Hadeed, however, was not interested in memorizing a thousand years of Hiebim history, let alone continuing the oral tradition when vidstreams and holodemics – both of which were widely discouraged by the elders – were faster and more reliable. Although they did not dispute the value of technology, the elders believed no child could fully invest in his own heritage through impersonal, mechanical education. The only parts of history that intrigued five-year-old Hadeed were the origin stories and how they impacted the Hiebim relationship with the present generation of Chancellors.
The elders spoke of reverence for the people who lived years – even decades – in orbit around Hiebimini. They were the descendants of the founders, those who saved a dying, overpopulated Earth more than a thousand years ago by discovering the thirty-nine colonies that would eventually comprise the Collectorate. Hadeed listened with spellbound glee as the elders told how Chancellors guided humanity to the stars, giving each major ethnic group its own home world. Ethnic sovereignty, they called it. A blessing to all men, his teachers insisted.
He did not learn nearly as much about the Unification Guard, the Chancellors’ scientific and military fleet, as he craved. Yet, according to Tariq, dozens of Ark Carriers held orbit at a given time, ready to dispatch scientific or humanitarian aid to the surface and to protect Hiebimini from threats foreign or domestic. They also carried away exports of refined brontinium, the planet’s greatest natural resource, and the gift that sustained all Arabis tribes on this harsh, demanding world.
Hadeed could not take his eyes off the sky nor wonder about these mysterious people called Chancellors. When he was almost six, Hadeed sat outside under a clear night sky and nursed the bruises of his first complete haepong match. Tariq came to his side.
“You were brilliant on the pack today,” Tariq said. “Your coach calls you a prodigy.”
Hadeed’s mind wandered. “I heard a story today,” he said. “About Earth before the Collectorate. I heard that thousands of years ago, there were sects who used to believe in higher powers, something called gods.”
“Yes. That is true. Incredibly.”
“And I heard how the Chancellors defeated those people.”
“Again, true. Hadeed, we are not to begin lessons of pre-history for another year. Who has been telling you these stories? Have you been accessing holodemics?”
“No, Tariq. I’m only curious. Tell me, if they could defeat the believers, does that mean the Chancellors are gods?”
Tariq mumbled a curse. “Ah, yes. Here we are. They live in the sky, so they must be gods. Do not think I have not had this conversation before.” He paused to observe Hadeed and massaged his beard. “Gods? Only in some of their minds, perhaps. No, Hadeed. The Chancellors are no different from you and me. They are flesh, and when they die, they come to dust – just as we do. They simply choose a different style of life. They prefer the comforts we neither value nor need. Still, they are entitled to privilege. They are the founding caste, after all. If not for them, we would not have this world.” He pointed to the sky. “They prefer to live in the Carriers, although there are a few in the northern realm and small clusters in Messalina. They are a firm people, but they have our best interests at heart. When we need assistance, they always dispatch peacekeepers from the Carriers and provide ample necessities.”
“Have you been aboard an Ark Carrier?”
“No.” Tariq’s smile vanished. Hadeed saw an unexpected vacancy in Tariq’s eyes. “And I never will. I have my home.” He placed an arm around Hadeed’s shoulder. “From time to time, I see a Chancellor about. They are easy to spot. Their skin is pale, some even like sweet milk. They are well-manicured, their clothes woven in expensive fabric imported from Earth and quite impractical for our climate. Perhaps that explains why so few venture out onto our dusty streets.”
Hadeed noticed his teacher’s indignant frown. “Tariq, you seem to make fun of them, yet you say they have earned their privilege. I don’t understand.”
“You will, Hadeed. Time has a way of clarifying. I do not begrudge the Chancellors their bounty or their lifestyle; none of us do. They chose a different path long ago. Who am I to debate? We have had a thousand years of peaceful co-existence. No, the Chancellors I have encountered seemed admirable enough.”
“And the peacekeepers?”
Tariq looked away, toward the clouds. “Their children. Warriors bred to protect us all. They look after us, Hadeed. Need anything more be known?”
“No, Tariq. They look after us.”
Hadeed’s own naïve words found their way from the past and through the pain of his torture. They almost fell from his lips, just as his blood had done for nearly an hour. He could no longer see out of one eye, had lost all feeling in his left leg, and his chest burned with the pang of broken ribs. They look after us.
From the moment the peacekeeper named Lt. Gripphen had strapped Hadeed into the chair in the basement of the Agriculture Ministry, the tall and elegant Chancellor who took umbrage at Hadeed’s apparent “defiance” on the dusty street corner said few words. On occasion, he nodded to the peacekeeper to resume the beatings. At other times, he ignored the brutality and tapped the side of his head to reveal a holographic cube, in which he became immersed. In another context, Hadeed would have been fascinated by the technology and wondered why Hiebim could not access such a miracle. Instead, Hadeed neither tried to listen nor plead for the beatings to end. He never asked why they chose him, what his crime had been. All he sensed was a paralyzing agony consuming him. And then the words. They look after us.
Hadeed felt his consciousness slipping away and did not notice when, finally, the Chancellor ordered the peacekeeper to cease the beatings. His eyes were closed, but Hadeed could smell the poltash come near, and he felt the shadow of a giant looking down upon him.
“You have to understand,” the Chancellor told him. “The beauty of the Collectorate is that all her citizens have an opportunity to flourish, even in these challenging conditions. We cannot allow society to bend to the will of the unlawful. Otherwise, who will look after your clan?” Hadeed felt a nudge against his shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”
Hadeed opened his one usable eye. Smoke poured from the giant’s nostrils. Hadeed trembled. The giant nodded.
“You are confused. Perfectly natural. But blame your elders. Blame their elders. The problem, you see, is that they have spent centuries creating an illusion that perpetuates the idea of the caste system as being one of predetermined fate. This concept is easier for them and their Matriarchs because it avoids the more difficult, underlying truth of our existence. Yes?” The giant rubbed a cloth over Hadeed’s bad eye and handed the bloodied fabric to the peacekeeper. “I wonder. How much have they told you about the true rationale behind ethnic sovereignty? You are very young, of course, but I dare say the elders will not teach you these things as you mature.
“Here is what I wish you to consider. There is a veil between all of us and the truth. This veil is thin, delicate, fragile. And yet, only a bold and courageous few have ever tried to push it aside. They were martyrs, each of them. Might you become such a man? I wonder. Think: In seven years, you will be a man. You do not have much time to chart a different path.”
Hadeed tried to talk, but he coughed blood instead. The Chancellor backed away.
“Ask yourself why you fear the Matriarch and obey the elders. Ask yourself why they both fear and obey the Chancellors. Oh, yes, my boy. Fear. They will never use the word itself unless you confront them. Are you the one to choose a different path?”
He motioned the soldier to join him several feet away from the prisoner, and they talked in low conversation. Hadeed tried to hear, but nothing made sense anymore. He felt blood driveling from one ear. The Chancellor left the grey room in a cloud of poltash smoke, and the next thing Hadeed saw was the contorted smile of the peacekeeper through the sheer body armor. Shortly before he lost consciousness, Hadeed felt pressure against his right side, just beneath his ar
mpit. A pulsating wave of heat rose through his belly, penetrated his chest and seemed to set his bones on fire. He unleashed a primitive scream like the animal whose pain was unbearable and who knew it was dying alone.
The darkness that followed was a relief, and Hadeed lost all sense of time. He awoke only in brief spurts, each time the light blinding and the pain spiking. He recognized nothing, could not decipher the whispers of the giants who stood over him, and wished only to cry until at last he fell asleep again.
Then one day he awoke with only mild pain. The chamber was dim and moist, and the bed sheets cocooned him. He recognized his own room inside the Trayem enclave. Before he spoke, Hadeed’s mother and a clan nurse bent over to welcome him with smiles. He felt sore all over but did not hesitate to sit up. He breathed without any extra pain. He could work both his legs, and his ribs felt whole to the touch. His haepong stick lay beside him.
“You were very lucky,” his mother said. “If the peacekeepers hadn’t rescued you …”
“What …?”
“Take your time,” she said. “It’s been three days. Fortunately, they got you to an Ark Carrier. The best medicine in the outer realm.”
Her voice trailed off, and Hadeed studied her with confusion. The memories fought to return, but they came as a jumbled cacophony. He heard rifle fire and bomb blasts, could feel his own blood pooling in his mouth. Yet the sense of when, where, and how escaped him. They seemed like the nightmares of years gone by.
“We woke you,” his mother said, “because our guest wanted to apologize personally. He came here specifically to make sure you were doing well.”
“From what?” Hadeed begged.
His mother explained how the agriculture ministers had conspired to hoard vast amounts of reclaimed water for their own clans, and they resisted when the peacekeepers arrived. Hadeed was caught in the crossfire, shot by a hoarder, and left for dead. The peacekeepers spirited him away and tended to his wounds. A Chancellor visiting Asra volunteered to be his benefactor.
Hadeed heard voices outside his chamber. “I was shot?”
And then, as if with no more than a wag of the finger, Hadeed’s memory returned. The instant he saw a man with blue glasses and a fedora enter his room, Hadeed could smell the torture chamber and see the charred bodies of dead Hiebim inside the ministry. The Chancellor wore a bright blue cape above a full-body, black tunic, and he greeted Hadeed with a side-nod.
Hadeed felt a twist in his gut and jerked backward. Before he could point a finger or open his mouth to make an accusation, others followed the Chancellor into his chamber: His gene-father, Azir; two of the clan’s elders, including Tariq; and two members of the Matriarch. The five of them formed a semi-circle of sorts behind and around the Chancellor, as if he were their best friend. The giant man, almost two feet taller than the Hiebim, opened a wide silver box and amazed the elders.
“My friends,” he began, never taking his eyes off the boy. “Trayem almost suffered a devastating loss. We’re thankful this young one is recovering. However, he was injured in the midst of a peacekeeper operation, so we must accept the blame. We repay our debts. I have ten liters of reclaimed water. Consider this the first of a weekly increase in your clan’s rations. I also have a small tin of poltash weed fresh from the gardens at Messalina. Its value in Haebims does not begin to describe its wonder. Share among your men and boys. Enjoy.”
The Chancellor, who never mentioned his name to anyone in Trayem, nodded to Hadeed. “Oh, yes,” he added. “We plan to begin reconstruction of your Agriculture Ministry in a few days. We’ll be looking for qualified applicants from all the local clans.” The Chancellor turned to Azir and smiled broadly. “We have specific candidates already in mind.”
Hadeed broke his silence, remembering his journey through a ministry scattered with bodies but otherwise very much intact. His first words were not what he expected.
“Reconstruction? Why?”
Azir, whose voice was less familiar to Hadeed than the Chancellor, sounded testy.
“Not that you need to question,” he snapped. “But the hoarders seeded the ministry with fire bombs. Rather than be taken alive, that filth burned down the building around them, taking the water with them.”
Hadeed felt the blood drain from his mind. He was dizzy. His clansmen tipped their heads in reverence to the Chancellor and thanked him for his gifts. If asked, they would have bowed at the feet of this man – Hadeed was sure of it. He saw the gratefulness in their eyes and knew they would never believe the truth.
Just before he turned to leave, the Chancellor winked at Hadeed. “You will no doubt return to the haepong pack very soon, young Hadeed. Just as soon as the veil clears. Yes?”
In all his life, Hadeed never felt so alone.
“Why?” He whispered, barely audible, as the Chancellor and fawning Hiebim left him along in his chambers, except for the nurse. “Why are they doing this?”
He wanted to leave his bed, to follow them and confront the Chancellor, but the nurse insisted he was not yet ready. Hadeed fought her, threw back the sheets, and flung himself out of bed. The instant he landed on both feet, he knew he had made a mistake. The room swirled in different directions, and his legs crumpled. It was the medicine, the nurse told him. He would need another day in bed.
“Be happy you are alive,” the nurse said. “Bless the Chancellors for your good fortune.”
He felt helpless as the nurse gathered him up and gently laid him in bed. He looked into her eyes and saw the same empty devotion he too had felt until a few days ago.
“Bless the Chancellors,” he whispered, his voice hollow, as the nurse pulled the sheets over him. He soon fell asleep, carrying the acrid smell of dead Hiebim and the taste of his own blood into the realm of his nightmares.
As Hadeed slept, Sir Ephraim Hollander bid farewell to the Trayem clan and rejoined Lt. Elizer Gripphen at the uplift transport that Gripphen had expertly landed in tight quarters less than fifty meters from the enclave. Before he stepped onboard, Sir Ephraim took a moment to breathe the Hiebim wind blowing in from the plains north of Asra. He removed a handkerchief from inside his cape, draped it over his mouth and coughed.
“What is that musk?” He asked Gripphen.
“Uncertain, sir. I have heard it is worse on windy days. Perhaps from the closest mine?”
Ephraim removed his blue glasses. “I have been to dozens of mines, and I do not believe brontinium bears resemblance to a rotting carcass. Yes? And you … anxious for me to become prime regent. If I do, you will be living in this forsaken wilderness every day. Still clinging to that ambition, Mr. Gripphen?”
“Of course, sir. I hear the accommodations in The People’s Union in Messalina are quite pleasing, even for a Chancellor.”
Ephraim handed Gripphen the handkerchief and moved swiftly inside the transport.
“Take me home. I need to bathe.”
Gripphen entered the cabin and sealed the hatch. He took command of the holographic flight swivel and turned to Ephraim before initiating launch.
“Sir, if I may. I am outstanding with a body sponge in a pulse shower.”
Ephraim hesitated to reveal a smile. He scanned his young aide from head to foot and sighed. “Of that, I have no doubt. But not this time, Mr. Gripphen … Elizer. We will have ample opportunity once your discharge is complete and you are formally obligated to me. Yes?”
“Of course, sir. If I may be presumptuous,” Elizer said, launching the holo-control panel and programming the flight path, “I have sent a dispatch to Earth to inform my father of my intentions to enter into your service. I am sure he will be very pleased and may wish to visit in the coming months. Should I delay him until we are situated in Messalina?”
The transport fired thrusters and launched. Ephraim wiped his glasses clean.
“Thank you, Elizer, for confirming the validity of my selection. I admire a man who is always planning several steps beyond the practical. I am, as you have no doubt come to reali
ze, something of an expert on the art of planning. My father … he taught me to always look forward and account for all possible variables. We will work well together. Yes?”
“It will be my mission in life, sir.”
Well into the forty-minute flight to the Ark Carrier Nephesian, as Ephraim rested his eyes and pretended he did not smell the Hiebim musk in his clothes, Elizer broke a long silence.
“Sir, if I may …?”
“Of course, Elizer.”
“What we did to the Trayem boy … I know you preferred that I ask no questions, but I feel my service to you will not be sufficient unless I can have some reasonable clarity. Sir, what I witnessed … what I did to him … I need to know this was not a purely capricious act.”
Ephraim yawned. “Capricious? Could it be you are burdened by a conscience?”
“No, sir. I mean, they are nothing more than indigos. I could care less about their fate. But I judge myself a man of some honor. I would not wish to destroy a life purely for the sport of it. If you could tell me there was purpose to what …”
“Mr. Gripphen,” Ephraim interrupted with a sharp tone. “Everything I have ever done in my life, I have done with resolute, strategic purpose. Do you believe, out of all the colonies, I chose Hiebimini without due contemplation? No one – not even a presidium – required me to be here. Everything we have done since you first entered my quarters on the Nephesian has followed a carefully charted path. We have positioned the Trayem boy precisely where he needs to be and, in the process, we have reinforced the benevolence of the Chancellory. The Trayem clan will no doubt sing our praises throughout Asra. Good public relations in light of the unfortunate result at the ministry. Would you not agree?”
The Father Unbound Page 3
