Vector: 4/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
"Oh my god!" Dagmar's voice was a shocked whisper. "Come in, quick!"
He entered the house, looking curiously around. Nice furnishings, and neatly kept up. Dagmar must be a good housekeeper. He turned toward her, noting a swollen spot beneath her left eye. She had tried to cover it with makeup but the attempt had not been successful. She stood looking at him, not speaking. He cleared his throat again.
"Dagmar -- I came to talk to you. I want to say first that I'm sorry for being such a jerk for all these years."
She looked down, still not speaking. He cleared his throat a third time. "How ... how are you?"
She started to reply, stopped, tried again, stopped and started to cry. Instinctively he reached for her and pulled her into his arms, her face tight against his chest. He held her, feeling his throat contract.
"I love you." The words were out before he could stop them.
"I love you, too," she whispered. "I never stopped."
"If you loved me, why did you marry Powell?" Again the words were out before he could stop them and he was instantly sorry. The hurt in her eyes cut him like a knife. She let him go and drew back, her lips trembling.
"Dagmar, I'm sorry." He took a quick step toward her. "Please don't look like that."
She turned away and he realized that she was crying again. Cursing himself for an idiot, he put his hands on her shoulders. "Honey, please --"
"You left me." Her voice was choked. "I was seventeen and pregnant, Busaidi -- and alone. Dad told me over and over that if I ever got pregnant before marriage, not to bother to come back and he meant it!" She turned back. "After you left, I told him. I had to. I didn't want to marry Harold but Dad told me I'd better find a husband fast because I had a week to get myself out of the house. What else could I do? Harold was the only one who dared chase me after you and I started dating. He got drunk that night and asked me to marry him. I accepted."
Mombasa swore under his breath. "Can you ever forgive me? I swear I had no idea."
She hiccoughed. "You said you didn't want children. You said --"
"I know what I said. Good god, Dagmar, I was twenty and stupid!" He took her gently be the arms and drew her toward him, expecting her to resist. She did, but only for a moment. He held her against him, speaking into the dark cloud of her hair. "But I'm not twenty anymore. Maybe I'm still stupid about some things, but I think I've gotten a lot smarter in the last five minutes."
She didn't answer. After a moment, he spoke again. "So Selena is my daughter."
She drew back indignantly. "How can you ever *ask* such a thing! There was never anyone but you! You knew that!"
"You used to flirt with him. I saw you! It used to drive me crazy!"
"Why do you think I did it?"
That floored him for an instant. "To drive me crazy?"
"What else?"
"Well, he had broad shoulders."
"He still does."
"And I figured you liked his beard. Mine was still too patchy to grow decently."
"I hated his beard."
"You *did*?"
"Completely. Oh, his shoulders were nice but they aren't really, anymore. He's gone flabby." Her hand touched Mombasa's well-muscled arm and he had to consciously tell himself not to flex the muscle. She laughed softly, but her laughter was still dangerously close to tears. "I wanted to tell you I was pregnant. I started to but you said --"
"I know."
They were silent a moment, then a thought occurred to Mombasa. "Does Powell know -- about Selena? That she's not his?"
"Of course. She was born only six months after we were married."
"Did he know when you were married?"
"I told him. I had to. He married me anyway. Status, you know. I was the beauty queen." Her tone was bitter. "But he's never let me forget it for one day -- or her, either."
Mombasa had to remind himself not to grind his teeth. "Does he beat her, too?"
"Sometimes." Her voice was oddly matter-of-fact. "Selena's got a lot of spunk, though. Sometimes, she acts so much like you she scares me. The last time he slapped her, she waited until he drank himself into a stupor and then hit him over the head with a frying pan. I had to take it away from her before she beat him to death with it."
"Too bad you didn't let her."
"I didn't want my fifteen-year-old daughter up on a murder charge," Dagmar said, still in that matter-of-fact tone. "Anyway, it may have done some good. That was eight months ago and he hasn't touched her since."
Mombasa felt a touch of pride, tempered with self-recrimination. "And what about you? He's still hitting you. That's obvious."
"One of these days I may find my own courage," Dagmar said. "You never know."
"Maybe you won't have to," he said. "I'm here now. Maybe I can help."
"You can't, Busaidi." Her hands closed tightly on his. "You don't know what he's like when he's mad. Look; you'd better go. If he finds out you were here, he'll be furious."
"All right." Mombasa gave in. "I'll go, but I'll be back. I'm going to see you again. I've got a lot of mistakes to make up for."
"Just be careful," she said. "Please."
He bent and kissed her on the forehead. "I will. I'm staying at my parents' house. If you need me --"
**********
The frost on the grass had melted, he noted absently as he made his way back across the lawn, and the sun shone brightly. Mombasa got into his car and started it, drove two streets up and stopped at the curb again. He needed to think.
He got out, locking it out of sheer habit. Greenwood was a tiny settlement and no one locked their doors, or at least they had never done so while he lived here. Pocketing the key, he turned and started to walk.
The sun shone down benignly and a casawa skittered across the sidewalk and up a nearby tree, chattering shrilly as it did so. The sight of it brought back the memory of Lord Frexvor and his "pets". More problems -- as though he didn't have enough.
He strolled down the tree-lined street, lost in thought. Birds -- or the flying creatures that the settlers had long ago named birds after their winged counterparts on distant Terra -- fluttered past and a sweet breeze blew. In the trees above, he could hear the chittering of the casawas that inhabited them. It was beautiful here. He'd forgotten how beautiful Nindili was in the autumn. The air was crisp and fresh, invigorating him, making him feel like the young man he had been -- not that he was that old now, except, perhaps, in the things that he had seen in the intervening years. But over all was the memory of Dagmar in his arms. How could he have been such a fool? He had thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to him over a stupid quarrel.
Well, he'd fix it if he could. Somehow, he would fix it. Leaving Dagmar to be slapped and beaten by a man who didn't appreciate her wasn't acceptable. At the very least, he'd make certain that Powell knew that the eye of the Viceregal Patrol was on him. The Jils wouldn't care, and the power of a Squadron Commander could reach a long way if it had to ...
He reached the small business district of the town -- Main Street, with the general store, the barbershop, the small church, lifting its steeple against the azure sky. There was the bank where Harold Powell "worked", and the larger grocery store where his mother and Dagmar did their shopping. The General Store was apparently still owned by O'Brien and Sons.
Mombasa sat down on a bench, looking around at his childhood home. An old man with a cane was moving up the opposite side of the street -- old Mr. Peabody, who used to tell him adventure stories while he sat on the front porch swing of the old man's house. Mr. Peabody must be nearly 200 by now. His hair was totally white and his shoulders were stooped. He leaned heavily on his cane, blinking his eyes in the bright sun.
A group of teenaged kids came down the sidewalk toward the old man. As they reached him, one of the boys made a derisive remark and gave Mr. Peabody a push. The old man staggered, catching himself and regaining his balance with difficulty. A second boy hooted, snatching at the handkerchief that protruded from Mr. Peabody's back pocket.
Mr. Peabody pivoted around, nearly losing his balance a second time. Two girls laughed and the boy grinned, holding the handkerchief just out of reach as the old man tried to retrieve it.
With a start, Mombasa saw Selena in the group. She was protesting weakly, not laughing like the other girls, but the offending boys paid no attention. With another hoot, the boy who had started the confrontation snatched Mr. Peabody's cane. The old man staggered backwards, grasping at the lamppost for support and sprawled on the sidewalk.
Mombasa was on his feet, hot rage boiling up. In half a dozen long strides, he was across the street. The blond boy with the cane saw him and grinned derisively, voicing a remark about his parentage -- a remark that turned into a squawk as Mombasa grabbed him by the neck with one hand and forcibly removed the cane with the other.
The other two males in the group were jumping for him. Mombasa used the crook of the cane to catch the first, a shorter, dark-skinned kid, in the stomach, and an instant later what breath he had left whooshed out of him in an agonized grunt as Mombasa's foot caught him in the groin.
The second youth, muscular, red-headed and freckled, threw a punch at him. Mombasa brushed the fist aside and caught his wrist, yanking him forward. A simple maneuver that he had learned in his first month of Patrol training sent his opponent flying into the ornamental mock-holly bushes that lined the sidewalk. The kid that he was still holding by the neck screamed an obscenity at him and then a second obscenity at no one in particular as he joined his companion in the bushes.
The three girls turned to run. Mombasa cleared his throat portentously. "*Selena*!"
The girl froze. Mombasa glared at her. "Don't you move!" he snapped and turned to help Mr. Peabody to his feet.
The old man appeared unhurt. He blinked for a moment at his rescuer and then recognition came into his face. "Busaidi?"
"Are you okay, Mr. Peabody?"
"I think so." Mr. Peabody glanced at his assailants. The two who were tangled in the mock-holly bush were struggling to free themselves, with indifferent success, while the third was still hunched, groaning, on the sidewalk. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered and were watching the proceedings with interest. Mombasa bent over the downed youth, retrieved Mr. Peabody's handkerchief and returned it to its owner. Mr. Peabody gave him a wide smile. "Thanks, Busaidi."
"You're welcome, sir -- and if you have any more trouble with these characters, let me know. I'm staying with my parents at the moment."
"I'll do that," Mr. Peabody said. "Thanks."
The onlookers suddenly broke into a cheer and several applauded. Mombasa grinned briefly and then turned to Selena, fixing his face in stern lines.
She was watching him, her expression unreadable. One of the boys in the mock-holly bushes managed at last to extricate himself and wiped blood from his face. He favored Mombasa with a short, unimaginative description of his sexual preferences and stumbled away. The other one followed him a moment later. Selena glanced after him and at the assembled people. Mombasa took her elbow.
"Come on, young lady. We need to talk."
"Look out!" someone yelled.
Mombasa turned. The remaining youth had recovered and was coming at him, a switchblade in his right hand. Mombasa pushed Selena to one side and waited, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet.
The youth lunged, the blade stabbing downward. Mombasa brushed the knife hand sideways across his body, grasping the wrist with both hands as he did so and then twisted it back across the teenager's body into a reverse wrist-lock, forcing the hand to open. The knife fell to the ground with a clatter. Mombasa increased the pressure on the wrist just slightly.
"Do you know, he said conversationally, "I could break this if I wanted to." He pushed the wrist backward, bringing a yelp of pain from his former assailant. Almost casually, he pivoted his prisoner around and pushed him head first into the mock-holly bushes.
The onlookers cheered. Mombasa gave them a cheerful grin, picked up the knife and handed it to a sheriff's deputy who had just arrived.
"Here you go, Dave," he said.
"What's going on here?" the man asked. His eyes focused on Mombasa's face and widened. "Yo, Busaidi! Hey man, nice to see you again. What's been going on here?"
Half a dozen spectators started to explain. Mombasa took Selena's elbow and steered her away from the crowd.
Once they were out of sight around the corner, she jerked her elbow free and stood back, regarding him with a mixture of fear and hostility.
"You're Busaidi Mombasa," she said contemptuously. "A damn 'trol, and my Momma's lover before she married Harold." Her upper lip lifted derisively. "Harold's gonna kill you, 'trol!"
"That so?" Mombasa reached out and took her arm again. She tried fruitlessly to twist away a second time as he strode along the street toward the school.
"Let go of me! I'll call the sheriff! I'll --"
"You do that!" Mombasa snapped. "And then you can explain to the truant officer why you aren't in school at ten o'clock on a Monday morning, and to Sheriff Jones why you and your gang were assaulting poor old Mr. Peabody!"
"I never touched Mr. Peabody! You were there! You saw what happened!"
"And then you can sit in jail until good old Harold comes along and bails you out. What? Oh, you don't think he'll do that?"
For a second he saw her hesitate. Then the arrogant defiance reappeared again. "Yeah, he'll get me out *and* punch you in the mouth, 'trol!"
Mombasa considered her statement for a moment. He had no practice being a father, but he did know what his own father would have done under the circumstances. He couldn't do that, but maybe if he talked to the girl sanely and rationally, she might listen.
He led her to an empty bench under a tree and sat her down, looking squarely into her pretty, young face. "Selena, listen to me. You're sixteen and you belong in school -- not running with that bunch of losers. If you follow them, you'll ruin your life. They have no principles and no goals. They pick on an old man because he can't defend himself. Is that the kind of people you want to be associated with?"
She laughed derisively. "You're a great one to talk ... 'trol! How many defenseless people have *you* hurt or killed?"
That stung, but he tried not to let it show. "Look, Selena, I'm taking you to school. Go quietly and I won't tell your mom."
She tossed her head. "It doesn't matter. You can tell her if you like. She won't do anything."
Mombasa frowned. "Are you telling me your mother doesn't *care* that you're skipping school?"
For just an instant she hesitated. Then: "Yeah, she cares, but so what? Harold doesn't -- and he won't do anything! He says I'm not even his kid! And if Mom makes too much trouble, he'll beat her up! So she won't do anything, either. There! How do you like that 'trol?"
For an instant, Mombasa could understand Harold's violence toward this young woman. He yanked her around to face him squarely, his hands clamped on her arms tightly enough to make her gasp.
"Okay, Selena, now *you* listen!" He was angry enough not to pull his verbal punches. "You've been plain with me, and now I'll be plain with you. Harold may not care, but *I* do! *I'm* your father, young lady! I didn't know it until today when I spoke to your mother!"
Her mouth opened in shock. Mombasa continued without pause. "I'm sorry I've missed sixteen years of your life, but I didn't know. But I know now, and by god, no daughter of mine is going to turn into an illiterate punk if I have anything to say about it! You *are* going to school, and right now!"
She gulped, struggling to regain her composure. "You can't make me, either! What if you *are* my father? You can't prove it!"
"You think not? Ever hear of DNA tests, Selena?"
"I ..."
"Now, you *are* going to school, one way or the other. If you refuse, then you and I are on our way to the nearest medical lab. It'll take about five minutes for them to establish that you're my daughter and maybe another ten for the legal papers to be drawn up."
"You *can't*! You can't force me! You have no *right*!"
"As you pointed out, yourself, I'm a 'trol -- a Squadron Commander. Do you think they'll refuse when I tell them who I am?"
She gulped.
"And then," Mombasa continued remorselessly, "I'll enroll you in Marcus Bridgeman Parochial School on Corala. I'm sure you've heard of it. It's where they send kids whose parents are sick of dealing with behavioral problems. It costs a bit but I can swing it and you're worth it. They regulate *everything*, Selena! Understand? Everything! When you get up, when you eat, when you study, when you visit the bathroom -- everything! There's damn little recreation allowed, and even *that* is closely regulated. Basketball, baseball and volleyball is it. About two hours a week."
She was staring at him in horror. "You wouldn't do that to me!"
"Unless you get yourself to school right now, I sure will. And this afternoon, I'm checking with your teachers. If they report that you gave them any trouble in class, or didn't do your work, I'll be contacting Marcus Bridgeman first thing in the morning. Now, what'll it be?"
Selena stared at him sullenly. "I don't think you'd do it."
"All right." He stood up. "We're on our way to the lab. Let's go."
"No!" She tried unsuccessfully to pull her arm free. "No, wait, please!"
He paused, watching her. She gulped. "Are you ... *really* my father?"
He let go of her wrist and took her shoulders very gently. "I really am your father, Selena. Your mother and I were planning to get married. We had a silly fight and I left. I was young and stupid, but I know that's no excuse. But I swear to you that I didn't know she was pregnant. If I'd known, I'd have taken care of you whether I'd married your mother or not."
"But you were going to marry her?"
"Yes. I loved her. I still love her."
Selena's eyes filled with tears. "If you really love her, you'll do something about Harold. He hits her, you know."
"I know."
"So, what are you --"
"Never mind that. I'm going to take care of it. And *you're* going to school."
Selena picked up her backpack from the bench. "School's boring."
"Too bad."
"Didn't you ever skip when you were a kid?"
"Only once. I got caught."
"What did your dad do?"
"Threatened me with Marcus Bridgeman."
He saw a smile flicker on her lips before she turned away, shouldering her backpack. Mombasa watched as she headed down the sidewalk in the direction of the school. When she turned the corner, he let out his breath. Not too bad for his first test of fatherhood. He allowed himself a cautious pat on the back.
He turned away, heading back toward his car. Another casawa crossed the path and skittered up a tree.
"Cell Receptors in Terran Mammals." Again he saw the book on Frexvor's desk. Why was that blasted Jil so interested in Terrans? And why did he carry a cageful of Nindilian animals, despised by every Jil that Mombasa had ever known, around with him, claiming they were his pets?
He reached his car and got in. Then, for a few moments, he sat behind the controls, his eyes fixed on the panel before him.
Prior to joining the Patrol Mombasa had attended two years of college. He had majored in computer science but he had taken many other classes. The memory of one of them was what was bothering him now. It had been Terran History -- the Middle Ages. There had been a disease that had ravaged Europe. It had killed huge numbers of people, wiping out whole communities. What had been the name of that thing -- Bool... no, Bubonic Plague. That was it: otherwise known as the Black Death. It had been carried by rats, or rather by the fleas on the rats.
A rather silly set of circumstances had led up to it, he recalled. Someone had become convinced that cats were agents of the devil, and as a result, people had killed the cats, which were the main enemy of the rodents. As a result, the rodents had proliferated, and with the proliferation of the rats, the fleas had also proliferated -- fleas that carried the Bubonic Plague organism.
The thought left him cold. Was it possible that the Jils had also studied that section of history and come up with an idea for eradicating the Terrans on Nindili?
He was sweating. His family, Dagmar, Selena, Mr. Peabody -- everyone would die. And if the Jils read his mind and realized what he suspected, his own life would be in danger.
But what could he *do*? Nothing! Holy Hangnails, he didn't even know if he was right! It might be nothing more than an eccentric Jil scientist and his own imagination running riot.
He shut off the worry as best he could and drove home.
**********
tbc
