“And there we are!” The approaching patron was considerably shorter – not quite seven feet tall – but he was full-bodied, his dark military uniform well-distributed and his chest all but hidden behind a barrage of medals. The patron, who drew upon a fat cigar, kept his winged cap tucked in his left hand against his side, and he extended his right hand to shake. Ephraim set aside his wine and gladly accepted his friend’s hand.
“Frederic,” he said, nodding. “You are looking quite … more than dapper, I would say. Commanding. Yes?”
Frederic Ericsson, the former Consulate-General of the Northern Domain, second generation Chancellor, and conqueror of the Heretics of God, puffed his chest.
“And in what other form might you expect a man of my stature?” Ericsson laughed at once, and Ephraim joined him. “Three thousand years on, and I am as relevant today as I was that first day on the Petra Pass. In some respects, more so. Yes?”
“No man shall ever accuse you of humility, Frederic. Still, I am pleased to see you. We have not done this in some time.”
Ericsson frowned. “You used to be a frequent host, my friend. You must have a great deal of news.”
“I do. This has been a significant day.”
Ericsson took a long drag upon his cigar and blew a steady stream of purple smoke, none of which Ephraim could smell. He wrapped an arm around Ephraim.
“Come and share, my friend, but keep your voice low. I rather doubt the others are eager to know how much closer we are to the end. Yes?”
SEVEN
EYES OPEN
The Haepong Bowl
FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD HADEED ran headlong across the wet, gooey red clay of the haepong pack even though his legs had nothing left to give. He did not care if this treacherous surface – softened by morning rain and churned up by six hours of First Tier matches – had already taken out half his teammates, some with game-ending cartilage rips but most with clean ankle breaks. He hardly thought to breathe as he raced toward a phalanx of defenders who stood between him and the goal. He whipped his striker’s stick out beyond his left shoulder, glancing only for a millisecond to confirm that the ball – yellow when the match began but now painted in red clay – remained in his net. Hadeed swerved, almost lost his balance, and kicked up clay, some of it splattering his face shield. He licked his lips, could taste the bitter soup, and spat at those who tried to stop him. The background roar of the clansmen who filled the stadium stoked Hadeed’s adrenalin just enough for a final move – the one he had been holding in reserve all season.
The back guards formed a concave perimeter to shut off Hadeed’s approach and prevent his passing the ball to a teammate. As they extended their netted sticks, Hadeed threw his legs out and slid forward across the pack as if on ice. He flipped his net and passed the ball skyward, leaving just enough of an angle to make the back guards think they could catch it. He attacked at the instant their eyes raced upward, hitting the center of the phalanx before they realized his deception. He brought the stick across his body, firmed it with both hands, and used it to cut the legs out from beneath the two closest back guards. As he heard their face shields smack the clay, Hadeed turned on his side and stopped his momentum, flipped up in time to see the red ball splatter directly between him and the keeper, then needed less than the wink of an eye to orient himself. He was inside the hemispheric goal-assault box, where rules against waist-high contact did not exist. He knew the keeper would sacrifice himself to reach the ball first. They lunged, their sticks extended. When Hadeed realized the keeper had half a step on him, he ignored the ball, reared back with his stick and used it as a weapon. The keeper’s face shield cracked; the keeper, who had not yet lifted the ball to claim possession, wobbled in place.
The ball spurted free, and Hadeed removed his last obstacle by grabbing the keeper’s stick and impaling it in the boy’s gut. The keeper fell unconscious into the muck then Hadeed netted the ball and flung it into the undefended net. Almost simultaneously, the back guards he eluded now surged from behind and body-slammed him into the muck at the base of the goal. The pain of their fists in his sides did not compare to the flaming agony when the butt of a stick was jammed into his lumbar less than an inch from his spine.
None of this mattered, for the match was over – the tenth goal secured – and once again, Hadeed rose slowly from the pack and acknowledged the hero worship of his clan and his teammates. Drenched in red mud, every muscle throbbing and a sudden, sharp pain radiating along his side, Hadeed raised his fists toward the sky. He heard the chant of “Trayem” from the mixed-clan crowd and the curses of the boys he bested. He stumbled aimlessly, on the verge of collapse, before his teammates encircled him and carried him off the pack to a waiting team of field surgeons, who assaulted him with lasers and sonic relaxants.
He gave in to the pain and the glory all at once, for he had been in this position many times, enduring the unendurable because he knew the surgeons would bring his internal injuries under control within minutes and ready his body for the next match. Hadeed focused on the adulation of his teammates and the crowd’s chant of his name, even as he vaguely heard a field surgeon discuss a twelve-inch gash down Hadeed’s side. His body was on fire, exhilarating him; most Hiebim admired this passage through pain as proof of the warrior spirit. Haepong was their battlefield; many Hiebim believed Hadeed would one day be the greatest warrior on the pack.
When the field surgeons completed their work, Hadeed’s teammates lifted him on their shoulders and carried him around the Haepong Bowl, a century-old stadium literally carved out of a plateau overlooking the purple plains of Messalina.
“Ah-rooh, ah-rooh, ah-rooh,” he shouted, his fist pumped toward the sky.
“Ah-rooh, ah-rooh, ah-rooh,” his supporters responded in unison.
Hadeed looked toward the exclusive seating in the upper bowl, where Chancellors – some of them surrounded by peacekeepers in crimson armor – watched the proceedings with apparent indifference, as if they were scientists studying the behavior of laboratory animals.
His attention turned quickly, however, to a scuffle in the crowd closest to the field. Men of opposing clans – his own and those of Harkim, in which all men wore thick beards and long, braided hair – were pushing, shoving, and pointing fingers. Hadeed’s gene-father, Azir, was at the center of the row, with several clansmen trying to shield him from assault. Trayem feared such a public confrontation after scandal recently erupted at the Agriculture Ministry. Although Hadeed could not hear the war of words, he could imagine what was being said.
Azir had been an unpopular choice four years earlier when the Chancellor-stacked Regional Sanctum appointed him to a deputy post in the ministry. He seemed to have few qualifications, and the Harkim believed they were entitled to the post, a rare honor for an average Hiebim. Nothing came of the animosity until a month before this match, when a Harkim elder was forced out of the ministry by Azir, who was accused of double-dealing in favor of a female elder from the eclectic Lessem clan, one of the few that allowed women to serve in public office. Hadeed never approached Azir about the accusations, certain he would not get a straight answer.
As with all haepong victories, this one was short-lived. By the next day, Hadeed returned to the insular world of his enclave and went about his schooling and farming as another face in the clan. He overheard the elders’ whispers about the incident at the Bowl. Only one word repeated itself: Reprisal. He saw it in their eyes, heard the trepidation in their voices. They did not believe Azir could survive the scandal unless he resigned his post.
Five days after the victory at the Haepong Bowl, the air was stiff and cold as the sun rose and Hadeed made his daily training run through the center of Asra. He turned into the courtyard of the administrative complex and realized something was wrong. He saw a cluster of young peacekeepers in their crimson armor standing in a huddle near a dry fountain in the center of the courtyard. A pair of robed Hiebim men gathered many meters away, crying on each other’s shoul
ders; Hadeed did not recognize their clan affiliation. He did, however, see a body lying prostrate at the base of the fountain. He did not hesitate to approach, even though the last time he was this close to a peacekeeper, he had his first experience with excruciating pain.
The peacekeepers – both boys and girls – appeared no older than Hadeed. They were, however, taller and sporting monstrous, ripped muscles. He assumed this was a function of the early training and genetic manipulation all Chancellor children were rumored to receive. When they focused attention upon him, Hadeed saw their faces tighten, their features appearing somewhat sunken and empty. Suddenly, they were much older and, at some level, inhuman. He had never been this close, never seen a group of the children of privileged Earth, never wondered how they could be of the same species. He managed to glance between a pair of soldiers, looking beyond their dispersal weapons to the face of the dead Hiebim by the fountain.
Azir’s eyes were open and staring into oblivion. He wore a long, crème robe. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary except for the narrow red stain in the center of Azir’s abdomen, just beneath his rib cage. Hadeed instantly recognized cause of death.
“Know him?” A tall, blond soldier with a thick, white goatee interrupted Hadeed’s anger.
“Yes. He was … he was …”
“Hold on a moment. I know you. Saw you on the stream.”
Other peacekeepers chimed in immediately; Hadeed heard his name. He could not take his eyes off Azir, but he heard words far short of adulation. One soldier even hissed.
“You have some moves, I’ll score you that,” the blond soldier said. “But the way you people play in the mud – that’s savage. You ever feel like doing some real ’pong, come up to the Nephesian.” The soldier moved in, his odorous breath almost able to shake Hadeed’s eyes from his gene-father. “Not that your kind could ever afford an uplift pass. They’d probably have to keep you in quarantine for days just to get the smell off you.”
The other soldiers laughed, and Hadeed turned his eyes to the blond boy. He wet his lips; his mind was a blank. The soldier’s eyes bulged and twinkled. Hadeed could sense the boy was waiting for an excuse; he was bored, needed action, wasn’t getting enough of the Hiebim blood he was trained to take. And then, like a revelation, the words passed Hadeed’s lips before he realized they were coming.
“One day, I’ll kill all of you. It’ll be just like with him,” he said, pointing to Azir. “I’ll take a curved spelling blade and jam it into your gut and twist it upward until it punctures your heart. I’ll stare you straight in the eyes when I do it.”
The peacekeepers fell into raucous laughter. The tall blond patted Hadeed on the head.
“You clay diggers are a sorry lot, but you got a sense of humor. I’ll score you that.”
He wanted to kill the soldier then and there, but Hadeed knew he would have had no chance. Suddenly, the laughter stopped and the peacekeepers stood erect and emotionless. An officer upwards of eight feet tall and perhaps twenty years old sidled up to the blond boy, who saluted by slicing his right hand over his heart.
“Problem here?” The commander asked.
“No, sir. We were just commending this … um, Trayem … on his exceptional haepong skills. He won quite the notoriety at last week’s …”
“Trayem?” The commander sneered. “Dead man related to you?”
“Gene-father.”
The commander sniffed. “We’re sorry for your loss, I’m quite sure. Yes? He was a sorry fellow, criminal of sorts. I’m sure you know all about it. Reprisals are nasty business. Don’t understand why you Hiebim can’t allow justice to take its proper course. You people have been using spelling blades this way for so long, I don’t believe you’d recognize justice if it flew in on a dust storm. Word of warning, Trayem. If you wish your haepong career to have any measure of success, I recommend you dissociate from this one,” he said, pointing to the body. “We can’t guarantee your safety if the Harkim decide to come for you next time. Move on, please.”
The commander didn’t pause between breaths before turning his back on Hadeed and barking orders to his peacekeepers. Hadeed stepped away, and as he looked around the courtyard, he realized all other backs were turned as well. He didn’t know what it meant, only that he had seen the truth emerge in the commander’s final words. Hadeed seethed, as the confusion begun seven years earlier finally stepped into the light. This time, he told himself, the clan would listen. They would accept what he discovered. He had exposed the hypocrites.
His feet told him to run, but his eyes were more cautious. They scanned the courtyard once more and then lighted toward the second level, where he saw a cluster of robed Hiebim talking with Chancellors who were draped in finery imported from Earth. Their conversations were low but congenial, as they exchanged smiles and side-nods. One man in particular caught Hadeed’s eye. The fedora. The red cape. The blue glasses. No … was this possible?
For just an instant, their eyes met. No words passed Hadeed’s lips, only the silent breath of vile terror. The man who once escorted Hadeed to the bowels of the Agriculture Ministry nodded, gave the boy a tip of his hat, then resumed his conversation. Seconds later, the group disappeared inside. Hadeed wanted to speak, he wanted to know why. He wanted a name. Yet he knew he could neither gain information nor do anything provocative. The Hiebim who followed the man in blue glasses had seemed as enamored as the Trayem leaders who accepted water and poltash weed in Hadeed’s bedroom so many years ago.
Hadeed ran home at top speed and practically barreled over the elder Tariq, who was preparing for his workday in hydroponics. Hadeed pushed Tariq into the man’s private quarters, made sure no one was within listening range, and related what he saw in the courtyard. Tariq turned white for a few seconds, quickly regained his composure, and said the Matriarch had warned Azir of this possibility. They had asked him to resign his post, but Azir was stubborn.
“He had to know the Harkim were serious,” Tariq said. “I don’t understand why they …”
“The Harkim didn’t do this,” Hadeed said triumphantly. “It wasn’t a reprisal.”
“But of course it was. You said …”
“I said he was killed by a spelling blade. I recognized the wound. I could do as good a job if I needed to. But they left his body in the center of the courtyard for everyone to see. No Hiebim would do that. You told me yourself: It’s shameful to commit an’yal-fahr and leave the victim anywhere other than a place where he would be found by a member of his own clan. Don’t you see, Tariq? This is the truth we’ve been turning our eyes away from as long as we’ve known Hiebimini. The Chancellors are behind this. They’re sending a message …”
Tariq pulled away and chuckled, but Hadeed wasn’t going to slow down.
“They’re reminding us who’s in control. They’re saying they can turn us against each other whenever they want and in whatever way they want. We’re savages to them. They’re playing us, Tariq. The Chancellors are playing us.”
Tariq poured a cup of café and sipped slowly, unconcerned. He shook his head and asked for Hadeed to settle down for a long talk.
“No, Tariq. No more. It’s time for honest words about the Chancellors. And then action.”
“Ah, my sweet Hadeed. Will you now tell me the Chancellors are not the humanitarians they claim to be? That they in fact are subverting our rights, denying us the prosperity to which we are entitled, and using our own factious history against us by treating the clans as playthings? Will you tell me this, Hadeed?”
Hadeed smiled. “And more.”
Tariq sipped café and sighed. “I foolishly believed Alessa had put your anger to rest four years ago. Hadeed, every boy your age goes through a phase of discontentment and inquiry. Nonetheless, the explanation for your confusion is simple. You are fourteen, the same age where Chancellors become adults and qualify to join the peacekeepers. You see their brilliant uniforms, their immaculately sculpted bodies, and you think of the adventure before them. Yo
u think of the lives they must lead on the Ark Carriers. The envy is understandable. Moreover …”
“You’re a fool. All of you.” Hadeed revealed what happened when he was seven. However, Tariq’s expression never changed, which infuriated the boy. “You think I was delusional? It was the one who increased our rations, who gave us the poltash. He did it to me … and for no reason at all. Don’t you understand, Tariq? The Chancellors don’t care about us. They give us what we need to survive as long as we help them mine their precious brontinium. Worse yet, he was there today. The same Chancellor. This can’t be a coincidence.”
“Oh, Hadeed. Why must you insist …?”
“Why, Tariq? Because somebody has to. I can’t live like this! We are nothing but crushed poltash beneath their boot-soles. We don’t ask for anything but food, water, shelter, and clan, and that’s all they give us. What wonders are on those Carriers we’ll never know about? Why can’t we travel the Collectorate freely like they do? Why haven’t our deserts been terraformed? We’ve been here for a thousand years!” He swatted the cup from Tariq, spilling café at their feet. “And why, in the name of blessed Trayem, do you not see the injustice in front of your eyes? Is it like this in all the clans? Are we such little people we can’t even ask for a piece of the Chancellors’ true wealth and knowledge? When Azir showed me the mines, he said the Chancellors shared their wealth with us. Where is it, Tariq? Look around. Where is it?”
Before the elder could speak, Hadeed balled his fists and allowed the blasphemy he’d long kept behind his lips to escape. “You’re a fraud, Tariq. You and all the elders.”
The Father Unbound Page 8
