“I would, sir. Perhaps, you could allow me to better understand the purpose. Why would we displant the boy from his Genysen? This puts his health in grave danger. The Genysen is …”
“Unnecessary. Consider this, Elizer. The Hiebim have been receiving injections for the better part of a millennium. Would not the compound have embedded itself at a genetic level by now? Trust me, Elizer. The Trayem boy … Hadeed … will grow to be a very healthy, productive man. I am counting on it. Removing the Genysen will create opportunities. He is not the first and he will not be the last. But I do believe he will be special, perhaps far more so than the others.”
Elizer studied the holo-controls as the uplift passed through the upper atmosphere. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Special, sir? In what way? And how do you know?”
Ephraim joined Elizer at the control swivel and wrapped an arm around the peacekeeper’s shoulders.
“The eyes, Elizer. The eyes,” he said, pointing to his blue glasses. “You admire these. Yes? I see the truth of men and circumstance by studying the eyes. My entire lineage has benefited from this ability. The instant I faced you in my quarters, I knew you would become my aide. This boy … Hadeed … I could see it. His terror. His disillusion. His mind reassembling. He has an enormous well of resolve. In time, he will know how to channel that resolve.”
“But to what end?”
“Ah, yes. The endgame. Always with the endgame. Planners cannot help but obsess upon it. On this, however, you will have to trust me, Elizer. Know that what you have done is necessary, and there will be fruit. In time. Yes?”
“Of course, sir,” Elizer said with little commitment. “But I have to know one more thing. The timing, sir. Did you know the boy would be there? Outside the ministry?”
Ephraim ran his hands over the sheer body armor and allowed himself to fantasize about so much more. Slowly, he pulled away and returned to his seat.
“Elizer, are you suggesting I have a precognitive strength?”
“Of course not, sir. Future sight is impossible. If it was, we would have discovered it centuries ago.”
“Yes, Elizer, we would have. Hmmph. I have had a change of heart about your proposal.”
“My proposal, sir?”
“The body sponge. The pulse shower.”
Elizer bowed his head as he smiled. “Of course, sir. We should arrive on Nephesian in fifteen minutes. I will be more than happy to serve you.”
“I look forward to it,” Ephraim said, closing his eyes and removing his blue glasses.
For a time, Ephraim put the Trayem boy out of his mind and concentrated on other, more pressing affairs. He oversaw Elizer Gripphen’s discharge and bided his time until the inevitable appointment to prime regent came his way.
Trayem Hadeed, however, could not remove the Chancellor and the peacekeeper from his tortured mind. Hadeed walked to the center of Asra and stood at the edge of the ashen ruins of the ministry. The government office lay in a tangled heap, nothing like he remembered when the peacekeeper assault ended. He thought he could hear the echo of the screams from those within, see a woman in yellow plunge to her death. However, Hadeed was careful not to reveal his disgust. He looked around for signs of Chancellors before he made any facial expressions.
The town went about its business as if the ministry, once a crucial hub for commerce and government, never existed. Hadeed bent down, grabbed an inch-long piece of charred metal, and began to see his world quite differently. He wanted to cry, but he had no more tears. At last, he understood something about Chancellors. Fire. They hide behind fire.
He didn’t understand why they violated him, why this was necessary. His blood stirred, and every inch of him knew he was changed. Hadeed knew these people were not what they seemed and believed he would be fighting them for the rest of his life.
Although he loved Tariq and the elders, he rarely listened to them again.
FOUR
THE TEMPEST WITHIN
THEY TOLD HADEED TO WORK through his confusion with poetry. They told him to run an additional ten kilometers per week in hopes of relieving the imbalance in his hormones. They offered meditation, art, and an initiation into the tactics of the an’yal-fahr hunter in the hopes of restoring the boy’s center of peace. They did not know the source of his confusion, only that he was increasingly difficult to manage and often insubordinate to elders. Some men laughed off his erratic behavior as the product of a ten-year-old’s inevitable sexual upheaval.
Hadeed’s only true peace came on the pack, where he excelled as a striker of considerable renown in the Tier Two League. Haepong scouts from Messalina, Kanascus, and Sadr paid appropriate tribute to the clan elders and the Matriarch. Not until the scouts began leaving gifts of additional water rations did the clan truly realize the extent of Hadeed’s talent. To their recollection, no one from the southern realm of Ashkinar had ever qualified for Tier One status – or, wishes of wishes, the Continental Team – in more than a century. The possibility of Hadeed making history allowed some of the clan to overlook his behavior. Some, not all.
Hadeed realized this when he approached the elder Tariq for morning study and was told to continue walking deep into the enclave, where Matriarch Alessa was in her administrative quarters awaiting him. When Hadeed saw the tension in Tariq’s jaws and distance in the old man’s eyes, dread fell over the boy. The Matriarch as a rule did not concern themselves with children – at least not until after the Passage of Summit, a rite of manhood Hadeed would not experience for at least another four years. And so, as he sauntered nervously through the winding interior corridors, slowing as he stepped into splashes of light drawn from sun portals above, Hadeed tried to rehearse his answers for questions he had no idea were coming. The fear stripped from him in a torture chamber beneath the Agriculture Ministry returned at long last.
The octagonal door to Matriarch Alessa’s quarters opened before Hadeed could knock, revolving on a central pivot. He heard her voice before he saw her.
“Enter. Your place is prepared. Sit.”
He did as he was told, scanning the dark, tomb-like chamber. As the door pivoted shut, Hadeed saw a brown pillow at his feet, located on one end of a circle braid, the traditional rug of reconciliation he had seen in every elder’s quarters. He removed his shoes before sitting on the pillow and crossing his legs. The Matriarch’s quarters glowed blue, the only light emanating from the console of a holographic CV unit. Hadeed readjusted his eyes and looked for other details. Suddenly, the ceiling opened above the braid, and sunlight fell as rain onto the center of the rug. Details emerged amid the ambient light. A desk hand-carved from the blue shellstone veins north of Messalina. A mural depicting the original exodus from Earth. Heavily-bound vidstamps filling shelves with the history of clan Trayem.
The Matriarch rose from her desk and moved in effortless silence toward the boy, her body draped in layers of feather-light fabric speckled red against a brown, twisting background; Hadeed never saw her or the other Matriarch in such aggressive, vibrant colors. Even her crimson head wrap was a surprise. It did not, however, hide Alessa’s ebony hair, which washed down and over her chest. Hadeed swallowed as she sat across from him, separated only by the splash of sunlight. Her eyes, gray and unrevealing, swallowed the boy whole. She did not smile.
“I have little use for my CV,” she said as if in mid-conversation. “Efficiency, they claim. Direct access to the global stream. All good points. Still, we have simple needs here. We flourish without the excess of invasive technology.”
Hadeed instantly found himself distracted. He had never been so close to her; she could have just as easily been a Chancellor as a Hiebim. He had seen her on rare occasion, usually in whispers with the elders or other women. The children were even discouraged from venturing toward this wing of the enclave.
Alessa twisted her fingers around each other in random contortions as she continued.
“However, I found the CV instructive last week as I watched a Tier Two haepong m
atch,” she told him. “I noticed a young striker of considerable agility. He was … I believe the term is scamping … an opponent’s gladiator in order to work around the defense and maneuver his way into the center of the attack. The striker’s attempt failed when the gladiator slid in front and tackled the striker. This striker then reared up and launched himself into the gladiator with the same deadly poise of an Anirabian wildcat. He disarmed the gladiator, dropped his stick, and fisted the gladiator with dozens of punches. If not for intervention, this gladiator almost certainly would have died. Tell me, Hadeed, where have we disappointed you?”
As an unexpected frost overcame him, Hadeed stammered for words. So the rumors were true, after all: The Matriarch never asked the logical or predictable questions first.
“Excuse … Matriarch, I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Hadeed, we know you are discontented. The incident on the pack is the most visible proof. Normally, one might dismiss a child’s anger as a product of impatience, impetuousness. But rage such as this? No. That is a fruit borne over time. You have not been happy with your clan for a great while. How have we failed? Please, Hadeed. Open yourself.”
He could feel her eyes probing for the slightest clue, their invisible tentacles touching every nerve and crossing every synapse in search of the truth. You don’t know me, he thought. You don’t even care. Not really.
He wanted to run. “It’s not about Trayem,” he mumbled, falling upon a rehearsed answer. “I love my clan. I just got angry. I lost control. It happens. Haepong … it’s a dangerous game.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “And from time to time, someone dies. Some younger than you. Hadeed, if intervention had not come, would you have beaten the gladiator to death?”
Here it is, he thought. They’ll never let me play again.
Hadeed avoided Alessa’s eyes but could not avoid the truth. The hollowness within his heart said he could not give them the denial they were expecting.
“Yes,” he said. “I intended to kill him.” Alessa’s right eyebrow flinched ever so slightly, which was enough for Hadeed, who found a surge of confidence and refused to roll over for a Matriarch. “Like you said, people die on the pack. That gladiator … he wasn’t a warrior. He was slow, he cheated, he didn’t have any honor. Deserved what he got. So why do you care?”
“Hadeed, I care about all matters related to Trayem. More than you could realize. What you have just confessed … it is troubling but not unexpected. I have watched you carefully since you were nearly killed by those hoarders three years ago.” Hadeed wanted to interrupt, to spit out the truth he had been concealing. His better judgment suggested he be patient. “You were profoundly changed by extraordinary trauma. Completely understandable. I asked you here today in the hopes of starting you on a less destructive path. The Matriarch is concerned about what you might be capable of someday.”
Her words – especially care and concern – boiled his blood. Hadeed trembled.
“Capable of?” He spat. “Like being a real man? Not some spineless tool who has to ask a woman for permission about how to live his life? That’s what they do, the elders. Leave the important decisions to five women who sit around in these caves all day. We can’t even fall in love without your blessing. It’s like we’re being …. we're being …”
Hadeed stammered, but Alessa caught him.
“The word you are looking for is emasculated.” She offered the faint glimmer of a wry smile. “You would not be the first male to use it. Nor the last. Hadeed, think back to your pre-history. Remember the stories about the tribes that slaughtered each other for centuries over religious ideologies? Before the Chancellors united the nations and destroyed the Heretics of God? Hadeed, those tribes were dominated by warrior males who paid little courtesy to the value of life and reveled in the shedding of blood. It was not entirely their fault. They carried the genetic legacy of the animals from which they arose. Predators, hunters, savages. Men are, by their very nature, predisposed to aggression. Even three thousand years of genetic evolution and the installment of the Matriarchy have not changed this fact. There are still the occasional killings and clan reprisals. Every one of them by a man against another man.
“Hear me, Hadeed. In a thousand years, there has never been open warfare on Hiebimini. Without the Matriarchy, we would have dissolved into chaos long ago. Only through shared goals, equivocation with the Chancellors, and passive maneuvers could we have managed to survive on Hiebimini’s fragile resources. The Matriarchy protects men; it does not seek to strip them of their essence. This is why we allow such outlets as haepong or the Code of Reprisal.”
He thought she seemed smaller, less dominating. He had no fear. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Haepong. You’re going to ban me from the pack.”
“On the contrary. We encourage you to play. You have unlimited potential to represent our growing clan as an honorable warrior, but only if you understand how to control your deepest need for aggression. You’re a good boy, Hadeed. We’re proud of you. We merely want to protect you. By coming here today without objection, you’ve proven you are not lost, and you still honor the framework of our clan. We still have great hope.”
“Then why am I here?”
“For this,” Alessa said, extending her right hand into the sunlight as if to shake, the beginning of a much-discussed ritual that most Hiebim experience perhaps twice in a lifetime.
Hadeed instinctively knew what to do. Without hesitation, he lifted his right hand and rested his fingers against hers. She squeezed. The force of her grip surprised Hadeed, and he thought to resist. However, even a slight twitch was met with a tightened grip, as if she intended to crush every bone in his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak but had no words.
Then, his anger dissolved, and he felt a surge of tears. Overwhelming despair paralyzed Hadeed. He thought he heard music – low, dark, and foreboding. The murals featuring the exodus from Earth seemed to take on new dimensions, as if he were seeing the great journey first-hand from the vantage point of space. His tears flowed as rivers.
She spoke softly. “We are one clan, never to be divided. You have implied to some of your friends and teammates that the Chancellors are not to be trusted. These words of heresy will end. They are our partners, and you are our son.”
She released her grip and sat back. Hadeed massaged his aching hand. The words, which were cold and determined, did not seem to come from her lips as much as they were echoes. However, when he turned his eyes toward her, Hadeed saw a gentle woman, her smile wide and slender and reassuring. She stood and asked him to do the same.
“Before you leave, there is one other matter,” she said. “You have expressed concern that your gene-father keeps his distance from you by virtue of our design. No, Hadeed. You have always been free to have a relationship with Azir. He is … a complicated man. Insist upon his time, and you might receive it.”
Hadeed did not ask her to explain this last bit, and he was still glued to the pillow as the octagonal door revolved open behind him.
“That’s all?” He mumbled as he rose, but Alessa did not answer. “That’s all?”
The Matriarch retreated behind her desk, and Hadeed stepped into the open doorway. He knew what was expected now: He would leave quietly, repentant for his actions and mindful of the Matriarch’s warning. Yet Hadeed could not make himself go away. He summoned the courage to find the final words.
“They aren’t our friends,” he said timidly. “The Chancellors. They’ve got everybody fooled. You’ll see. One day, you’ll see behind the veil.”
Matriarch Alessa took a seat behind her CV unit and did not acknowledge Hadeed. He waited for a sign, even a flinch, but she offered nothing as the octagonal door slid shut. He wanted to believe he saw the slightest tick of concern, perhaps a softening of the pallor in her stoic, alabaster face. Instead, he stood silent in the corridor massaging his right hand, trying to make sense of the moment. He quickly concluded there was no se
nse among the blind. He turned from Alessa’s quarters and decided to ignore everything she told him except for one.
Hadeed raced to his quarters, changed into his field robes, ignored Tariq’s call to morning study, and ventured outside to the enclave’s communal gardens. He found his gene-father where he might have expected.
Azir bent over a row of rustled greens and sweet cabbage, which were tightly packed in narrow raised beds of carefully mixed and modified yellow clay. Azir and a dozen others – mostly men passing the quiet days until the end of their down-rotation at Radnor – carefully managed the tender crops according to a protocol established centuries ago. Azir used palm-sized shears to trim the ruffle leaves at the base of the cabbage, a technique believed to give the vegetables a longer season and a sweeter, more tender chew at the table. All Trayem agreed to donate time to the garden, for this was undoubtedly the best crop since the drought three years ago forced them to rely heavily on relief rations from the Ark Carriers. Even though the hydroponics functioned, no vegetables cultivated in fertilized water could match the quality of those drawn from the soil. Hadeed had a particular love for his mother’s stewed mint cabbage, and he spent many afternoons among these five hundred square meters of green at the southern end of Asra, less than four kilometers north of the high desert.
Hadeed adjusted his shomba as he knelt beside his gene-father.
“I want to see the mines,” he said in the deepest voice he could muster.
Azir stopped his shearing in mid-cut, threw a dangling head wrap out of his face and twisted around. His beard surprised Hadeed, who quickly remembered he hadn’t actually spoken to his gene-father in months. Azir rolled his eyes and offered a muted groan.
“Hadeed. Go away, boy. I’m occupied.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I want to see the brontinium mines. I want you to take me.”
Azir pressed his shears into the bed like a dagger and clinched his teeth. “Radnor? Why?”
The Father Unbound Page 4
