Vector: 8/9
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
8
The car where he had left the motorist was still parked at the end of the street. He ran toward it and paused beside it, peering inside.
The man was still on the floor, working frantically to remove the blindfold by rubbing his head against the window control beside him. Mombasa opened the door.
The man froze. "Who is it?"
"Me," Mombasa said. "Look, buddy, I'm going to stun you. Sorry. When you come to, you'll be untied."
The man started to protest. Mombasa didn't hesitate. Rapidly, he stunned the driver, pulled the belt away that bound his hands and closed the car door again.
Moving quickly, but not quickly enough to attract attention, he walked past the car and down the street. As he passed a fire alarm, he triggered it one-handed and crossed the street, walking rapidly but not running. He dumped both hat and sunglasses into a waste converter at the shuttle stop, pulled up his hood and waited, jittering, for the vehicle to arrive. Fire vehicles and police went past overhead. He glanced at his chronometer. Seven minutes since he had stunned the driver. The man would be waking up soon but would probably feel too bad to call for help for another ten minutes after he awoke. It should give Mombasa time enough if that blasted shuttle would just get here. It was late, dammit!
The shuttle pulled up and Mombasa boarded with half a dozen other Terrans as two more police vehicles passed overhead.
The automated machine took its time -- or seemed to -- shutting the doors and pulling ponderously out into traffic.
At last he was on his way. Smoke was rising above the buildings as the vehicle proceeded down the street and turned into the mainstream of traffic. He glanced at his chronometer then, surprised that it had been barely an hour since he had followed the two men from the spaceport. If the shuttle would just move, and there were no traffic tie-ups, he still might make his flight.
He leaned back, going over everything in his mind. Had he covered all his tracks? He thought so. He was wearing gloves because of the temperature and had touched nothing without them. Only three people had seen him. Two of those were now dead and the other one, the driver, had gotten such a brief glimpse that Mombasa doubted seriously that he could possibly identify his assailant, even if the opportunity arose. No fingerprints, virtually no witnesses ...
Had he left anything behind? Only his luggage, which was still at the spaceport, hopefully in the locker where he had stashed it when he had realized he was going to have to follow the "pet keeper".
The traffic became heavier as they neared the spaceport. He glanced at his chronometer. Twenty minutes until his flight left. No major traffic tie-ups so far, although traffic going in the other direction was moving a bit slow -- stop and go.
Ten minutes later they pulled up in the passenger unloading zone and Mombasa was off the shuttle almost as the door opened. His luggage, of course, was still safe in the locker. He collected it and headed for his departing flight at a run.
He made it by the skin of a Procyon's beak as the saying went. As he entered the ship, the boarding ramp retreated and the hatch slid shut practically on his heels.
Mombasa spent the major part of the return trip in his stateroom, thinking and perfecting his plans, and when the ship docked on Corala sixty hours later, he was about as ready as possible. Silently, he thanked Providence for his habit of always being early, and never leaving things until the last minute.
He went quietly back onto the Patrol base, speaking to no one and using only his ID for admittance. Once in his quarters alone, he consulted the schedules in his Squadron Commander persona and found what he needed. The "Leviathan", commanded by Strike Commander Sven Thoroski, was due to dock at the base in a few hours and tomorrow, Corala time, would depart for Space Station Seven.
Good! Good! The one thing that he could have wished for was that it would have been any ship but the "Leviathan". Thoroski was smart -- very, very smart. Mombasa would have to be extremely careful.
He spent the next few hours making certain arrangements, one of which involved a trip into one of the seedier sections of the town that abutted the base, and then he settled down to work at the computer, supplied with his temporary quarters, to create an identity for himself.
It wasn't too hard. He'd dealt legitimately with the official forms often enough with new recruits and knew the procedure by heart. During his early years in the Patrol, before his lateral transfer into the Command hierarchy, Mombasa had been an engineering tech, and that made it easier to establish his credentials, now. After a little manipulation and a hundred or so pieces of fictional information, Patrolman Bussard J. Merriweather, Engineering Tech, was born.
He would, he decided, go by the nickname of Buzz. It had been his actual nickname during his youth and if he used it and encouraged others to use it, he was less likely to make a mistake.
The "Leviathan" docked on schedule and, after a suitable delay, Buzz boarded the ship. He was supposed to report to Thoroski and was a little worried about the meeting. He'd never met the Strike Commander in person, but he had, of course, seen his pictures and was fairly sure that Thoroski had seen his as well. He need not have worried, however. Thoroski was ashore when he arrived and Patrolman Merriweather reported to Subcommander Ch'Dreel. The Procyon hardly glanced at him and Mombasa was sure that he had gone unrecognized. He was assigned quarters in the usual manner and went directly there to store his gear. As he boarded the lift, heading for the crew's level, he grinned in sudden memory. He and Ch'Dreel *had* met. It had been at some social gathering or other and Ch'Dreel had been there, representing the command crew of the "Leviathan".
Mombasa normally avoided such things and he suspected that Thoroski did as well, since on the rare occasions that he, himself, had attended them, Thoroski had been absent. Not so with Thoroski's second-in-command. Ch'Dreel, like most Procyons including Mombasa's own Subcommander, loved social gatherings, especially if they included plenty of booze and gambling. Patrol parties always included these, which was why Mombasa had always found it easy and convenient to let Ch'Grit represent him. Once, however, Ch'Grit had been on leave and Mombasa had been compelled to take his place and he had engaged in a short conversation with Ch'Dreel, and later that evening the Procyon had defeated him in a game of Blackjack.
The Procyon apparently had no memory of the incident, however. Mombasa had always had trouble telling Procyons apart, unless he knew them very well, and the reverse was also true.
His quarters were typical of those belonging to crewmembers. Four bunks, one with a patrolman lounging on it, reading a "Sensation" magazine. The man's helmet lay on his footlocker. The headgear was smudged with fingerprints and his boots lay on their sides on the deck. He glanced up as Mombasa entered.
"Hi," Mombasa said.
"Hey." The other man sat up, dropping his magazine beside the boots. "Figured they'd fill up that bunk soon. It's been empty three ship's days."
Mombasa shifted his bag to his left hand. "Bussard Merriweather. Call me Buzz."
"Howdy, Buzz. I'm Derrick Maxwell." The other man extended a hand. "Call me Rick."
They shook hands and Mombasa dumped his bag on the bunk, following it with his helmet. Rick settled back on his bunk and picked up the magazine again.
"Why aren't you ashore?" Mombasa asked, opening his bag. "Maggie's is open at this hour."
"I would be, dammit." Rick scowled at the page. "Thoroski confined me to quarters."
"Oh." Mombasa thought it best not to ask why, but the other man offered.
"I got in a fight. It was *his* fault. That sonofabitch is always looking for trouble."
"Who?" Mombasa had begun to stow his gear.
"Damn second classer named Paine -- and believe me, his name suits him. He threw a remark my way and I said something back. I should have ignored him. I knew better."
"Who threw the first punch?"
"I did."
Mombasa grinned. "What did he say?"
Rick threw the mag on the deck again. "The guy has a way of being insulting without trying. It was the *way* he said it more than what he said. I couldn't copy him."
"Ah, I think I get it,"
"Someday I'm gonna break his face. I'll be busted, but it'll be worth it."
Mombasa knew the feeling and told his roommate so. The man grinned ruefully.
"I've never met anyone who got under my skin so bad."
"I've met a couple I could mention."
"Bet you never met ol' Arnie Paine."
"No, I can't say I have." Mombasa finished his unpacking and closed his bag, storing it beneath the bunk, as regulations demanded. "What's he look like?"
"Red hair, sorta like Halthzor's. I think he's proud o' it. Ugly sucker. Crooked teeth, not much chin. Low forehead. Hair's nearly in his eyes, even though he keeps it cut regulation."
"Sounds like a real ladykiller."
"He is. Maybe that's part of the problem. Women avoid him -- sort of instinctively. I've watched 'em."
"Maybe he's sexually frustrated."
Rick made a crude remark and Mombasa grinned. "That this month's 'Sensation'?"
"Last month's. You can have it. I've looked through it at least a hundred times. The women are all beginnin' to look the same."
"Isn't that the idea? Say, are you from Shallock?"
Rick shook his head. "Lived there a while when I was a kid, but I'm a native Terran. One o' the few."
"Thought I caught the Shallockian accent."
"Can't hide it, can I?" The man grinned. "Grows on you."
"Yeah, I guess so." Mombasa agreed. He sat down on his bunk and picked up the magazine. "What kind of roommates we got?"
"Pretty good guys. You'll like 'em."
"They got names?"
"Yeah. The guy on the bunk over you is Jed Dixon. New recruit. Tries to be tough, but he's got plenty to learn. Hope he don't get himself killed young. Other guy's Norton Perwitchi. Huge guy -- he don't fit on that li'l bunk. He's quiet. Spends most of his spare time readin'. If you want t'get him talking, mention some book you've read. He'll open up and yap for an hour." Rick grinned. "He's only about nineteen, and has this headful of pitch black hair."
"Uh oh."
The man's grin widened. "I see you're familiar with the problem."
"Yeah. Damn Lady Jils."
Rick snorted. "You two can complain to each other."
"Thanks a lot." Mombasa scowled at the bulkhead. Lady Jilectans found Terran males very attractive and were particularly attracted to the good-looking ones with dark hair. Those whose ancestors hailed from Terra's African continent were especially favored. Mombasa was one of that select group and had dealt with many a Lady in his day. Which brought up a related subject. "Who's our resident Jil? Does he bring his Ladies along?" Considering present circumstances, such a situation could be disastrous.
But Rick was laughing. "Lord Gorganthvar's our Jil, but he almost never brings a Lady along -- and when he does, it's his first wife, Jinthvill. I guess he knows enough not to dangle a bunch of good-looking Terran guys in front of 'em."
"Whew!" Mombasa grinned. He flopped down on his bunk and opened the "Sensation" magazine. The first woman's picture he saw reminded him of Dagmar. 'Man, you really *are* hooked,' he told himself. He continued to peruse the magazine, mostly because it was expected of him, but his mind was on his mission and what he would do later. Somehow he was going to have to quietly disappear and later get a message to his family, after the search for him died down ...
An hour later, the ship departed for Space Station Seven.
The first day of the trip was uneventful. Mombasa was good at blending and being inconspicuous. At first he worried a bit that someone might recognize him. He was, after all, a Squadron Commander, and his face had been in the news from time to time, but as the ship's day passed and no one took a second look at him, he began to relax. When off duty, he ate in the Enlisted men's messhall, and while on duty he stuck strictly to regulations and wore his helmet at all times.
His only bad moment was on his way to report for his first shift. As was his habit, he was early, and of course the Strike Commander's valet was waiting for the lift when he arrived. It would have been more noticeable for him to retreat, so Mombasa joined him. The valet was a short young man, slim and blond, with a smooth, innocent face. He gave Mombasa a reserved smile. "Hello. You're new, aren't you?"
"Bussard Merriweather. Call me Buzz."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Greg Smythe."
They shook hands. Smythe's smile became friendlier. "Where are you from?"
"Nindili."
"No, I mean, where were you stationed before?"
"Oh. I was at Drevelle."
"I've been there plenty of times. Too many Jils for comfort."
"You can say that again." Mombasa found himself liking his new acquaintance, but was beginning to wonder what was holding up the lift. Smythe pushed the manual call button.
"This blasted thing is always giving us trouble. How long were you at Drevelle, Buzz?"
"A year. I didn't like it. I prefer space and, as you say, too many Jils for comfort."
The little man laughed. "What's your area of specialty?"
"Engineering tech. What the hell is holding up the lift? I don't want to be late for my first shift."
The thing arrived as he spoke and the doors slid open. Two patrolmen exited, and Mombasa let the valet enter ahead of him. The doors closed and the lift moved upward.
Smythe exited on the next level and Mombasa breathed a sigh of relief. Strike Commanders' valets were not stupid. He hoped he hadn't appeared nervous. Still, the little guy had seemed friendly enough and completely unintimidating. Maybe he was just bored and looking for diversion.
Three hours into his shift, Strike Commander Thoroski made a walk-through of Engineering.
Mombasa tried to appear cool, but he knew he was sweating as Thoroski stopped at his station to speak briefly with his superior. Mombasa heard the Strike Commander ask how the new man was working out, and heard Lieutenant O'Doule give the expected, favorable, answer. Thoroski glanced toward him with the perfunctory interest of a ship's commanding officer toward one of his subordinates that has done a good job. It was possible, of course, that Thoroski would recognize him, even with his helmet on. Although they had never met face to face, he knew Thoroski must have seen his image at one time or another, and Sven Thoroski was an extremely intelligent man, well-known throughout the Patrol. He was in line for promotion to Squadron Commander in the near future, Mombasa knew through the Patrol grapevine, due to the imminent retirement from field duty by Squadron Commander Harcourt, who was shortly to be assigned to desk duty because of his approaching 150th birthday.
But Thoroski gave no hint of recognition, and strode on, apparently losing interest in his new crewmember. Mombasa forced himself to relax. He hoped sincerely that Lord Gorganthvor would not decide to inspect the Engineering section as well. Mombasa knew that the way his thoughts were seething at the moment, the Jil couldn't possibly miss them.
But the shift passed without incident and he was just preparing to head back toward his quarters when the ship's overhead speaker announced that he was to report to Sick Bay for his routine, mandatory examination.
It worried him a bit, although the examination was standard for new transfers. They were, however, not usually so prompt in summoning the new guy. Sometimes weeks went by before the doctor got around to it. Regulations were lax in that area, but perhaps that was one of the improvements in efficiency that Thoroski had brought to his ship, or maybe it was just bad luck. He'd been exceedingly fortunate in this venture so far. He couldn't expect it to last forever.
It took him a few moments to recall the name of the ship's doctor. Gallagher; that was it and, as far as Mombasa could recall, they had never met. Apparently Gallagher didn't attend social gatherings, either.
Mombasa headed for Sick Bay, jittering a bit and trying to quiet his nerves. The doctor glanced up from a desk as he entered. "Oh, hi there, Patrolman. Just take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute."
Mombasa did so, watching the doctor covertly. Gallagher was a medium-sized man in his late thirties, with light, somewhat untidy hair and pleasant features. After finishing his work at the comp on his desk, he stood up, giving his patient a tired smile. "Good old computer. One never catches up, quite. Well, hello, Patrolman Merriweather. How are you finding life here on the 'Leviathan'?"
"Just fine, sir. No complaints."
"You look the picture of health. I always think these interviews are something of a waste of time. I get them over with as quick as I can." He grinned. "No one likes to be poked and prodded. Are you having any health problems?"
"No sir."
"Good. Okay, let's get on with it."
Twenty minutes later, the doctor had finished the examination, stripped off his gloves and went over to the sink to wash his hands. "Well, that's it, Mr. Merriweather, I can't find a thing wrong with you, no matter how hard I look. You're sure you don't have any problems you'd like me to check up on - an ingrown toenail or something? This chart of yours is going to make awfully dull reading."
Mombasa laughed. "Sorry. I can't think of a thing."
"Well, all right." The doctor grinned. "You can go. See you around."
"So long." Mombasa went out, heading for the lift. Something made him look back.
Gregory Smythe, the valet, emerged from Sick Bay and followed him toward the lift. Mombasa stared for a moment. Smythe lifted a hand. "Hi, Buzz. Mandatory exam? Oh yeah, I heard the announcement. Did you pass?"
"I guess so. I ... didn't see you while I was there."
"I was in the back room, sleeping. I've had a little stomach bug and the doc was giving me a checkup. Guess I dozed off. Gotta go. See you around."
The valet headed down the corridor toward officer country. Mombasa boarded the lift, worrying. Something about the incident bothered him and he couldn't shake off the feeling that Smythe suspected him. Still, he had no real reason to think that, he told himself. He and Smythe had never met before in his life. His nerves were probably getting to him, he decided. Anyway, there was a little more than a day to go. The 'Leviathan' was due to dock at Space Station Seven in thirty hours.
It was just after his next duty shift that another incident occurred that forced Mombasa into the limelight. He exited the lift, intending to head for his quarters, when he heard voices ahead of him, raised in anger. Deliberately, he slowed his pace, as he did not wish to become involved in someone else's dispute. There was the sound of a blow and someone swore furiously. Two men in the corridor behind him started to run toward the disturbance and Mombasa reluctantly did the same.
They rounded the curve in the corridor and beheld two patrolmen locked in combat on the deck. One of the men was Mombasa's bunkmate, Rick, and the other could only be Paine. The two men were pounding and clawing at each other's faces and assorted swearwords emerged from their interlocked bodies. Mombasa and his two companions ran forward.
"Hey!" One of the men bent, attempting to pull Rick back and then swore as a fist caught him in the face. He staggered back, a hand clapped to his nose. Mombasa grabbed for Paine and the other patrolman stepped in, trying to get a grip on Rick. He missed and Paine, hampered by Mombasa, failed to deflect Rick's next blow. Rick's fist caught him full in the face and blood spurted.
"Hey!" Mombasa tried to ward off the next blow and the other patrolman finally succeeded in getting a grip on Rick. In the corridor behind them, Mombasa heard the sound of running feet and the Patrol Military Police pounded into view, accompanied by Subcommander Ch'Dreel.
He dragged Paine back and the other patrolman did the same to Rick. The Patrol MP's moved in, taking charge of the situation. Ch'Dreel was clucking in annoyance and anger, and turned on Mombasa for an explanation.
"I just heard the fight, sir." Mombasa came to attention as he spoke, hoping his luck would hold and Ch'Dreel would still not recognize him with his helmet off. "I came to try to stop it. I don't know what started it."
"That's right, sir." It was one of the other two men who had assisted in breaking up the fight. "We heard 'em and came to help. George here got hurt. I think I should take him to the doc, sir."
Ch'Dreel gestured and the man moved off, supporting his injured comrade. Paine lifted his head and glared at Mombasa. "You stupid sonofabitch!" He wiped blood from his nose. "You're lying! You was trying to help him!"
Rick favored his opponent with a short, unflattering description of his sexual habits. Paine lunged for the man and the MP's dragged them apart once more. Ch'Dreel snapped an order and the combatants were led away. Mombasa sighed inwardly and remained at attention until Ch'Dreel turned and strode away.
Finally he was able to relax. The incident had drawn a crowd, he saw. Quite a few patrolmen had gathered around to observe, including his other two bunkmates. The men were grinning at each other. Mombasa swore under his breath and went past them toward his quarters.
They followed him in and dissolved into laughter. Mombasa flopped down on his bunk. Jed dropped his helmet on a chair and picked up a shirt from the deck. "I knew it would happen someday. Good old Paine."
"I wonder what set Rick off." Norton had picked up a book and was wiggling it down into his boot top. "I thought he learned his lesson with that trenchcrawler last time."
"So did I," the other man said. "Hey, aren't you on duty?"
"Forgot my book." Norton headed for the door, ignoring Jed's derisive comments concerning literature. "See ya."
The panel closed behind him and Jed grinned across at Mombasa. "I heard the ruckus too. I just wasn't as quick to stick my foot in a dawbat's lair."
Mombasa said something impolite and picked up one of Norton's books. The guy had good taste in literature, he had to admit.
Jed was relaxing on his bunk, not bothering to remove his boots. "I've come close to laying hands on Paine myself a few times. He's an easy guy to hate. You met him yet?"
"Today was the first time I've had the pleasure. Charming man."
"Goes for the younger girls, too - under sixteen if he can manage it. Younger the better in his book." The man grunted and added a rude comment describing his own opinion of Paine.
Mombasa snorted. "Does he have any friends?"
"I guess you could call Clint Sykes his friend. They like the same things."
"Can't wait to meet the fellow." Mombasa started to read, covertly glancing at his chronometer. A little less than five hours until the ship reached Station Seven. He just hoped his luck would hold out long enough.
**********
tbc
