The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  “Because it’s time to learn. Truly learn. Not sit around and listen to the ramblings of elders.” He grabbed his aching right wrist. “Or the threats of the Matriarch. Azir, we wouldn’t be able to stay here if it weren’t for brontinium. It’s what I’ve always been told. Richest mineral in the Collectorate, they say. The reason all those Ark Carriers stay close.”

  “Hadeed, you have no business …”

  “I want to see what it’s all about. I want to see what you and the other Hiebim do in those places. I want to meet the Chancellors who run the mines and distribute the profits. It’s almost time for your next rotation. Take me, Father. You can do this. You owe me.”

  Azir curled his lips and looked around as if to make sure no one else was clued in to the conversation. He rested on his knees and drew Hadeed close, lowering his voice.

  “Owe? Why? Because I did as the Matriarch asked and helped your mother bring you into the world? We have the same genes, Hadeed. No more than my other five can say. Go.”

  Hadeed swallowed but vowed not to be put off. All the other arranged children had heard this same, easy excuse from their gene-fathers.

  “If you hadn’t made me, I wouldn’t need to know these things. I wouldn’t care about what was happening to our people or what the Chanc … or what’s being done to us.”

  Azir raised a brow and whispered. “And what do you think is being done, Hadeed? Look around. See these gardens? How long has our enclave stood? How long have we survived here, free and self-sufficient? I know what you’re implying. I know what you’ve suggested to your friends. Now here’s my suggestion: Rid yourself of these notions. Clear your head, focus on Trayem, and be the best the pack has ever seen. You don’t need me. You don’t want me.”

  Azir shook Hadeed loose and pushed him away. Hadeed stumbled but caught himself before he fell into a bed of sweet cabbage. Azir turned away and reached for his shears, but the boy was faster. Hadeed swooped in, grabbed the tool, and held it tight against his chest.

  “Take me to the mines, or I’ll talk. But this time I’ll be loud. They’ll listen, and I don’t care what they think.”

  Azir groaned as he forced himself up, grabbed Hadeed by the shoulder, and led him away from the gardens, out onto the open plain south of the enclave. The dry, cracked clay fields of yellow and orange rippled for kilometers south toward the high desert. The yellow-white sun fell upon them from directly overhead. They walked two hundred meters before Azir stopped abruptly, twisted Hadeed about and slapped the boy. Hadeed reeled from the sting and fell. His gene-father hovered over him as a misshapen shadow eclipsing the sun.

  “Why do you burden me with this?” Azir asked. “I heard how you changed after the hoarders shot you, but that was not my concern. You have enough shoulders to cry upon. Your mother? Your elders? Your Matriarch? Why me?”

  Hadeed wiped his lip and tasted blood. He didn’t care. He pressed against the hot clay and rose, forced himself to hold back the tears and level his stare into his gene-father’s eyes.

  “Because you’re like me. You don’t have control, either. You can’t run your own affairs, you can’t teach others what to believe, or decide who can be men and who have to be toys.” Azir tried to interrupt, but Hadeed would have none of it. “Alessa took me in today. She reminded me about pre-history. About when men were savages and killed for no reason. She said men had to be controlled; we’d do nothing but fight if it weren’t for the Matriarch. Everything, Father. Everything’s about control. And it’s not just the Matriarch. It’s them. The Chancellors. They have it all. We have so little. I … I don’t understand why. And nobody seems to care but me.”

  As Hadeed’s words drifted away, he waited patiently for his gene-father’s response. And he waited. Azir used a strip from his shomba to wipe his beard of clay dust then slowly, undeniably, began to smile. Finally, he stepped away in laughter, throwing up his hands to the sky. Only when he clasped them together into a fist did he speak.

  “ ‘The boys are the worst,’ ” he said. “Their usual refrain. The Matriarch, I mean. Honestly, Hadeed. This is nothing more than your hormones. It’s typical. Probably helped along by the Genysen you were given after Assignment. Heightens paranoia roundabout now. At least, that’s what the Chancellor research showed. It’s science, boy. Known for centuries.”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Oh, I am. Very much. And I’m telling you, Hadeed. This stops now. You have a brilliant future on the pack. Don’t scuttle it with these delusions.”

  “Delusions? Father, you don’t know what …”

  “Cud!” Azir’s filthy profanity cut deep into Hadeed. “I am not your father.”

  “Don’t think you’re much of a man, either.”

  Azir laughed. “No, I suppose I’m not. But I get to play the part anyway. There are things I have to do, and I can’t afford the likes of you talking treason about our partners.”

  Hadeed gasped. “Who? The Chancellors? Partners? Azir, they’re thieves. And worse. You don’t know what …”

  “I’ve worked with them at the mines most of my life. I know what they are. Yes, they have more. Science, technology, wealth. But it’s theirs to have. They created it, they maintain it. Their burden. They gave us a home world. If we need more, we should make it ourselves. Why can’t you understand this?”

  “But …”

  “I watch you on the pack. You know how to go after more. The rules don’t mean anything to you. Just guidelines. Last week on the pack, you almost …”

  “Killed a gladiator. I know.”

  Azir maintained his wry smile. “Too bad you didn’t. I was rooting for you.” He paused and looked away. “In truth, the occasional death makes the game more interesting. I had a few opportunities myself when I played, but I never had the spine to finish them. I don’t think you’ll have the same weakness. Listen to me, Hadeed. I don’t know what’s behind this delusional rage of yours, and in truth I don’t care at all. But, if killing somebody will work it out of you, so be it. Next time on the pack, finish one. You won’t be exiled from the game. You’re too good.”

  Azir started to turn back for the enclave and swiped his shears from Hadeed’s grasp.

  “It ends today, Hadeed. The whispers, the treasonous ideas. All of it. Stay out of my life.”

  Azir waved farewell, allowing his backside to do the talking as Hadeed stood paralyzed. Azir’s white field robe rustled when a breeze suddenly kicked up. For an instant, Hadeed saw himself running across the plain, grabbing his gene-father’s shears and plunging them into the man’s neck. The sweltering anger that drove him to beat a gladiator to within seconds of death now consumed the boy, and his fingernails drove hard into his fists. He no longer saw the face of an unconcerned would-be father; instead, Hadeed stared through the blue glasses of a man with a fedora, a red cape, and a pipe full of poltash weed. He saw the Chancellor leave in a cloud of blue smoke, allowing the peacekeeper left behind to finish the business at hand.

  The words dropped across Hadeed’s lip in a shout that cut the breeze and flew across the plain toward the enclave. “They lied to you. To everybody. It wasn’t the hoarders who shot me. It was all a lie, Azir. You don’t know what they did to me.”

  Azir stopped but did not turn around. This was enough for Hadeed, who stomped toward his gene-father as the anger quickly became overwhelmed by another sensation, one he had kept hidden deep within his skin these three years.

  “They took me for no reason,” Hadeed spat through his words. “Tortured me for hours. It wasn’t the hoarders, Azir. They killed those people, burned them alive, and then they tortured me.” He grabbed Azir by the robes, and the man turned around, his face devoid of emotion. Hadeed allowed the tears to flow.

  “That man. The Chancellor who brought us extra rations and promised you a job in the ministry … he was there, Azir. He beat me. He beat me. He beat me. Again and again, and he never told me why. And then … then …”

  Hadeed felt the burden
of three years dissolve in an instant. Nothing would be held back this time; the truth had crawled through his innards like a pestilence, and now all the boy had to do was open wide and allow it to peel away like shedding skin.

  “He smiled at me, Azir. He … did things … he … was supposed to protect me. He was a peacekeeper. He never said anything, Azir. Didn’t ask me questions. Just … he hurt me.” Hadeed grabbed Azir by the arm and would not let go, even as Azir tried to resist. “He went inside me. He went inside me.” Hadeed stammered between his sobs. “Please … Father, please. Please help me. It still hurts. Every day.”

  Azir did not react at once, perhaps no more than a slight softening of his jaw muscles, a twitch of his brow. Finally, after Hadeed dropped to one knee and balled inconsolably, did Azir engage his gene-son. The man dropped to one knee as well, a grimace outlining his features. He lifted a hand as if to wipe Hadeed’s tears, but pulled back.

  “You have conviction,” Azir mumbled. “A man might even believe this actually happened if he didn’t already know it was a fantasy.” As Hadeed’s stunned eyes widened, Azir continued. “No matter what the true circumstance, you do believe this happened. I can’t deny it. And, I suppose it would explain a great deal. But Hadeed …”

  “It’s true, Azir. I promise. All this happened. I don’t have proof, and maybe you’d believe a Chancellor over me …”

  “Perhaps. Hadeed, I do believe you confused reality with what actually happened. Still, you’ve been carrying this burden for three years. Maybe …”

  “Yes?”

  Azir took a deep breath. “All right. Here’s my proposal. A one-time offer. I’ll play father and take you to Radnor. I’ll show you everything, explain the tech, the social and business hierarchy, all of it. But here are my conditions. One, you never speak another word against the Chancellors. Not the first. Keep this in mind, Hadeed: You are not guaranteed a place in Trayem for life. Exile is always a possibility. Do you understand?”

  Hadeed caught his sobs and nodded. Azir groaned.

  “Second, when you return from Radnor, our relationship ends. You will not speak to me, not even in a social circle. And if you do … haepong is a very dangerous sport, as you know. A certain gladiator who wants revenge might one day decide to gather his prize.”

  As Azir’s voice deepened, his tone grave, Hadeed understood the permanence of the deal his gene-father offered. He looked into the man’s vacant eyes, saw no vestige of love, and decided this was the only path to the truth. Hadeed wiped away his tears, wondered how he would be able to bottle up his personal nightmare once more, and agreed to Azir’s terms.

  They returned to the enclave without another word. Hadeed felt an awakening in his bones, one so intense he could not sleep for two days.

  FIVE

  WELL OF TREASURE

  VIEWED FROM THE ARK CARRIERS, the brontinium mines were beautiful. However, the millions of Hiebim whose livelihoods depended upon these cylindrical cavities penetrating ten to twenty kilometers into the planet knew nothing of such glorious views. Rather, they endured the arduous, generational task of mining brontinium – the hardest and most valuable element in the universe – all the while surrounded by a green, odious cloud of magnetic particulates that coalesced while drifting upward through the cavities, often coating the manmade infrastructure and the protective bodysuits of miners. In their lighter moments, they joked that the particulates drifted in the same direction as the wealth embedded in the mines – up, up, and away.

  The sheer scale of it all stunned Hadeed as he descended into Radnor with his gene-father aboard a four-person Scram that had ferried them fifty kilometers from Asra. He saw the green breath of brontinium as a fine mist, at times believing the particulates to twinkle like rising dust twisters against sunset. Plumes of white light flickered violently from deep beneath the mist, as if lightning hidden by approaching storm clouds. Yet the Scram continued without concern deeper into the giant chasm, itself more than three hundred meters in diameter. Only as the tiny transport passed a flashing red beacon denoting the first kilometer’s depth did greater details emerge and the mist seem scattered, its origins more specific.

  Hadeed saw clearly the superstructure of scaffolding, elevators, excavation platforms, and tubes for escape pods lining the walls of the mine. The Scram descended past numerous observation ports inside which Hadeed saw his fellow Hiebim clustered busily around CV units. He studied more details, noted how the industrial complex seemed to descend forever, as an abyss, and he felt as if he were in the midst of a city journeying toward the planet’s core.

  Just before the Scram leveled out in anticipation of mating with its docking hatch, Hadeed caught a glimpse of the source of those white flashes. Dozens of meters below, workers encased in thick white biosuits rode high atop crablike robots, adjusting thrusters and manipulating each creature’s mechanical arms. They positioned themselves within a few feet of the chasm’s sheer walls, directly in front of green crystalline veins of brontinium. The robots, which Azir called DMGs, fired yellow-white radioactive bursts of energy at the veins. Cracks seemed to spread outward at once, each jagged crinkle glowing yellow. Hadeed expected the brontinium to shatter, but Azir told him the cracks were an illusion, one tiny step in a process that would take months to complete. Indeed, the cracks disappeared in seconds.

  Azir explained how brontinium could not be harvested for refinement until its powerful magnetic properties were lessened without rendering the mineral inert. The process alone required weeks of carefully-targeted bursts of Fulcrum radiation, an energy harvested from the wormhole network of the same name that made interstellar travel possible. He said each twenty-square-foot vein would be demagnetized in this way by more than thirty Hiebim on rotating shifts, each exposed to the Fulcrum radiation no more than two hours at a time.

  “Even then,” he said, his voice somber, “we’ll only be able to harvest a sheet of brontinium less than two centimeters wide. And only after many additional weeks of precision drilling. Hard work, Hadeed. But it will keep us employed forever. The Collectorate can never have enough brontinium.”

  The tone of Azir’s voice brought Hadeed back to what motivated his visit in the first place. He was already past ogling the expanse of this wonder.

  “Fulcrum radiation? I’ve heard of it. Very dangerous. Azir, why are our people being exposed to it? Why can’t the DMGs be automated?”

  The Scram’s pilot interrupted his docking procedures by twisting his neck and raising an eyebrow at the impertinence of the question. Azir rolled his eyes. Hadeed could feel the tension; few clansmen other than elders had use for inquisitive children.

  “Please, Hadeed,” Azir moaned. “When we enter the complex, listen only. Do not be heard. In truth, we have been mining this way for centuries, and no one has died from Fulcrum exposure. It’s all very well managed.”

  “But the DMGs …”

  “Automation has been tried. No go. Not down here. The particulates and the heat interfere with their CPUs. Even this Scram won’t be in an exposed position for long. We can’t have the necessary precision without human control. If the Chancellors had found a better way to harvest, they would have retrofitted these mines generations ago. Satisfied?”

  “No,” Hadeed said without abandon.

  Azir grunted as he turned to the pilot and whispered what Hadeed could only make out as obscenities before finally raising his voice. “Dahmer,” Azir addressed the pilot. “How many gene-sons do you have working the mines?”

  “Seven,” Dahmer paused. “At last count. Three are on the surface, working the kitchens.”

  “And did they ever complain about mine operations before they knew what among Hiebim they were talking about?”

  The men faced Hadeed simultaneously, and the boy made sure to hold his chin up.

  “Only things I ever heard,” Dahmer quipped, “were questions about when they could enter Apprentice Camp and cut their first sheet. Otherwise, I never gave them enough time of day
to be bothered.”

  “Maybe you should have,” Hadeed muttered at the instant the Scram jerked. The small vessel mated with its hatch and began being pulled inside the complex on a tractor beam. “They probably would have asked intelligent questions. Right, Azir?”

  “Eh.” Azir shook his head and grabbed at his beard. “Let me remind you, Hadeed, of our deal. I talk, you listen, you leave. I agreed to no debates or polemics about mining, the Chancellory, nothing. Break our deal, Hadeed, and you …”

  “Yes, yes. I know,” Hadeed waved off his gene-father. “You’ll shove me up the wrong side of a Matriarch so she can teach me a lesson.”

  “Too much trouble,” Azir said as he watched the red hatch lights indicate their first movement through Entry Quarantine. “I thought maybe a good shove off an excavation platform would be simpler. You could see the mines like nobody ever has, until you fall into the mule-hoes. Those drills will churn you until you’re not even large enough to be called a particulate.”

  The men shared a laugh and turned their backs on Hadeed, who quickly began to wonder why he thought this trip would be a good idea. The cabin remained silent for more than ten minutes, until the hatch lights turned green and the Scram’s stern entry port separated. On their way out, Azir whispered into Hadeed’s ear and passed the boy without waiting for a response.

  “Not a word.”

  Hadeed did as he was told for as long as he could manage. He followed his father deep into the complex, through a maze of narrow corridors, some barely wide enough for two adults to walk abreast. Passersby never acknowledged Azir or the boy, nor did Azir pay them any attention. Hadeed noticed the faces of his fellow Hiebim were often bowed, and the corridors silent. He heard not a whisper, only a low, steady vibration he would later learn to be a continuous feature whenever the mule-hoes were driving deeper into the planet, seven kilometers beneath this level of the complex. The occasional Chancellor passed them, easily discernible by jewels and other finery, as well as an extra six to eight inches over indigenous Hiebim. To Hadeed’s surprise, most of the Chancellors were women, each wearing a sarong in vivid pastels. While they also said nothing, they kept their heads high, and their eyes did not seem to blink.