Vector: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
3
"Well," his mother said, "Asala has twins ..."
"Twins! When was this?"
"Two months ago: girls. She has an older boy, too -- he's three now, nearly four. She named him Busaidi."
"She named him after me? I didn't think she approved of me."
"She doesn't -- not openly, anyway. Let's see ... five years since you had any news. It's hard to remember what you know and what you don't. Jamie's getting married next month."
"Jamie? She's nowhere near old enough."
"She's twenty-seven, and she's found a nice follow. Teresa has taken a job with Estelle Enterprises and moved to Terra, much to your father's disapproval."
"She was always the businesswoman of the bunch. How old is she now?"
"Twenty, last month."
"I agree with Dad. She's too young to be setting off on her own like that."
"You have to let them go sometime, son. You'll find that out yourself, someday. Then, let's see ... Mattie's a sophomore in high school ..."
"She was only a kid with braids when I left!"
"You won't recognize her. And Yvonne is in sixth grade. They're both smart, like all the Mombasa kids." A note of pride crept into her voice. "And, of course, little Zephan was born four years ago."
"I thought you weren't planning on any more."
She smiled. "Even us old people do impulsive things, sometimes."
"And you named him Zephan."
"Your favorite name. I never forgot."
Mombasa cleared his throat. "Thanks, Mom."
"I wanted to write and tell you, but your father wouldn't let me."
"He's still angry, then?"
"Anger fades. He still feels the same as he did about ...the reason for the quarrel but he doesn't want to fight anymore. Do you?"
"If I wanted to fight, I wouldn't be here."
There was the sound of the front door opening and the clamor of young voices. His mother smiled. "Your sisters are home from school."
"Mom!" a voice called.
"In here!"
The door banged open and Mattie entered. She'd grown tall, Mombasa saw, and quite pretty, her dark, fluffy hair stylishly arranged, her large eyes bright and long-lashed. She'd filled out, too, he noted, almost shocked at the realization. The last time he'd seen her she'd been a gawky pre-adolescent. Now, he noted, disapprovingly, she wore a pair of scandalously tight jeans and a loose, rainbow top, scooped low in the neck. It was the kind of clothing he liked to see -- on other women. On his sister it was a totally different matter.
Behind her was Yvonne, who had been only five when Mombasa had last seen her. She had grown taller, too, long-legged, thin and somewhat homely, her hair braided back from her face and beginning to come loose from its fastenings. Mattie had looked much the same, he remembered, when he had last seen her.
They both stopped in surprise at seeing him and Busaidi stood up, smiling and trying to appear at ease. Yvonne stared at him without recognition but Mattie voiced a scream of delight and flung herself into his arms. Horrors! She not only looked like a woman, but she felt like one! He kissed her, hiding his dismay as the knowledge of how much he had missed was rubbed mercilessly in once more.
"Well, it's about time!" Mattie stood back, one fist on her hip, and surveyed him critically. "Five years and you look like death! Mom, feed him, quick! He's wasting away!"
"I've already started." Mombasa's mother was smiling. "He's eaten seven cookies -- I've kept count."
Yvonne edged shyly up beside her sister. "Busaidi?" She still had difficulty pronouncing the name, he noticed. "My brother?"
"Hi, Yvonne. You've grown since I saw you last."
Mattie socked him hard on the arm. "What'd you expect, Mr. Squadron Commander? Kids don't just stop growing while you're away, you know!"
He socked her back as gently as he could. "I'll bet you didn't even try, brat!"
She hit him again, harder than the first time. "Darn right, you big jerk! -- Running off like that because of a silly scrap with Dad! If all his kids did that, this family would be scattered all over the Sector! Dad fights with everyone, stupid! Don't you ever do that again, you hear me?"
"I hear you ma'am!"
She laughed and hugged him again. Yvonne was still staring at him as she ate a cookie. He grinned at her across Mattie's tousled head. She smiled uncertainly back. Zephan came through the door, puppy in tow, and stopped, watching the scene with interest. Mattie was babbling something about introducing her boyfriend but Busaidi hardly heard her. Behind Zephan stood another young, beautiful girl that he recognized as his sister Jamie and behind her, his father.
His first impression was one of age. Kent Mombasa was older than his wife by forty years. He was halfway into his second century now but he looked older, his grizzled hair almost completely grey now, his skin seamed by the sun. He seemed to have shrunk, too, but his eyes were unchanged -- blazing with intensity across the youthful curls of his daughter.
For a long moment, father and son stood motionless, staring at each other. Jamie gasped his name and came forward, her arms extended. He embraced her, his eyes still on his father. Jamie hugged him tightly and he could feel her trembling. She had always been the gentle, emotional one of the group, he remembered, and as she had grown up she had looked up to him about everything. If Busaidi said it was so, then it was. He was the eldest, *and* a boy!
"Busaidi," Kent said.
"Hello, Dad." He kept his tone as neutral as he could. "How are you?"
A pause, and then his father stepped forward and caught him in a hug. He wasn't nearly as frail as he looked, Mombasa discovered. The iron strength that he remembered as a boy was still there, not at all diminished with the years.
Jamie was crying and Kent reached over, without looking, to draw her into the embrace. Then he let go of his son but kept an arm around his weeping daughter. "Damn you, son!" His voice had lost none of its strength and authority, either. "I ought to take the strap to you -- staying away this long! Too high and mighty for your own family now, huh?"
Mombasa had to clear his throat before he could answer. "Maybe I thought it was the other way around, Dad."
Jamie came forward to hug him again, her face shining with welcome. He kissed her forehead and was a bit shocked when his shy, emotional little sister returned it with a big kiss on his mouth. Then the other girls were chattering and crowding forward, and he was answering questions as fast as they were fired at him. The old warmth had come back as though it had never been gone. He had a family again.
Dinner included all his favorites. How his mother had managed to get such an elaborate meal ready in less than three hours he didn't know, but it was every bit as good as he remembered -- more so, maybe, due to his tolerance for Patrol cooking. His sisters, at least the three oldest, were proud of him, he realized in astonishment. Asala showed up with her husband and children after dinner, and again he was surprised at the obvious welcome he received from the young woman who had been his chief rival as a child. He sat before the crackling fire, his young nephew on his knee, and told stories of the Patrol -- toning down the violence as much as he could and omitting all accounts of Terran persecution under the Jils. Asala, holding one of the twins, sat beside her husband, Dirk, who held the other one. They ate popcorn and mixed nuts and talked far into the night. Jamie's fiance also showed up and Busaidi found, to his surprise, that he liked the guy, in spite of his sissy name -- Harley -- and the fact that he was engaged to Mombasa's favorite sister. Harley was a soft-spoken, highly intelligent man, 35 years old, who taught drama at the local high school. He wasn't much to look at, being on the small side and lightly built, but when he spoke you forgot his looks. His personality was incredibly vibrant and, soft-spoken as he was, it was obvious he adored Jamie. They sat together on the couch, his arm around her. Mom had been right, Mombasa thought. Harley was a good man: almost good enough for Mombasa's sister.
At last, the gathering broke up and Mombasa went to bed. It was very late, and the children were long since asleep. His old bed was still there -- his mother apparently hadn't given up hoping that he would return for a visit. Zephan slept soundly on the other side of a hastily erected screen. The night wind sighed softly in the branches of the mock ash and the night birds of Nindili called. Busaidi Mombasa, Squadron Commander in the Viceregal Patrol, lay beneath the blankets and listened to the night noises of his childhood. It had been much too long.
He awoke to broad daylight and the smell of bacon and eggs frying, and the aroma of perking coffee. He sat up and stretched, feeling his muscles pop. Man! He felt ten years younger already. What if he simply decided not to go back? What if he told Lord Harthvar that he'd decided to quit? Yeah, right! He grinned derisively. He'd be put in front of a firing squad -- and yet, it almost might be worth it.
Zephan came running around the screen, his hair tousled, and jumped on the bed, grinning from ear to ear. Busaidi grabbed him and tossed him high in the air. The little guy's arms flew out in terror but he recovered quickly as Mombasa caught him, and began to giggle. "C'mon! Today's the carnival and Mom said I can go if you want to take me!"
"The carnival?" Mombasa remembered it very well -- a traveling road show that visited Nindili's small towns every autumn. "Sure, I'll take you. Are Mattie and Yvonne coming? Oh, wait, they have school, don't they?"
"It's Saturday, silly! Yeah, they're coming. Hurry up!"
Mombasa dressed in loose garments and an equally loose top. It felt good to wear something besides the skin-tight uniform and helmet of his profession. His mother appeared in the doorway as he was combing his hair.
"Well, did Zephan talk you into the carnival?"
"It didn't take much talking."
"Good. Jamie wants to go, too."
"Great. She can help keep track of the kids."
"Who's a kid?" It was Mattie, looking young, excited and shockingly female in a pair of elastic, skin-tight, electric blue pants and a matching top.
Mombasa's mom gave her a disapproving look. "Mattie, go put on something else! You know what I think of that outfit!"
"Mom!"
"March, young lady!"
Mattie pouted for a moment and then grinned and shrugged. "Okay. You're right. I'll save this for tonight. Doug and I are going to the movies."
"And you'll wear something else tonight, too. Don't try to con me, young lady. You have plenty of clothes. Now, march!"
Mattie went out with a toss of her head. Mombasa smiled approvingly at his mother, conveniently forgetting his opinion of such clothing on women who were not his sisters. "Good work. Do I smell bacon and eggs?"
**********
The carnival was even more exciting than he remembered -- flashing lights, side shows and, of course the rides. The kids instinctively chose the roller coaster and Mombasa was chagrined to see how well they tolerated the flips and plunges while his own semi-circular canals did the samba. Still, it was fun, even if his tolerance wasn't what it used to be. The kids, of course, loved it, and all in all it was a very satisfactory day.
Sunday, to his horror, the entire family, with the exception of his father, attended church. Mombasa begged off on that. He wasn't quite ready yet to put himself on display in front of a lot of pious people who would judge him unmercifully for what he was. His father settled in the living room and opened the newsstrip. Mombasa also sat down, coffee cup in hand, and accessed the sports page.
The Fish, he noted sourly, had won the null-grav polo match again, dammit. He'd known they would but had bet on Terra for form's sake.
"Damn Arcturians," his father commented. "We thought up the game."
Mombasa looked around and grinned. "You a polo fan, Dad?"
"I follow the game, yes." Kent attempted to look dignified. "I even played for a while with the Centerville team until I twisted this blasted knee again."
"What's wrong with your knee?"
"Age, son, age. Rusty joints, lack of lubrication. It happens to all of us, eventually."
"You're not *that* old!"
"Nor am I young. When you reach 142, your knees will creak, too. What's the retirement age for the Patrol?"
"A hundred and seventy."
"Really? I guess they believe in getting their money's worth, eh?"
"Yeah," Mombasa looked at the newsstrip again. "Most of the guys are put at desks after 150, though -- those that make it that far. Not many do."
"You've got a long way to go, son." Kent put the newsstrip down and studied him worriedly. "Busaidi, I want to apologize."
Mombasa shrugged. "Forget it, Dad."
"No, let me say it. I had no right to attack you the last time you were here. I was upset over that colony. I lost a cousin in the incident. Did you know?"
"No, I didn't!" Mombasa felt shocked. A member of his family -- his father's cousin -- had died at the Jils' hands. They weren't supposed to harm the families of their officers. The rest of the population, strangers, were different, but --
Suddenly and vividly, the memory returned of Lord Frexvor and his "pets". Was it possible that M'lord and his people had something planned for Nindili?
His father was speaking again. "A second cousin, really -- my father's uncle's girl, Orla. I only met her once and many years ago. She married a colonist and they emigrated."
"You never told me!"
"I didn't want to make it more difficult for you. You had to go back. I knew if the Jils saw even the slightest hint of trouble in you, it would be a stumbling block for your career. I don't approve of the Patrol, but you're in it and can't get out, so you might as well make the best of it.
"So, why tell me now?"
"Selfishness, I suppose. I want to see my own son more than once every five years." Kent picked up his coffee mug and studied the contents intently. "Orla is dead. The Jils killed her and her husband. Nobody can change that, but life is too short for men like you and me not to be on speaking terms because of something that can't be changed. I love you, son, and I want to see you." He grinned suddenly. "Do I sound like a sentimental old man to you? I do to myself."
Mombasa cleared his throat. "No," he managed. "Not at all."
"If age does nothing else for us, it mellows us." Kent grinned, and then sobered abruptly. "Son, there's one other thing I wanted to discuss with you now that we're alone."
"What's that?"
"Dagmar."
There was a pause. Kent drank the last of his coffee and set the cup down. Mombasa managed a shrug. "She's married."
"To Powell. Fine man. He drinks, picks fights and beats his wife and girl."
"You think I should talk to him?"
Another pause. Then Kent spoke again. "Are you aware that young Selena was born only six months after Dagmar and Powell were married?"
"Mom mentioned it."
"Did she? It looks like our minds have been running along the same lines. Is there any possibility, son, that the young lady is my granddaughter?"
Busaidi looked down. "I -- I think she must be ... unless ..."
"Unless what?"
"Oh, she used to flirt with Powell. I suppose it's possible ... She must have been pregnant when I left. Why didn't she tell me?"
"What would you have done if she had?"
"Uh --" Mombasa had to think that one over. "I'm not sure."
"You were a bit of a hothead at twenty -- a lot like your old man. Did you ever talk to her about it? You knew where babies came from, so the possibility must have occurred to you."
"It never did, though."
Kent sighed. "Where did I fail? Did she ever hint at the possibility?"
Again, Mombasa had to think back. "I think she asked me once how many kids I wanted." He groaned. "Dammit, I should have figured something was wrong!"
"When did she ask this?"
"I don't remember exactly. Maybe a month or two before I left."
"So, she already knew she was pregnant, or at least suspected. What was your answer?"
"I -- I told her I didn't want any. I told her pregnancy ruined a woman's looks and I wanted her to always look like she did then. I thought I was complimenting her. What a jerk, huh?"
"I won't comment on that one. Well, I guess that answers the question of why she didn't tell you."
"I guess so. Does Selena look like me?"
"She looks like her mother, but she acts like you."
"Mom said she was hanging around with a bad crowd and getting into trouble."
"Need I say more? No, don't take that the wrong way." Kent raised an eyebrow at him. "I think she's the only kid in the bunch she hangs out with that hasn't been in jail, yet. But she skips school -- I know that for sure -- and she's picked up some pretty bad language."
There was a silence. Busaidi played with his coffee cup, frowning. "Maybe I should talk to her."
"It wouldn't hurt."
"Would there be any way to talk to Dagmar?"
"That I couldn't say. She's dropped out of sight pretty much, since the marriage."
"He's beating her?"
"Your mother saw her at the market about a month ago. She had a black eye. Shawna asked her how it happened and she gave the standard 'I fell down the stairs' answer. He did it. Breaks my heart to think of that pretty little thing in his hands."
"Did he ever finish high school?"
"Not until Papa Powell greased someone's palm. Harold's the only son, you know. Eight daughters."
"Sounds like the Jils' families. Didn't poor Mrs. Powell ever have another son?"
"She died last year, trying. The doctor told her it would kill her if she kept it up. She had trouble with every one of those daughters of hers -- at least that's the scuttlebutt around town. She had a heart defect, you know. It had been operated on over and over. She'd be alive today if she hadn't kept trying to give that idiotic husband of hers another son."
Mombasa grimaced. "Did the baby make it?"
"Died with its mother -- a son, too. Powell didn't care, except that it was a boy. He's had a dozen girlfriends on the side and one of 'em moved in a week after Lena died."
"Sounds even more like the Jils' families."
"You got that right. Harold came to the funeral drunk and Dagmar had a big bruise on one cheek. Selena didn't show up. Dagmar said she was ill."
"And the bruise on her cheek?"
"Another fall down the stairs or something. I forget."
Mombasa cussed under his breath.
"Oh, it doesn't end there. Papa bails him out of trouble on an average of once a month. Two weeks ago, he came out of a bar, drunk, and threw up all over the mayor's car. The mayor saw the whole thing and yelled something unprintable at him and Powell decked him. They put him in jail and Papa bailed him out *and* paid the fine for him."
"How kind of him!"
"Wasn't it, though? I figure he's due again in a week or so."
"Poor Dagmar. Do you think if I go over tomorrow morning I'll be able to catch her alone? Harold holds some kind of job, doesn't he?"
"He's a senior clerk at Bartow's Bank. Rumor has it that his father pays the bank manager to keep him on, for form's sake. Half the time he doesn't show up for work."
"So, I have about a 50-50 chance."
"More like 70-30. Monday's his day to take off. Most likely sleeping off a hangover."
"Well, at least he'll be sleeping. I can check for his car. What does it look like?"
"Big shiny silver thing with a new dent in the right fender, last time I saw it, compliments of Harold."
"Does Dagmar own a car?"
"Not to my knowledge. I've never seen her drive. She pushes an antigrav cart to the market, according to your mother."
**********
All day long, Mombasa couldn't stop thinking of Dagmar and Selena. What if Selena was his daughter? He'd neglected her all these years. That was no big deal for a 'trol -- most of them had a kid or two scattered around the Sector and very few supported those so begotten, but Mombasa hadn't been raised the way most 'trols had. Many, if not most, 'trols came from worlds of the Jilectan Autonomy. Few came from families with a mother and father, and many of them were homeless, or close to it, to start with. If Selena was his daughter, it mattered. He had loved her mother and had fully intended to marry her. How could he have been so insensitive? How could he have been such an idiot? It was beginning to look like he had messed up not only his life and Dagmar's, but the life of his daughter as well. He had to find out for certain.
He arrived at the Powell residence at 0800 the next morning. Everything appeared quiet, except for a light in one window. Dagmar and her family lived in a big, beautiful house -- also complements of Powell Senior, no doubt. It was set back from the street on a wide, spreading lawn and surrounded by deciduous trees that were in the process of shedding their leaves. The lawn was overgrown and the shrubs had not been pruned in some time. Perhaps Papa Powell drew the line where gardeners were concerned. The lawn was covered with a thin sheen of frost. Winter was coming.
As he approached the house up a side walkway, a pair of casawas skittered down the trunk of one of the big trees, ran across the stone path in front of him and up the trunk of another. From above, he heard the distinctive sound of a pair of males challenging each other. Determinedly, he ignored it and strode on up the walk.
He found an inconspicuous spot and leaned against a tree trunk, sipping the coffee that he'd brought with him. At 0840 a slim, very pretty girl emerged from the front door. She wore a bright yellow sweater over skin-tight jeans and her hair was held back from her face by a yellow-print headband. She wore a backpack and was apparently heading for school. A woman appeared in the door and called something after her. Mombasa's heart jumped. He couldn't be sure, of course, but it looked like Dagmar and, after all, who else could it be?
The girl ignored what the woman said and continued on down the walk. The woman went back inside and the door closed.
Mombasa waited. The bank opened at 0900, he knew. It looked like Harold wasn't planning to go to work today. He should have expected it, of course. Well, if Harold *was* passed out from booze, he'd probably sleep all day. No matter what, he was going to talk to Dagmar and find out the truth.
The garage door slid upwards and a long, sleek, silver groundcar roared out. It matched the description that his father had given him, right down to the dent in the fender. Mombasa glanced at his chronometer. It was two minutes after 0900.
Harold went past with a roar, leaving a shimmering cloud of vapor behind him in the cold air. Mombasa caught a glimpse of him as he passed. Damn! He'd forgotten how good-looking the trencher was! Was it possible that Dagmar really loved him? Why else would she have stayed with him all these years?
He swigged down the last of the coffee and crushed the disposable cup in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the lawn and stepped onto the main walkway. Dagmar would probably slam the door in his face, he thought. Still, he had to at least try to straighten out a few things.
He paused on the doorstep, took a deep breath and knocked. After several eternal seconds the door opened, revealing Dagmar.
She was as lovely as he remembered -- perhaps more so. The pregnancy had done nothing to her figure that he could discern. Her waist was still as slim as a sapling and her eyes were dark and luminous, the lashes surrounding them as long and curling as he remembered.
"Yes?" She cancelled the insect field and froze suddenly, recognition leaping into her eyes. "Busaidi!"
Mombasa cleared his throat. "Hello, Dagmar," he said.
**********
tbc
