Mother

Posted on 27 Jun 2023 @ 2:42pm by Moon-Young Chung
Edited on on 06 Feb 2024 @ 10:44pm

Mission: M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Obsidian Command: Rice & Moon's Quarters
Timeline: M3 D11: 0725 HR
1809 words - 3.6 OF Standard Post Measure

What passed for morning on the station had come. Moon tried rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She could hardly tell the difference between ‘morning,’ ‘afternoon,’ and ‘evening.’

Rice had already left – early as was his way – before she’d even finished getting out of bed. He’d sat on the bed for a moment, yammering at her about his plans for the day. He’d asked if she was still planning on coming to his office to start planning the decoration. Moon had grunted in response. Getting the hint, he’d kissed the top of her head and left.

She appreciated the gesture, even in her haze. On Earth, he would’ve disappeared without a word long before she got up and often arrive home long after she’d gone to bed.

On the other hand, he could’ve at least waited until she’d had her coffee.
A fresh replicated cup sat steaming at her elbow now while she scrolled through the daily news on her PADD. The Theater section of the New York Times, followed by the Arts section. Moon though about subscribing to a new publication, maybe one from a nearby Federation colony, but the Times was familiar. Names of actors she’d worked with, places she’d worked, and even a few productions that she’d helped with before running away.

After finishing, she flipped up the Federation News Agency’s site. She felt it a duty to continue reading up on Federation politics, although they seemed to have followed the Romulan star in going nova. Old colonies agitating against new; new harassing old; and both pushing against the home worlds who, of course, pushed back. Lost in the many self-manufactured public political scrums was the sense the Federation still strove for peaceful cooperation, equality, and scientific exploration. Still, she knew that the Federation was filled with people still doing that work. They just didn’t seem to get promoted as much.

She was half-way through the story about the president’s remarks to the Federation Council, all the while thinking that Rice had dodged a bullet by not become her advisor, when a new banner popped up in the bottom right-hand corner under the headline, “GIRL GONE MISSING!” Her finger hovered over the link, though she hesitated. She did hate sensation stories, but then again the president was a blowhard…

Moon tapped on the story. A holovid popped up on the screen.

This is Gwynn Sebastian reporting from Havana, from the island of Cuba on Sol. The ongoing saga of Fernanda Ruiz, described by her father and mother as a precocious twelve-year-old with a love of engineering has captivated Earth since she went missing, the first child in over fifty years. Now eleven weeks later and after scouring the planet for any sign of the child, United Earth officials have announced their moving their investigation primary off-world.

The distraught mother, tears leaking down her face, held up a photo of a beaming Fernanda holding up a hand-held laser torch with a big green bow on it. A gift, Moon guessed. Slightly behind the woman, Fernanda’s father looked glumly into the distance, though she wasn’t buying it. She could tell a bad acting job when she saw one.

After security officials from United Earth and the Federation gave a quick briefing over where they’d looked and how, the story wound to an end with Gwynn Sebastian calling for anyone with tips to contact Federation Security.

“I doubt she’ll turn up on Obsidian Command,” Moon told the empty room.

She drained the rest of her coffee and was just standing up when her PADD suddenly erupted in dings and boings and the story minimized into the background. A still image of her mother the center of the screen with the words, “Accept or Decline?”

Moon sank into her chair again. She knew her mother would eventually return to Earth from her extended trip on Risa to discover that her only child had skipped the solar system. Still, she’d been expecting the trip to Risa would last another two or three months (Bong-Cha had a home on the beach there).

Those four or five months were blissful. Bong-Cha was not there to criticize her decisions and there were no forced dinners. The dinners tended to increase in number when she thought her daughter had strayed professionally or personally. During the two years Moon dated Rice on Earth, her mother had required weekly sit-downs she tried to cajole, guilt, and bully her into giving up on the relationship.
Moon liked to think it hadn’t ever worked, but she had broken up with Rice. Although for her own reasons. Right?

The thought of ignoring the call never crossed her mind, and she thumbed “accept.” Her mother’s face filled the screen. Her sixty years barely touched her smooth, unblemished heart-shaped face. Hair was still pitch black, shorn to the shoulders, not a single strand out of place. Bong-Cha had recently taken to wearing bangs that were neatly trimmed just above her perfectly manicured eyebrows. Dark eyes, rolling with thunderheads, stared out across the lightyears.

Moon had half-expected some comment on her just-out-of-bed appearance. Her life had included a cadre of stylists, nutritionists, and fitness experts – all appointed by Bong-Cha – until Moon finally broke away after college. Although she thought her mother had her best interests at heart, the mental toll on her was significant.

Her silky, jet black hair, however, was something Bong-Cha fussed over even now. Her mother insisted she keep it long, never short. No matter how much Moon had begged to have it styled differently as a teenager, the hair stayed long. All the other girls could get whatever they wanted done to their hair – dyed, highlights, bangs, short mohawks, braids – but not Moon. No. Always cut a few inches past her shoulder. She’d ‘rebelled’ by adding feathers or a rainbow array of barrette. Her mother had acquiesced to those at least. To her chagrin, she still wore just like Bong-Cha liked it, unable to break out.

Now Moon curled a lock of her hair nervously around a forefinger while Bong-cha stared daggers. Finally, the older woman brusquely started the conversation, “I had to hear from your father. Your father. I had to ask him where you were. Do you know how humiliating that was?”

“Hello, Mama,” Moon tried to sound warm and was careful to pronounce ‘mama’ the way Bong-Cha preferred: muh-mah. “I’m sorry, it just happened so fast. I meant to – ”

“Meant? Meant?” Bong-Cha put the heel of her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes. “I don’t understand what has gotten into you.”

Moon wanted to say something – her mouth was even clicking up and down – but her voice hid, unwilling to come out for the challenge.
“I worked so hard, Moon-Young. So hard. You’re father wanted you to be a propulsion specialist. When you were in high school? Do you remember? He had you go to that awful place in Japan, the Dayton Institute.”

“Daystrom,” Moon corrected her, though reluctantly, knowing was would come next.

“Bah! It doesn’t matter what the name of the place was! I said – me – I said to him that your future was in the arts. I sent you to acting classes, to art classes, to singing and dancing lessons. You should’ve been a star.”

Moon remembered all too well those classes, those lessons. The instructors had been taskmasters, barking orders like she was some recruit that needed to be broken mind, body, and soul and reforged into a megawatt star. Not good enough, Ms. Chung! Your pirouette needs significant work. You must practice, Ms. Chung. Your voice is like fingers on a blackboard!

“When that didn’t work out,” Mama said it in a way that suggested the fault lay with Moon, “I guided you into fashion and design school. Because of that, you’ve had a successful career. And now? You’ve almost wrecked the whole thing. After all my sacrifices. Luckily, I’ve spoken to some producers and directors, and found someone to take you back. Annie Gilbert wants you to design her production of The High Flyer.”

“Mama – ”

“I don’t want to hear it, Moon. No. You’ve had your little fling with this…man…or whatever he is.”

Moon sucked in air through her nose. She never understood how someone who grew up on Earth and had married a diplomat could say something so…so...

She wanted to shout, but her voice only tiptoed out. “We’re getting married.”

“No.”

“We’re getting married. As soon as he is settled in his new position. We’re getting married.”

“Oh, Moon-Young. No.” Bong-Cha chided as she would a silly child. “No. You’re coming back. I’ve already booked a homeward trip. The ship is a nice civilian transport that does a circuit. It scheduled to be there in a week.”

“No,” she barely whispered.

Bong-Cha pursed her lips, her eyes widening. “I’ve been a diplomat’s wife. Me. I know exactly what is going to happen. You’re going to be sitting around waiting for him to notice that you’re there. Which he never will. You’ll be sitting there and your career will just be wilting away until it is nothing. He’ll expect you to raise your pointy-eared off-spring alone. I won’t allow that.”

“But I’m opening a couture and tailor business. This is a huge station with people from all over – ”

“You? In business? You wouldn’t even know a slip of latinum from a piece of scrap metal. That’s what they deal with out there. Currency.”

“I can tell the difference,” Moon weakly rejoined. “And I made a friend. A local Ferengi merchant might want to help me – ”

“A Ferengi? You may as well just give him whatever he wants now. He’s just going to take it from you in the end. No. You’re coming home.”

“I am not,” she quietly replied.

“Fine. If you want to act like a child. I will treat you like a child. I will come and bring you home if you’re not on the transport.”

“But…mama…I’m getting married.” Moon hated herself for the meekness in her voice, hated that this whole conversation was happening at all. Why hadn’t she just rejected the call?

“Absolutely not,” Bong-Cha barked. “You are coming home if I have to come get you myself. End transmission.”