The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  Willem glanced down, flipped his left hand up and revealed a red, glowing timer. He took a deep breath and faced Thatcher. The boss was not going to like what was coming next.

  “Yes,” Willem agreed. “We could.”

  * * *

  Hadeed never lost his taste for poltash weed. Although every puff reminded him of the torture room beneath the Agricultural Ministry, it also provided a sensual connection to Miriam. The smoke filled his lungs and lightened his burdens. When he fled Polemicus, he stole the last of Miriam’s stash, which he stretched out for almost two years. Ever since, he found more of the valued weed through the black market. Few of his disciples joined him in the indulgence, most equating it with Chancellor luxuriance. Yet he insisted this was the natural product of Hiebim labor, a weed unique to their world and as much an entitlement for them as for Chancellors. Out of respect for their mixed views, he rarely smoked in front of them. But this night, after draping himself in his robe and insisting upon the same from Adair, he lit his pipe and inhaled deeply.

  He sat with her as he indulged, and he never considered sharing the weed. She sat quietly, her head on his shoulder, but her lips moved.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he demanded.

  “That you are more than my Honor. You’re my savior.”

  As much as his ego argued the point, Hadeed cringed. “Do you believe we have conceived a child?”

  The tiny drabs of blood on her neck had dried. “I’m certain. Are you pleased?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. Of course. But there will have to be changes. You understand?”

  She nodded. “Everything about me is yours, Honor.”

  He stood, the pipe tucked between his lips. “Finish dressing and return to your tent, Adair. We can discuss the logistics tomorrow and …”

  “No, Honor. Now. Whatever your terms, I am yours.”

  He could hardly face her. Her submissiveness repulsed him. “Very well. First thing in the morning, you are to shave your head. Apply venix oil. After tonight, I should never again see you with hair on your head. Is that understood?”

  She began to cry. “The final symbol of fealty. I’ve been hoping for this moment. Finally, I can honor you … and her. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. This oath binds you to me, Adair. You will never leave the wash without my permission. Your clan will not see you again … until after the war. And as for my … my child … you will protect him until he is born. No more field training after three months. And after he is born, I will be his father.” He felt a surge of disgust at the Matriarchy, and Azir filled his mind’s eye. “I will be everything to him. Do you understand?”

  He saw the mindless devotion in her eyes and didn’t need to hear her response. Before she left, she made a request.

  “One time,” she said, pointing to his pipe. “I’ve never had any. I want it from you.”

  His stomach churned at the very idea, but Hadeed granted her request, knowing it was likely the last time he would ever need to be so generous with her. He brought her close and inhaled from his pipe. She closed her eyes, opened her lips and kissed him as he exhaled smoke.

  The last image he had of Adair was of her floating from his lair, a young woman who had already been given the most wonderful gift she would receive in her lifetime. He tightened his shoulders, told himself to ignore the future and focus upon the present. He turned, studied the holographic clock, and knew it was time. He wished Willem good luck.

  * * *

  Fergus Willem felt exhilarated.

  “Mr. Thatcher, do you know about a molecular bonding agent called Phalyotrax?”

  “Never heard of it, Fergus.”

  “Few have. They used it back in the days when the first colony ships were being designed. They were afraid the ships might not survive long journeys inside the Fulcrum. So Phalyotrax came along. Powerful chemical, they said. Increase the strength of hull plating a thousand-fold. Impressive, Mr. Thatcher?”

  The facility supervisor yawned. “Should I be interested in this story, Fergus?”

  “Without doubt, Mr. Thatcher. You see, Phalyotrax appeared to work for a while. Then there was an incident. A meteor crushed through the hull of a tourist ship. It killed young children in the sleeping compartment. Soon enough, the people who understood such things determined that Phalyotrax’s molecular bonding broke down after a few years. It was worthless. They scuttled ships, they imploded buildings. Many very angry Chancellors. Sure you haven’t heard of this?”

  Thatcher did not bother to reply; he stared out across the vast flatlands toward the mine.

  “As the story goes,” Willem continued, “one of the Euro-Egyptians who founded Hiebimini brought the chemical formula with him so he could build enclaves for the sorry Arabis lot – our types, you understand – then make a fortune and retire to Earth in luxury.”

  “Strong profit motive,” Thatcher mumbled.

  “Turns out, the formula fell into the hands of an early Matriarch of Polemicus. They kept the records all these centuries. Someone I know and admire, even love, found those records a few years ago. He didn’t know what he had at first. But then he learned … oh, he learned. It was an accident, actually. But he found out something about Phalyotrax. A unique new property.”

  Thatcher cleared his throat. “If you are suggesting that somehow this … Phalyotrax? … could be useful to our operations here, I suggest you turn it over to our engineers and they will go through the normal channels of the bureaucracy …”

  “Useful? Yes,” he told Thatcher. “And for the facility. Yes. But I think you misunderstand, Mr. Thatcher. I’ve been studying the facility of late. Did you know, for instance, that the radial struts supporting the interface zone between the kitchens and the refueling depot must be assessed for metal fatigue at least every seven days?” Willem got the confused grimace he expected. “More important, if one of those struts should reach terminal failure, a chain reaction could result. Those struts are incredibly heavy. If they were to collapse and puncture the fuel depot, the release of folium gas would trigger an explosion equal to a force-9 tremor, which could in turn destabilize one or more of the kitchens. The resulting disaster could put this station out of business for months. Not to mention the cost in lives.”

  Thatcher placed his hands on his hips and stepped in close to Willem.

  “Why in the stars are you telling me this? Do you think I don’t know how the technology of this facility works?”

  “Not entirely. If you did, sir, you’d pay closer attention to the maintenance logs. You might even suspect your laborers of being less than competent. A security risk, perhaps.”

  Thatcher’s eyes bulged, but words did not cross his lips. Willem knew the realization was just about to set in.

  “This is where Phalyotrax comes in. Hmm. It was so easy, sir.” He took a deep breath and barely contained the pounding of his heart. “Here’s the thing. A few centuries ago, after Phalyotrax went out of favor, the Collectorate changed its communication frequencies to the Carillas band. Turns out, one of those frequencies alters the chemical reactions within Phalyotrax. Turns it into fissionable material. Just … one … frequency.”

  Willem pressed a node on the side of the timer. A second later, the station shook, and the echoes of violent crashes could be heard under the landing pads.

  “No,” Thatcher whispered. “You …”

  Hell ascended in a plume of flame first yellow then blue. When the plume died, a series of smaller explosions ripped apart the two primary landing pads and rushed through the underground loading bay. A white glow emanated from the terminal directly above the kitchens. Thunderous pops in rapid succession were followed by the disappearance of the terminal beneath the surface.

  Thatcher was thrown off his feet, but Willem secured himself against the grille. Thatcher’s horrified eyes glowed red and orange in the chaos. He lunged for Willem.

  “You will pay …” Thatcher started to say, and then fell silent, a stunned,
gurgling monolith with eyes wide and unblinking. He looked down to see a spelling blade embedded in his chest.

  Willem looked the Chancellor in the eyes. He saw the fear, the panic, the arrogance even in the face of death, and he said:

  “Our goals are bigger than yours, Augustus.”

  Willem pressed down on the handle and could sense the blade twisting upward, piercing his victim’s heart. Exactly in the old tradition of the clans.

  As he anticipated, the explosions reached the central kitchen. He did not have time to be concerned with how many innocents were being burned alive. All he knew was the fires were raging directly beneath the platform; fires so intense no one would see the entry wound on Thatcher’s ashen remains. He tossed the body over the grille.

  He disappeared into the chaos of fleeing workers and Chancellor supervisors and knew what the post-mortem on this disaster would be. Metal fatigue. Incompetent contractors. Aging kitchens. A tragedy, albeit reparable. They wouldn’t see the evidence of Phalyotrax, exactly as Hadeed had predicted. And that, Hadeed told him, would serve the cause evermore.The experiment was a resounding success.

  FIFTEEN

  NEWBORN

  HADEED ENTERED A REFLECTIVE MODE as he stared out across the wash, his mind almost sinking into a trance. He bent down upon one knee an inch from the edge of the scarp. There, he waited patiently as Damon read the latest and most important entries from Hadeed’s manifesto. Hadeed did not turn around, did not want to distract his most loyal brother, who scrolled through more than fifty CV glyphs. He fully understood the gravity of these entries, how they proposed to change the geometry of their world, their culture, their very being. These were words he had hesitated to transdict until he believed the movement of Hiebimini for Hiebim was prepared to take the next critical step. Their very essence always burned his heart and fired his blood, but to see them on a CV document used to frighten him away from taking this course.

  Now, with his son less than a day from being born, nine months removed from the success at the Lucian Valley Uplift Station, Hadeed could not wait any longer.

  The movement was striking out in many directions, all of them far more subtle than the explosion that killed fifty-five workers and Chancellor supervisors. His tiny, sleeping cells of disciples were moving into key positions within their clans, becoming low-level operatives at regional government facilities, joining wait-lists for commercial uplift flight training, consolidating their presence at key brontinium mines via job transfers, and applying for rotations in entry-level urban sanitary maintenance or ground transit mechanics. This migration into new positions which many Hiebim abhorred and for which the bureaucracy of the Sanctums paid little notice was crucial. The greater plan, which Hadeed refused to transdict or confide in his brothers, depended upon the successful placement of these cells. And yet, they were far from enough.

  “We’re stretched too thin,” he had recently confided to his First Circle of advisors and generals. “Even if all do their bidding when the time comes, we will have no army to pursue the fight once chaos reigns. We have to consider alternative methods of indoctrination.”

  Fergus Willem, who walked with a great spark in his step since his triumph at Lucian Valley, asked the question on all their minds.

  “Honor, the one certainty all of us can agree is that we will never have an army large enough to win a direct conflict with the peacekeeper armada. What size will be necessary to frighten them away before such a battle takes place?”

  “In addition to our cells,” he said, “three thousand.”

  They scanned each other nervously. Benazir Asiah, once a haepong champion who walked the Nephesian with Hadeed, stroked an ebony beard modeled on that of his liege.

  “Your math is precise, Honor,” he said. “And I dare say your model of embedded guerilla tactics will be especially frustrating to the rigid maneuvers of the UG scourge. How is it that you come to this number? There are more than half a million Chancellors and their peacekeeper filth on those Carriers. There are eighty million Hiebim, and almost none of them have embraced our vision. Why three thousand?”

  Others of the Circle mumbled, more so at Asiah’s audacity to question the plan than at Hadeed’s math. Hadeed was impressed at the growth of his former teammate.

  “The precise number is irrelevant,” Hadeed said with a smile. “Five thousand is more satisfying than three, and seven even more than that. We would kill more peacekeepers. No, I chose three because that is all we can expect to have in our movement by the dawn of war. After nine years, we have barely four hundred who are willing to die for a new Hiebimini. I believe the eventual distribution of my manifesto will change some minds. Combine that with new methods of indoctrination, and we’ll have enough to awaken the whole of the Collectorate.”

  Now, two weeks later, Hadeed prepared to deliver to his people the final message about their future. He fell so deeply into a trance-like state that he did not realize Damon had finished the text until he was tapped on the shoulder. He swung about quickly and saw tears in the eyes of his aide. He rose.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry,” Hadeed said, “not even after Miriam.”

  Damon swallowed hard. “I … I always knew … it was something within me that said this was where you were leading us. An instinct, perhaps. But I was never able to believe. Hadeed, this vision is … so beautiful. And yet, it terrifies me. I never felt more terror in the presence of a peacekeeper. I never dreaded being tortured or mutilated at their barbaric hands as much as I dread your words. It is … it is …”

  “The logical extension of everything I’ve been teaching for the past nine years. It is also the only course, as Hiebim, that we can possibly take. The only one the people will believe.”

  “Or resist out of sheer self-interest.”

  Hadeed wrapped an arm around Damon’s shoulders. “The specter of change can be enough to sicken any human. But the overthrow of an institution a thousand years old … that is enough to stop heartbeats. Still, it is the only way. You see that, Damon?”

  Damon wiped his tears. “Oh, yes. I … Hadeed, I could have stayed with them. Polemicus, I mean. I could have cowered before the new Matriarch and lived in peace. But all my dreams would have died there. I would have had the memories of her, but nothing else. I would’ve been part of another wasted generation. And now, to read these words, to know what’s coming …” He fought to hold back sobs. “Even if I die tomorrow, I’ll know there was purpose.”

  “And so will the Circle.”

  Damon sniffed. “Should I uplink these entries to the master text?”

  “No. The final edict will be too harsh for the general population. They need to understand the vision, not the reality. We will wait until immediately after the plan is executed. In the meantime, the rest of the manifesto is ready for distribution.”

  Damon nodded beneath a cloudless sky. “If I die, Hadeed, let it be at your side.”

  That night, less than an hour after sunset, while Baqqari Adair went into labor inside the lair she shared with four other female disciples, Hadeed and his First Circle of twenty-five advisors sat down to a communal meal inside the camp’s master tent. He sanctified the meal of harshroot soup and sponge-like huffa bread, which they ate while sitting with crossed legs upon a floor of braided rugs, each man’s shomba and each woman’s arbiya scarf by his or her side. Their heads were shaven and long ago bathed in venix oil, assuring that their fealty was pure and permanent. They ate in silence, as was custom, and only when the last finished did Hadeed turn out his palms and provide the signal for conversation to begin.

  The talk was, as usual, of little consequence; nothing more than the random chatter of men and women satisfied with their day and the company of those with like mind. Hadeed listened, but his stomach churned. He knew they would be unprepared, but his instinct told him this time was right. He had heard the growing whispers of what he would do when his son was born, about why the movement had not yet adopted its own Book
of Assignment, about the role Adair would play as mother. They were not set up to provide the traditional two-year isolation of mother and newborn as were the enclaves. It was a growing controversy which Damon had frequently advised Hadeed to confront. Each time, Hadeed offered the same word: “Patience.”

  Hadeed reached into a side pocket of his robe and pulled out his pipe, which he filled with poltash. In the past few months, as black market thefts of the weed grew easier and more disciples took up the luxury, Hadeed began to smoke publicly more often. No one at the communal meal, however, dared reveal his or her own pipe before Hadeed. Only after he took his first puffs did more than a dozen others follow suit. A smoke cloud formed above them, and the sweet milk of poltash essence filled every inch of the tent.

  “Honor,” said Asiah between puffs. “Have you heard about the birth? Is it going well?”

  “A long labor, I understand, but no complications are expected. Any hour now.”

  Asiah lifted his glass and nodded. “To the first heir.”

  “To the first heir,” the others repeated in unison.

  Hadeed knew this was his moment. He steeled his nerves and realized his whole life had been leading to this night.

  “More than an heir,” he told them. “He is the symbol of my promise to you. He is the symbol of our greatest ambitions and our darkest fears. He is the path we have no choice but to walk.” He took a final puff and set his pipe aside. No one would dare speak until he finished.

  “The scourge of a man’s life is when it is not his own. He lives by the comfort of others, is assigned a destiny before he is even able to understand the words, and allows his heart to be muted by a cultural institution that is intolerant of natural will. At each turn where both his heart and his mind judge the institution to be counter to natural will, he defers to the institution itself for solace and absolution. He will not allow himself to see behind the veil because he does not know how to look. Te day comes when his flesh can bear no more and he turns to dust, only at the last regretting the scourge of his life.”