his name—and cried aloud, eyes opening to darkness, body shuddering, joy dissolved in an acid torrent of self-loathing.

He gained minimal control; he pushed his body to the stove in the corner and forced his hands to pick up wood and stack it in a pattern drawn of skill belonging to a man he once had been.

Hunching over the fire, he strove to warm his body while the coldness raging within filled his mouth with the taste of copper and his soul with despair.

"Miri." He put his hands toward the flames and spoke to her as if she stood there, in the shadow behind the stove. "This other—it is very strong, Miri—and I am not very strong at all. I tricked you—made you lifemate to a man who does not exist. Ah, gods . . ." His voice grew ragged with horror. "Gods, the things I have done!"

Being made over to somebody else's specs—that's dying, ain't it?

He froze, listening to her with memory's sharp ears.

Master program'd rather have you dead than have itself shut off again, boss.

How many tricks had they planted to turn himself against himself? To be sure that he would keep to the Department—or die rather than break free?

He had beaten them once—on Edger's ship. Had beaten them with one shard of certainty caught and held from the confusion of four years' divorce from his soul: They lied.

Of his own will, he had shattered the gain of that dance upon Edger's ship, but he held still that shard of truth. It was a beginning, though not the beginning he had thought to make. Humanlike, he had flung himself headlong into
L'apeleka
before all proper thought had been taken. He smiled ruefully at the darkness beyond the stove.

"The dance will be long," he said softly. "Cha'trez, do you wait for me . . ."

Pre-entry sounded. Shadia woke and cycled the pilot's chair to vertical, dragging the safety webbing into place with one smooth motion, eyes already sweeping the board. She registered the go-pattern, signaled pilot readiness, and brought up the screens, and the Scout ship phased gently into normal space.

Hanging in her forward screen was a midsize planet—one of three in the system, the only one habitable. Planet I-2796-893-44—Vandar, according to the locals—Interdicted and Off-Limits to Galactic Trade and Contact by Reason of Social Underdevelopment.

Sighing, she kicked in the log—and sighed again as the legend INITIATE DESIGNATED APPROACH scrolled across the bottom of the prime screen. More for something to do than because she doubted the ability of ship automatics, she slapped the board to manual and rolled smartly into the designated spiral.

"As if," she grumbled in Vimdiac, the tongue in which she most commonly talked to herself, "they have anything remotely strong enough to see me. Ah well, Shadia—consider it a bit of piloting practice, though the problem's hardly knotty. Hah! Getting a trifle overwise, are we? And just how precisely can you overlay the route, my braggart?"

For the next little while she busied herself with matching the designated approach point for point. In second aux screen, the blue of ship's approach ruthlessly overlaid the black route, while Shadia hummed in contented concentration.

"A cantra says you'll miss the pace at orbit entry; you were ever a— What by the children of Kamchek is
that?"

It glinted in the light of the yellow sun as its orbit brought it from behind the world. Mid-orbit and holding. Shadia upped mag, directed the sensors, and very nearly snapped at the computer. The second aux screen showed ship's approach steady on the route.

A vessel, the computer reported, as if intuition had not told her that seconds earlier. Coil-dead, the sensors added, and the computer provided an image to aux three, delineating an orbit in strong decay. Life-form readings were uncompromisingly flat—not so much as a flea was alive on that ship, though sensors indicated a functioning support system.

Shadia punched Navcomp, remembered the board was on manual, and ran the calculation in her head, plotting the intersection of the route and the derelict. Velocity adjusted, sensors and scanners kicked to the top, the Scout ship moved in.

Her ship hung within seconds of the empty vessel. She had pulled the files: The ship was without Liaden reference marks, and the two numbers—a seven and an eleven connected by a dash, with the homeport apparently blotted out by a dab of paint—brought nothing up on the screen.

The damage the ship had endured was obvious: scars, scrapes, and bright metal-splashes, as if it had gone through a meteor swarm at speed with no screens. The longer she stared at it, the more she expected it to act as a ship should, to roll or orient, to acknowledge the presence of another ship.

The good news, if there was any, was the lack of major leaks. The spectroscope showed no untoward gas cloud, no signs that the ship had been opened to vacuum.

The bad news was the location, confirming again the need for the garbage run. Damn! The last time someone had found something around a proscribed world they had spent three years tracking everything down and filling out reports.

For a moment she considered forgetting that she had seen the thing, knowing full well that eventually her tapes would be audited and someone would spot it.

"Damn book!" she muttered. "Page 437, Paragraph 4: Report before boarding any suspicious or unauthorized vessel in a proscribed zone."

Unwillingly she punched up the coords for the nearest report bounce and powered up the emergency pin-beam. She hit the switch that would broadcast her sensor readings on the side band, all the while cursing her luck.

Some time later, she stood on the bridge of the derelict, frowning at the map on the floor. The yacht had fallen to Yxtrang—anyone with eyes could mark the signs—yet Yxtrang did not commonly take time from a raid to engage in meticulous cartography. Nor would one expect them, with an unprotected world at their feet, to delay even a heartbeat in the mapping of an expedition.

Shadia crouched, as if closer proximity would uncover rhyme—she did not expect reason—and finger-traced the familiar symbol for river.

Certainly Yxtrang, whatever their unknowable needs, would not use Liaden symbology on their map.

And certainly, she thought, eyeing the thing with new understanding, they would never map just so, as a Scout might map, taking time and infinite care, forcing hints of information from the yacht's pitiful scans and incorporating them into a body of fact that might be studied and known. The computer on such a vessel would never have had the capacity for the task, even assuming the ship had been undamaged at the time of mapping . . .

"Someone gone eklykt'i." Shadia sat back on her heels. Such things happened. Scouts tended to drop out of sight, to go native on some world they may have found and failed to report—or on any world that suited them better than stuffy, stifling Liad. It was not inconceivable that someone had found Vandar just to his taste.

She considered it, eyes on the map. The unknown Scout raises Vandar—leave for a moment the questions of why he might arrive in something as incongruous as a mere private yacht and in such ignorance of his world of choice that he must squander days in mapping and deciding. He arrives, we say, and in time descends to the planet surface, perhaps programming the yacht for an outbound course—or an inbound course, Shadia thought abruptly. Best to sink the thing in the sun and be done with it.