HIS FATHER’S SON--An Exercise in Vanity or The Secret Life of an Officer


“Gods, I look like my father.” He muttered to the reflection in the steam-covered mirror. Not a pleasant thought since he and his father hadn’t spoken in many years. He had wiped it away to facilitate shaving, but the sight of his face had halted the action. Critically he leaned forward and squinted to get a good look at all his flaws. He turned his head to the side, tongue in cheek as he really looked at himself. Crows feet had appeared sometime around his eyes, just a faint outline of the dark amber depths, but there none the less. Was that grey hair showing at his temple? He ran a finger through the auburn. Yep, the light caught at a few silver strands, just a few, but more than enough. Frowning now at the encroaching signs of age, he noticed the wrinkles that were starting on his forehead and quickly smoothed away the frown. He failed to notice that the wrinkles disappeared as well, once there always there, he thought.

He was pleased to note upon further inventory that while his hair might be going grey, and the wrinkles appearing, at least the rest of him was doing quite well. He dropped his towel onto the slightly damp floor to posture in front of the full-length mirror, giving in this once to his vanity. He was tall, built along the lines of a professional athlete, but without heavy muscle. Whipcord instead of bulk, but still muscle and not fat. He thumped his stomach, still firm and tight. Craning his neck to get a look at the back…yep his butt still looked decent. He chuckled at the lapse into self-appreciation. He shrugged and tossed himself the finger in the mirror. At least, he thought, I’m not losing my hair. The smile at the thought stayed with him as he finished his morning routine. In the bedroom, he pulled open the closet, reaching automatically for a neatly pressed blue uniform, one of many hanging there waiting their turn on that slim figure. There were a few civilian clothes, equally well cared for, but those were pushed to the back recesses of the closet.

He dressed quickly and precisely, military efficiency at it’s best. The same training held as he tidied the small bathing area, placing the wet towels in the laundry, and then tugging the coverings on the small bed into place. As he looked to make certain that all was as it should be his eye fell on a small framed picture on the dresser. For a moment, the amber eyes shadowed, and he picked it up gently. He traced the contours of the face that stared back at him, her features well known and loved, then, with a small sigh of loss, he replaced it and left the room, turning out the light as he did so.

The rest of his living space was a testament to the man. A small bookshelf in the short hall held books. Real books, not plasti-slims or data pads. Old and worn covers and dog-eared pages showed that these were read and treasured. Titles on a variety of subjects, Oliver Twist and Tom Sawyer rubbed shoulders with Kafka and Kerouac. Heftier tomes kept the lighter fare in line, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire sharing that duty with The Art of War. As he passed, his hand straightened the shelf, loving caressing them into neat and orderly lines, his mind already distracted with thoughts put off by sleep.

In the main living area, a multi-colored afghan lay across the arm of the sofa, it’s riotous colors bright in the darker tones of the room. A data pad lay on the table in the kitchenette, it’s screen still showing the file he had been reading the night before. He scooped it up to examine it once more. His frown was back, this time though brought on by information not contemplation. Without taking his eyes from the pad, he wandered the few steps into the kitchenette, intent on coffee. His mind registering the existence of his cup on the counter. Engrossed in the file, he raised the cup to his lips and took a drink. Instantly the frown grew deeper and he glared at the ice-cold concoction in the cup. He grimaced, obviously left over from last night, and dumped the coffee into the sink. The soft chime of his link told him that he wouldn’t have time to make new. With a sigh he returned the cup to its place on the counter, shut the data pad down, and strode to the door.

As it slid shut behind him, he muttered. “My exec is going to love this one.”