Vector: 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
2
They reached Space Station Seven on schedule. Mombasa knew he couldn't avoid seeing M'lord at departure and he certainly didn't want Frexvor to detect his suspicions, so he deliberately turned his thoughts from them, concentrating on his upcoming leave. He had found, some years ago, that if he didn't want a Jil to pick up a specific thought in his mind that he could avoid it by concentrating on some other subject, usually one involved with a good deal of emotion. Few Jils were empaths, and most found the emotions of the lesser species difficult to understand and unpleasant to contact. He knew that Jilectans normally didn't even try to scan the full mind of a subordinate, contenting themselves with a surface reading. It was a factor that he had learned to use to his advantage.
He found himself thinking of his home town on Nindili and the reason that he had departed from his home so abruptly. There had been a girl ...
Even now, the memory of her produced a sharp pang in the pit of his stomach. Eighteen years ago they had been engaged to be married. He had been a young college student at the time. Dagmar had been a senior in the local high school, and the town beauty.
A lump formed in his throat at the memory of his own stupidity. They had quarreled. Looking back now, he frowned at the memory of the incident that had started the disagreement in the first place.
Dagmar had disappeared suddenly while they were at a party. He'd found her coming out of the underbrush in the back yard, her hair mussed, and the guilty start when she had seen him had aroused his suspicions. She had vehemently denied that there was another boy, but would give no explanation for her actions. The fight had developed rapidly.
Thinking back from a more mature perspective, and with what he had learned of women over the intervening years, he was inclined to think now that she had been telling the truth. A woman caught in guilty circumstances wasn't likely to refuse to answer. She would simply invent a lie to get herself out of the mess. The memories weren't pleasant, but by concentrating on them, he was able to keep his mind off the many questions he had about Frexvor and his pets until after the Jilectan had left the battlecruiser. Their mission completed, they re-stocked, re-charged and headed back to Riskell. Mombasa departed on his leave two hours after landing.
He took a commercial transport and headed for Nindili. He wanted to see his parents again, he told himself, as well as his sisters. He'd made a few brief trips home since joining the Patrol, seventeen years ago, but none for the last five years, and never, during those visits, had he seen or asked about Dagmar. Now, for some reasons, he couldn't explain even to himself, he wanted to find out what had become of her. She had been so beautiful, and they had loved each other so much ...
It had to be age catching up with him, he decided, trying to erase the unexpected sentimentality. He was probably subconsciously trying to resurrect your youth. Dagmar was most likely long since married, with half a dozen kids. She probably wouldn't even recognize him. The thought hurt and he deliberately turned his mind from it. Other thoughts intruded, equally uncomfortable ones. The memory of a book he had seen lying on a table in Lord Frexvor's suite -- "Cell Receptors in Terran Mammals". Blast that bloody Jil! He was much too interested in Terrans for Mombasa's taste -- especially Terrans from Nindili. Mombasa lay back on the wide, luxurious bed in his quarters and tried to make his mind go blank.
He wasn't successful. Unbidden thoughts emerged -- memories of recent history. The Jils weren't above using underhanded means to remove Terrans from a desirable world so that they might claim the planet for themselves. Such things had happened before.
The passenger ship put in a stop on Bellian and then moved on. Twenty-eight hours after departure from Riskell, they entered the Aldebaran System.
Aldebaran was a red giant. Mombasa watched the huge, relatively cool (by comparison with other stars) red disk from his cabin's viewscreen as they approached Nindili. A lump swelled in his throat as he recalled the soft, reddish haze of autumn on his world. He and Dagmar, wrapped in cloaks, had walked hand in hand down country lanes. They had fallen in love under the glow of that gigantic red star.
He shook off the memory and tried to picture Dagmar as overweight and unkempt, with a dozen children clustered around her. It didn't work. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't picture her as anything but beautiful.
They docked at the spaceport twenty minutes later. Mombasa always traveled light and he carried his suitcase himself.
Nindili Spaceport was large and very crowded. He shouldered past beings of all varieties and located what he sought at last: a large, stylishly decorated logo above a booth on one wall of the building. "Reynold's Rent-a-Car!" the sign proclaimed. "Outlets on All the Worlds of the Confederation -- except New Devonshire, and we're working on that!"
He went over to the booth, smiling slightly at the advertisement. New Devonshire was the Terran Confederation's newest colony world: the last one colonized before the coming of the Jils. They were always the last to get the conveniences of the other worlds. Mombasa took his place in line and waited patiently while the customers ahead of him were served. He could, of course, have showed his credentials and received preferential treatment but for some reason, here on his home world, he felt no desire to announce his profession to all comers and goers. After a twenty minute wait, he obtained a car, received the keys from the attendant and got behind the controls. With a deep breath, he set the coordinates and leaned back, closing his eyes. The trip home should take about an hour.
He passed the time worrying. Maybe this was a mistake. Dagmar almost certainly wouldn't welcome him, after all these years, and he hadn't announced his coming to his parents. He hadn't even communicated with them since his last visit. It was unforgivable. He should never have come. He should have gone to Luna City as he'd originally planned.
His mind returned involuntarily to his last visit. He and his father had argued; that was why he hadn't written and hadn't gone back. Five years ago there had been that incident on Rodach -- a budding Terran colony not more than ten light years from Nindili. The Jils had wanted the planet and had seized the opportunity to move in on the excuse of Underground corruption. They had annihilated the colony without mercy. The settlers on Nindili had been outraged and the Terran Ambassador himself had stated angrily that that excuse was getting very old. Mombasa's father had exploded, telling his son that anyone that worked for such beasts as the Jils was as bad as they were. Mombasa defended himself, of course, with the argument that if he didn't, there would be a million others ready to take his place. The disagreement had terminated in a violent quarrel. Mombasa had left and not communicated with his family since.
The aircar beeped at him, signaling him to take manual control. He was almost there. Automatically he took the levers in his hands and the car lost altitude. He saw the town beneath him, nestled in a valley in the mountains. Clouds drifted overhead against the reddish sky. The huge disk of Aldebaran was just brushing the western horizon, and beneath him the evergreen trees rose up from the mists. Mombasa swallowed and set his jaw. The aircar dropped through the mist.
Nothing had changed. There was the little courthouse, the school and the post office. The Goodyear blimp balloon still floated over the used aircar lot. A lump rose in Squadron Commander Mombasa's throat. If only things had worked out differently ...
His parents' house hadn't changed, either. White, with freshly painted blue trim, the huge purple mock ash still in the front yard, the swing that he and his father had built when he had been a boy still hanging from its spreading branches. As he approached, a child ran across the spacious lawn, a small, spotted dog racing beside him, its ears flopping.
The aircar settled before the white fence and the little boy turned to look at him. His skin was as ebony black as Mombasa's, his eyes black and liquid, and a wiry muff of black hair adorned his head. He was clad in blue overalls and a red shirt. Mombasa had to swallow. There must have been another child born, and his parents hadn't told him. This was a mistake. He would do better to leave now, before his father slammed the door in his face.
But the little boy was opening the gate, his face splitting into a wide, welcoming grin. "Hi!"
Somehow, it was irresistible. He had a brother -- a brother he didn't know. He had always wanted a brother.
He spoke through the car window. "Hi. What's your name?"
"I'm Zephan. Zephan Mombasa."
"How old are you, Zephan?"
The child held up four fingers. Mombasa smiled at him. "Your mom at home?"
"Yup."
The dog decided suddenly that Mombasa was a threat and began to bark. Zephan squatted down beside it. "Shut up, Flops!" he piped.
Mombasa cleared his throat as the dog subsided. "D'you suppose you could go get your mom for me, kid?"
The little boy blinked up at him. "Why?"
"I -- I'd like to talk to her."
"Okay." Zephan ran back across the lawn and up the front steps, the dog at his heels. Mombasa wet his lips. They'd named his brother Zephan. When he had been twelve, with two sisters and his mother had been expecting again, he had wanted to name the baby Zephan if it was a boy. But it had been a girl and in the following years, three more daughters had been born. When the last arrived, his father had stated that seven children was enough and there would be no more.
But there had been another. Mombasa blinked back the sudden stinging in his eyes, furious at himself. The brother he had always wanted had been born during his absence.
The front door opened and his mother appeared. She was wearing a loose, dark red body suit and an apron, and her dark hair was tied back with a red scarf. She came down the steps and crossed the lawn, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hello. My son tells me you wanted to --" Her voice trailed off and she stopped, her hands abruptly clutching the folds of her apron. "Busaidi!" she whispered.
Mombasa cleared his throat. "Hi, Mom."
"You're back!" There was such surprise and obvious pleasure in her voice that the lump rose in his throat again. He opened the car door and instantly she was in his arms, hugging him against her. Her hair smelled of roasting chicken and cleaning solutions and the memory made his eyes sting again. He hugged her and blinked vigorously.
"How's Dad? How are Jamie and Terri and --"
"Come on in!" She had him by the hand and was pulling him toward the house. "I'll tell you everything over some coffee!"
**********
The kitchen looked exactly as he remembered: the bright yellow cloth on the table, the dotted Swiss curtains moving softly in the afternoon breeze. A big jar of roses was placed haphazardly on the table, their scarlet petals dropping. Zephan had followed them in and now stood in the doorway, staring at Mombasa, the dog beside him, its tongue hanging out.
His mother set coffee and a plate of cookies on the table. He looked up at her and saw her blinking hard. "I --" Her voice caught and she had to start again. "I made these this morning. They're your favorites."
Mombasa cleared his throat. "Thanks."
She sat down across from him, her smile quivering slightly. "How are you? Are you on leave?"
He nodded. "I wasn't sure I should come -- or what kind of welcome I'd get. How's Dad? Is he -- has he --"
"Your dad's fine, and he's been wanting you to come back. Don't tell him I told you, but I know. He mopes around like a lost soul on every holiday, and sometimes he talks to you in his sleep."
"I'm sorry I was such a jerk," Mombasa said.
"You were defending yourself. What else could you do?"
"Kept quiet, maybe?"
"Maybe." She smiled and took a sip of coffee. Zephan crossed the room and reached up to snitch a cookie.
"No, Zephan. You'll ruin your supper."
"Aw, Mom, you're letting *him* have 'em!"
"He's a grown-up. Oh, all right. Just one."
Zephan took the biggest cookie on the plate, but he was watching Mombasa. "Are you my brother?"
"Yeah, I am."
"Are you still a 'trol?"
"Zephan! That's enough!" Busaidi's mother came to her feet.
"It's okay." Mombasa bent slightly to get his face on a level with his brother's. "Yeah, I'm still a 'trol. Wish I wasn't, but I am."
"You don't wanna be a 'trol anymore?"
"Not really." Surprised, he realized it was true. "I'd rather just stay here."
The little boy put his chin on the table. "Why don't you?"
"Why don't I what?"
"Stay here?"
Mombasa sighed. "I can't. I work for the Jils. You can't just quit on the Jils."
"Screw the Jils!" Zephan announced.
"Zephan!" Mombasa's mother was on her feet again and Zephan backed quickly away.
"I'm sorry, Mommy. Daddy says it."
"Daddy's a grown-up."
"I wish *I* was a grown-up! They can do anything!"
Mombasa stood up. "Mom, may I?"
She hesitated and then nodded. Mombasa went over to his little brother and squatted before him, bringing their faces on a level. "I guess it sometimes seems like that, but it isn't. I can't do everything I'd like to do. Maybe I can eat cookies before dinner and swear and stay up late, but I also have to work for the Jilectans. I made a stupid decision a long time ago --"
"What's a decision?"
"A choice."
"Oh."
"And now I have to live with it. That's the difference between grown-ups and kids. When kids goof, most of the time their parents can help them, but grown-ups have to live with their goofs. No one can get them out of it. Do you understand?"
The little boy hesitated. "So if you're a grown-up you have to be real careful not to goof?"
"I guess that's one way to say it."
"I still wish I was a grown-up!"
Mombasa grinned. "Let's wait twenty years and see if you still feel that way, but in the meantime, you mind your mother. Okay?"
"Okay." Zephan looked across Mombasa's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mommy."
She nodded. "Now sit down and be quiet or else go play. I want to talk to your brother."
Zephan sat down and the puppy plopped down beside the chair. Busaidi's mother refilled their coffee cups. "How long do you have?"
"Two months." He sipped his coffee. His mother's coffee was light years beyond the stuff they brewed on his ship, and her cookies were just as good as he remembered. "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"There's something I wanted to ask you -- something I've been thinking a lot about lately."
She smiled faintly. "Dagmar?"
"How did you know?"
"Oh, I figured the time was about right. Enough years have passed that you probably can't even remember what the fight was about. Right?"
He smiled sheepishly. "Is she married?"
His mother nodded. "She married Harold Powell a month after you left."
"Sonofa -- I mean, darn."
There was a pause. Zephan grinned around a second cookie. His mother took it from him. "Go play, Zephan. Go on."
Zephan clattered from the room, the puppy following. Mombasa's mother leaned forward. "If it's any comfort to you, she isn't happy. How could she be?"
"He still drinks, huh?"
"To put it mildly. And he beats her -- and the child."
"There's a child?"
"A girl. Sixteen." His mother looked at him meaningfully. "Born only six months after the marriage."
Mombasa's heart stuck in his throat. "No others?" he managed.
"Children? No. Just the one." His mother sipped her coffee, her eyes meeting his across the rim of her cup. "Beautiful girl. Looks like her mother, but she hangs out with a bad bunch of kids."
"I'd like to see her."
"You probably will if you stay long enough. She hangs around in the town a lot, skipping school."
"I've got to talk to Dagmar."
"Right now?"
"Uh ... no; I'll wait. Maybe tomorrow. Now tell me, what's the family news?"
**********
tbc
