The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  Hadeed sat in silent awe and believed every word. The picture finally made sense.

  Miriam explained how this understanding of truth about the Chancellory passed quietly down through the generations of her clan, some factions refusing to accept it, and all political routes to change were exhausted. Some, however, quietly worked in collaboration with the Chancellors in order to conceal their true purpose, the eventual removal of the Collectorate’s presence on Hiebimini. She was the fifth generation of Matriarch in charge of building hundreds of weapons caches throughout the planet, a slow process that could only succeed if it did not arouse Chancellor suspicions. She talked of the countless backroom deals made with Sanctum representatives, and favors garnered which allowed Polemicus to amass wealth exceeding all other clans, solely for the purpose of procuring weapons parts and corrupt ministers.

  “In some ways,” she said, “We have isolated ourselves from many Hiebim. The ultimate goal, however, is worth the sacrifice.”

  Hadeed was bursting with exhilaration. “You’re going to change everything, aren’t you?”

  “Change,” she said, “requires a lifetime of patience when the cause appears hopeless. You cannot defeat a superior enemy with naked aggression alone. There are less conspicuous routes to victory. Would you like to be a part of ours?”

  He never said yes. He didn’t have to. Rather, he wrapped his arms tightly around Miriam. They talked through the morning, interrupted only when Ronan briefed her on the afternoon agenda, and Miriam told Hadeed many secrets. He did not hear every word, however, because his heart was filling with a sensation unknown until this day. He realized he loved her. It was simple, it was complete, and it was eternal. He did not care about her age or if she ever returned the emotion. He knew he would be devoted to her for the rest of his life. He was Trayem – that would never change – but he had no desire to return to Asra.

  Over the next several weeks, Hadeed lived among Polemicus as one of them. He played haepong with their best and helped to coach the newbs. He made many friends, including a pair of elders who revised his views on matters Trayem Tariq would never touch. Miriam found him a job working the vegetable fields, and with his haebims he purchased new field robes, shoes, and a ceremonial gown. He remained in the annex and ate breakfast with Miriam every morning.

  As the weeks passed, he saw the discomfort in Ronan’s eyes each time the aide interrupted an intimate conversation. He tried to befriend Ronan, but the aide felt it was inappropriate. The Polemicus enclave was alive with celebration and electric personality throughout the work day and deep into the night. The clan celebrated Hadeed’s amazing accomplishments on the pack and revered him for his close connection to Miriam, their only Matriarch. He finished many nights falling into his bed overwhelmed by pints of crimson liquor and a kiss from the woman he loved. And then, on the sixtieth day since his arrival, he obeyed Miriam’s request to dress in ceremonial gown and follow her into the convocation temple.

  They entered a large circular room with ornately carved columns and wall tapestries, each of which displayed an episode from the exodus. Hundreds of Hiebim – men, women, older children – sat on bended knee in the center, hands resting upon their knees, and shombas lain to their sides. Hadeed could not breathe. He saw a revelation, something the clan had hidden from him all this time beneath their headdress. They were, like their Matriarch, completely bald.

  “Come,” she whispered.

  They walked around the outer perimeter of the room and stopped at a large, flat stone directly in front of the crowd. She sat upon the stone and told Hadeed to remain standing. All eyes fixed on Miriam.

  “This is my army,” she said. “They are committed to the ideals of Hiebimini for Hiebim. They will see this fight through, even with the knowledge it may stretch beyond their lifetimes. Each of them knows what may have to be sacrificed, but each of them finds courage through truth, and that will sustain them. Like them, Hadeed, you know the true nature of the Chancellory. Tonight, we invite you to join our army.”

  Hadeed scanned the eyes of Polemicus, the many faces he had seen the past two months, the friends he made, and even … there, in the front row, he saw Ronan. This time, Miriam’s aide offered the gentlest of nods and a cordial smile.

  “I accept your invitation,” Hadeed said.

  Amid the applause, Miriam leaned over to Hadeed. “Forgive Ronan if he has been distant. He’s very protective of me. He wanted to be sure about you. He encouraged me to proceed with this ceremony.”

  Hadeed nodded toward Ronan and reached for his shomba, but Miriam told him not to remove it. His hair had not been shorn, and there was still one matter to attend before that could happen. When they returned to her quarters, she got to the point at once.

  “Ronan reminded me that you must complete the Passage of Summit. You’ll be fifteen in just a few months, and certain traditions are inviolate, even among a progressive clan such as Polemicus. I believe in every way you are committed to the path, but you need to complete the journey to manhood. I realize Trayem will not be pleased at your having done this with another clan, but I suspect your preference is here.”

  Hadeed had often thought about Passage since he began his quest, wondering whether his obsession cost him the chance to complete this rite. Every boy dreamed of undergoing Passage, to release the raw inhibitions of the animal within, to cleanse himself of the limitations of childhood, and most importantly to be respected as a man. Not everyone survived the ritual.

  “A warrior,” he whispered then raised his voice. “I’m a warrior, Miriam. Warriors fight; sometimes they die. I know the Passage I have to take. I look up at it every day.”

  Miriam frowned. “Are you sure? There are three options to consider. Torture, endurance, battle. What you are proposing is all three. This may very likely kill you.”

  He smiled. “I know. But what else would a true warrior choose?”

  Miriam had no answer and bid him goodnight, saying they would discuss the details of Passage in the morning. Hadeed retreated to the annex, pondered the greatest challenge of his life, captured details of the yellow mesa in his mind’s eye, and prepared for bed. He removed his gown and undergarments and pulled back the covers. He heard footsteps behind him and turned.

  Miriam stood in the open doorway, her own gown nowhere to be seen. Hadeed stood spellbound, his heart racing as he realized the alabaster sculpture of Polemicus Miriam was indeed a magnificent work of art. An instant of fear vanished, and he threw aside the last remnant of propriety. He raced into the arms of his Matriarch, buried his lips in hers and surrendered to the experience of a woman forty years older and wiser.

  Three days later, as he neared the top of the mesa, Hadeed called upon his night of passion to fuel the last strength within. His muscles did not want to stretch, and he was sure he torn something in his left shoulder. His mouth tasted the bitter wood of the spelling blade’s hilt, which was deeply embedded in his teeth.

  He did not realize he was close to the top until he reached out and felt a flat surface. His right hand almost slipped away, unable to grip a ragged rock. So close, and he felt as if he could go no farther. But her words, her aroma, her flesh … they pushed him farther, and Hadeed reached the summit. He rolled over in agony and dropped the blade by his side. His shomba fell away, and Hadeed screamed. No inch of his body would allow him comfort. He resisted the tears that wanted to pour, for he knew there was an audience. He gathered himself together as best he could, swallowed hard in desperate need of water, and pressed his hands against the hot, flat surface of a fully-exposed summit. His skin burned, and he jumped to his feet, where the agony replayed, and the blood of his open wounds seared as if on a griddle. He grabbed his spelling blade, caught his breath and faced the audience.

  To his left, perhaps thirty meters away, Miriam and three elders stood silently in ceremonial gowns, behind them the Scram that brought them to the summit. To his right, but ten feet away, the very thing he dreaded having to face.


  Hadeed always knew he would have to engage in a ceremonial blade fight when he reached the summit, traditionally a battle with one of the clansmen who recently completed Passage. However, he did not realize the true nature of this climax until he had stood at the foot of the mesa, surrounded by hundreds of well-wishing clansmen and adoring haepong newbs. He went through his breathing exercises to prepare for the ascent and asked for his blade.

  Ronan stepped from the crowd and offered it open-handed. Hadeed had never looked closely into Ronan’s deep brown teardrop eyes, never saw the hardened lines, the ruddy cheeks. He promised to get to know Miriam’s aide much better when this task was complete.

  Ronan leaned over and whispered into his ear. “I love her.”

  Ronan turned away, but Hadeed understood. Ronan must have realized long ago what was happening, the bond between Hadeed and Miriam. Did he know about the other night? Did he truly understand the depth of Hadeed’s passion? Of course he did. The induction into Miriam’s army? The pressing need to complete Passage? Ronan advised her on both counts.

  Hadeed knew that even if he reached the summit alive, Ronan would be waiting, and the blade fight would be anything but ceremonial.

  Consequently, Hadeed was not surprised by Ronan’s attack stance at the top of the summit. The aide set his shomba aside and, like Hadeed, was clothed only over the groin. Hadeed gripped his blade and called upon skills learned on the pack.

  The instant Hadeed took a half-step forward, Ronan lunged with a guttural cry that haunted Hadeed. The exhaustion and heat stroke all but paralyzed Hadeed, and his vision blurred as his attacker came upon him. He swung his left arm as he might to fend off a gladiator and twisted his body on instinct, as he might to whirl his stick about in an effort to hurl a ball through the defense and into the goal. And still, the attacker’s blade got through. It cut into his belly and tore a path through his side.

  Hadeed screamed as he grabbed his abdomen and felt a pool of warm blood. He swirled about and faced Ronan, who gripped his blade waist-high, prepared to swing his battle hand upward and catch Hadeed beneath the heart – the traditional way to finish an’yal-fahr. Hadeed made the only maneuver he could think of, the one that made him so dangerous approaching the goal, the one signature move that cleared the way to his stardom.

  Hadeed moved his arms aside, leaving his chest wide open, allowing Ronan free access. His attacker fell for the trick. When Ronan leaped, Hadeed freed his body of all inhibitions and kicked out his legs. Hadeed slid forward as his back slammed to the hard surface, and his legs cut under Ronan like scissors. The attacker fell forward, his face-first tumble too sudden to allow a steady brace. Ronan gurgled as he slammed to the surface, and Hadeed knew what happened.

  He dropped his blade, reached out to Ronan, and realized his hands were coated in his own blood. Still, he turned Ronan over and stared into the desolate eyes of a dead man. Ronan’s blade buried itself just beneath the rib cage, so deep even part of its hilt was not visible.

  Hadeed had no more strength. He felt the blood pouring from his wounds, and he wanted to sleep. Perhaps to lay his head upon the chest of his first victim.

  Shadows fell upon him as Miriam and the elders raced to his side. Hadeed found the tiniest sliver of energy and looked up into her beautiful eyes and saw again his future.

  “He loved you,” Hadeed whispered through parched lips.

  Shortly before he lost consciousness, Hadeed laughed. He couldn’t help it. He was alive.

  NINE

  CONVERGENCE

  EPHRAIM HOLLANDER HAD NO WORDS for what he saw, only an overwhelming confirmation that the moment had come at last. The revelation lay before him on a wall of water in the well of his office within the Peoples Union. Again, he digested the classified document; its array of seismological, tectonic, geomagnetic and isostatic data – most of it in vivid, three-dimensional graphics – bombarded his senses. He followed the path of the report through mathematical computations the result of which appeared to be indisputable. He watched simulations with stilled breath and a knotted stomach. He read aloud the report’s abstract six times.

  Ephraim allowed the grand picture to wash over him. He was more at ease than any time since he first stepped onto Hiebim soil. He had occasionally doubted whether this day would arrive. He gathered his senses and summoned Elizer.

  “My apologies,” his aide said a moment later from behind the settee. “I had hoped to prepare you for this, sir. Dr. Sayn only released the report to me in the past hour.”

  Ephraim smiled. “Sweet Elizer. How often have I told you? No apologies. Not between you and I. Yes?”

  He waved off the graphics and left only Dr. Kendrick Sayn’s abstract on the CV’s water field. He read aloud the exogeologist’s forceful verbs and dramatic recommendations.

  “Elizer?” He asked. “Has this report been vetted by anyone else?”

  “No, sir. As per contract, he brought the findings directly to our office. He was genuinely concerned the Sanctum might suppress his work. He’s confident of your considerable abilities to circumvent the bureaucracy.”

  “I understand his concern. He knows what this will mean to the economics of the Collectorate. Elizer, his data is compelling. Yes? Is he certain of his timetable?”

  Elizer sighed. “With conviction. Based upon traditional production levels, the magnetic bleed from the brontinium mines will reach the core in ninety years. Once that happens, nothing can stop the core from becoming an unregulated superconductor. Its mass will expand and break through the mantle within days.”

  “And the Collectorate,” Ephraim concluded, “will recognize one less colonial flag.”

  “Unless we follow his recommendations.”

  Ephraim uncrossed his legs and repositioned himself. “Is that our next step, Elizer?”

  “I see no alternative, sir.”

  The regent flicked his wrist to order his aide to come around the settee. He reached out his left hand until Elizer grabbed it and gently lifted the regent from his seat. “Elizer, what do you anticipate the response to be if we propose the shutdown of all brontinium production?”

  “I would suppose …” Elizer hesitated, avoided Ephraim’s eyes. “Troublesome, of course. Yet we do have a ten-year surplus on the Leucanthia Station. And refined Carsinengin-1 can still be manufactured for twenty years past shutdown. If we stopped the flow now, perhaps the scientific corps would have time to develop new methods for mining and save the planet.”

  “Time? My sweet Elizer, an optimist by trade. Yes?” He pulled the aide closer and wrapped Elizer in a hug. “Even Dr. Sayn admits the bleeding is irreparable. If we shut down production today, this planet will still die within five hundred years. And what will be accomplished by a shutdown? The Hiebim economy will collapse, forcing the UG to provide life support to eighty million clay-diggers, the Sanctum will face an uproar from the admin councils on the Carriers, and every exogeologist within fifty light-years will be called upon to discredit Sayn’s work. And that, Elizer, will represent the public face of the crisis. The true impact …” He hesitated. “Suffice to say, the Collectorate will never recover.”

  Elizer pulled out of the hug. “I don’t understand, sir. The impact will be profound, yes, but surely we can fix …”

  Ephraim laid his right hand upon the CV console, and the water field disappeared.

  “Elizer, I have a very … intimate … knowledge of history. Yes? In the development of a species, there are seminal moments. Those moments are defined by the difficult but necessary choices of individuals capable of seeing beyond the pettiness of tomorrow. Have I ever told you the story of Frederic Ericsson?”

  “No, sir. The name seems familiar somehow.”

  “Few people know the details of his story anymore. Frederic was one of the first Consulate-Generals. His armies opened the campaign to eradicate the Heretics of God. He was a man of undeniable vision. He forged personal contact with the Tunisians. He presented himself as a savior, an end
to tribal wars that seemed without end. They consented to his plans without the slightest objection, even when told the scale of the war they would wage.

  “Before the campaign was done, almost one million men, women, and children were eradicated. All those touched by the Verse of God were executed. Their scriptures, their art, their music, their philosophy – erased from history. You see, Elizer, when Frederic stood upon the plateau looking out over the Petra Pass, he knew the Chancellors would become the de facto replacement for the God they worshiped. He saw well past the campaign and knew all of history would be changed by his actions. The Chancellors’ place in humanity’s hierarchy would be eternal.” Ephraim chuckled. “More or less.”

  “How do you know such details?”

  “As I said, my knowledge of history is intimate. The greater point, Elizer, is this. It was Frederic’s campaign that formed the basis for the mantra all Chancellors have followed for three thousand years. What were the three words you learned as soon as you were first able to speak?”

  Elizer stiffened his shoulders proudly.

  “Victory is morality.”

  Ephraim kissed his aide on the cheek.

  “Victory is …?”

  “Morality.”

  “And in the end, Elizer, nothing else matters. Frederic understood this. He knew that for the Chancellors to hold sway over future history, they could have no challengers, no distractions, no philosophy contrary to their own. It was our obligation to determine morality, to set the code in place and enforce it among all ethnic and social classes. If some were to be sacrificed in the interim, then their deaths were borne out of necessity. Yes? Elizer, what is happening to this world was always meant to happen. It is the natural course of things.”