The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  “I know, I know,” Tariq said when Capt. Nashua eyed him a sympathetic glance. “Full customs for me, as usual. Perhaps one day they’ll decide I’m more than a typical clay digger.”

  “One day,” said Capt. Nashua as he unstrapped himself. “I hope you’re a patient man.”

  He was. So much so that he casually followed the captain out the rear of the transport and onto the bustling hangar. This was his twentieth visit. In all that time, he had never bothered to tour Nephesian City. Now he would not get the chance, but he was not concerned. He was calm, his heart was free, and his smile was large as he followed the captain to the bypass. He dropped his arm over the Chancellor’s shoulder, reached into a pants pocket, and grabbed a detonator.

  “I only have a minute,” he said, “but I’d like to tell you a story.”

  Capt. David Nashua stood dumbfounded, especially because Tariq was glowing.

  Far below, in Nephesian City, a class of near-graduates of Tier 2 Educate gathered at a park at the base of a waterfall and prepared to have lunch while discussing their philosophy professor’s lecture on Cultural Mythology and the Ethnic Dilemma. These twelve- and thirteen-year-olds engaged in lively debate while Prof. Julia Adams, a former prime regent of Xavier’s Garden, listened to her eager students with pleasure. The city’s artificial sun levitated hundreds of meters directly above, warming the city while moving slowly within its containment field, just beneath the buttresses that hid the hangar decks and the peacekeeper fleet.

  Not far away, in the heart of the city’s shopping district, Harkem Azir and Telemachus Herod shared a hug. They had been the closest of friends long before they earned work-exchange internships aboard Nephesian. When they were first told of what would be expected of them, they were terrified, but they adored Hadeed and believed in the greater vision. They did not, however, expect the internships to come through. The list was too long, they insisted, and no one knew whether such opportunities were real or another Chancellor illusion. Yet, here they were, more than three months after their exchange began. They worked in sanitation and had no hope of anything more complex, but they did not mind. They were very patient.

  They kissed each other on the cheeks and said goodbye. Azir awaited a levitating train that would take him to the aft engineering sector, while Herod boarded a train toward the forward command and diplomatic sectors.

  At that moment, in the capital city Messalina, Charles Oliver Maxwell, the 359th Prime Regent of Hiebimini, found himself late for a morning conference with two of his oldest friends from the Mining Oversight Presidium. They were going to discuss the latest management turnover at the Radnor mine, and he suggested they do it while having tea on the veranda overlooking the central courtyard of the People’s Union. However, his aide, who needed to be replaced with someone considerably more efficient, had not come around to rouse him from bed per usual. He hurried into his suit, threw water on his face, and covered his unkempt hair with a fedora he recently purchased in an open market. As he rushed for tea, Charles Maxwell made a note to send a beam to his wife and daughter aboard the Carrier Hephaestus to let them know he’d be on the afternoon transport. He made sure his pants were crease-free then hurried along the corridors of the People’s Union.

  The promenade was not as hectic as usual. The morning was still young, and most of the diplomatic staff had not yet arrived. Maxwell rushed past a few Hiebim support workers, none of who made eye contact. He did not care. However, a Hiebim of a surprising variety suddenly appeared from behind a large column. He wore a black shomba and with most of his face hidden behind a veil, clearly wanted Maxwell’s attention – his eyes were wide and focused. Maxwell stumbled to a halt when the Hiebim blocked his path.

  “What the bloody dickens are you supposed to be?” Maxwell asked.

  “I have a message, Mr. Prime Regent,” the disciple said. “Hiebimini for Hiebim.”

  A man who had followed Hadeed’s truth for sixteen years unveiled a plasma pistol from beneath his cloak and shot Charles Maxwell between the eyes. The back of the prime regent’s head exploded, and what was left of his brain hit the promenade floor before his body. The shot echoed along the promenade, but this impossible sight did not immediately register to all those who witnessed a sudden government vacancy.

  On the far side of Messalina, the bazaars along the waterfront of the Bengalese River were opening for business. Most had modest customer traffic this early. However, the “Native Treasures,” a famous market of traditional Hiebim wares ranging from supposedly hand-crafted rugs to pottery to jewelry, was thriving. This was where the tourists came. All the brochures directed them here. Naturally, they were reminded to take special care of personal possessions and watch their children. Few of these visitors ever claimed to be buying for themselves, of course. They would have their purchases shipped back to Earth or whatever colony they called home as a pleasant diversion for a friend or relative.

  Few ever remarked that the only indigos present were those behind the counters. Had they been paying very close attention on this morning, they would have noticed an indigo boy in their midst wearing a black shomba.

  Mallik Raji was twelve years old, and he remembered nothing about the clan he was born into. His life began the night he was taken from his bed as a five-year-old and delivered to the Lucian Wash. He thought of his first instructor, Baqqari Adair, like a mother, and Hadeed like a father. For that, Raji was happy. His parents had saved him. They showed him the path of truth and taught him the face of undeniable evil. Now, as he stood amid that evil, Raji knew this was where he was supposed to be.

  He grabbed the coattail of an eight-foot-tall Chancellor woman. When she turned around and peered at him as if he were a rodent, she seemed to blot out the morning sun. He cleared his throat. He could not help himself; his tears flowed freely. The woman noticed and looked around defensively as if she was responsible for hurting the child.

  “I have a message,” Raji said timidly before raising his voice. “Hiebimini for Hiebim.”

  He pulled back his cloak to reveal Hadeed’s bloody handprint above his heart and an inner vest to which were attached several bags of a viscous white fluid. Raji pressed the trigger button in his free hand.

  A flash of white light preceded thunder. The ground shook as the market splintered in every direction. The concussion of the blast threw distant bystanders into the river. Handmade crafts and body parts became projectiles, and blood painted the riverfront. It was over within three seconds, and then silence fell over the bazaars. The first moans and cries for help would be slow in coming.

  Across the city, Benazir Muhammat relished in his assassination of Charles Maxwell. Muhammat had been Hadeed’s contact inside the People’s Union for more than a decade, and he endured the transition of two previous regents. He knew the facility better than almost anyone, having worked in the hall of records most of his adult life. Therefore, ducking out before peacekeepers could descend upon the crime scene was easy. Now, as he removed his veil and walked briskly along a narrow cobblestone street half a block from the Union, he was relieved to see his second.

  Muhammat greeted Faisel Peja with a hug. She asked him if the job was done; when he confirmed his success, she removed two remote detonators from beneath her cloak. Each fit snugly inside a fist. They turned to face the People’s Union, which at five stories high was far from the tallest building in the capital, but it was the most expansive, covering three city blocks. Peja spent five years employed by the Union, but she was not going to miss it. After all, she was in the lowest tier maintenance and spent most of her time painting and plastering. The pay was typically dreadful, but the access to the paint and plaster was priceless. The Chancellors never knew she was covering their walls with Phalyotrax.

  They set their detonators to the designated frequency and waited until their signal. They did not have to wait long. When the ground rumbled and they heard a distant thunder from the riverfront, they knew. They uttered Raji’s name and pressed the det
onators.

  The tourists who ventured to the top of the green spire that rose a thousand feet above the Ashkinar Continental Enclave barely had time to take in the shock of a flash along the waterfront when another rumble preceded the almost instantaneous collapse of an entire segment of the city. They gasped as the People’s Union became rubble under a giant dust cloud. They rushed for the facility’s single elevator and demanded to be taken down at once.

  On the hangar deck of the Nephesian, Assad Tariq would not let Capt. Nashua through the customs bypass until he finished his story about the history of the once-amazing sealant called Phalyotrax. He revealed how Phalyotrax was discovered to have explosive properties when subject to one frequency of the Carillas band.

  “And do you know, David, the most remarkable aspect of my story? That ship,” he said, pointing to Transport 453, “has a cabin of leather seatbacks stuffed with bags of Phalyotrax, and the plating of the Carbedyne fuel nacelles was recently restored with a fresh interior coating of Phalyotrax. I wonder …”

  Capt. Nashua stepped back, his face ashen. He looked around for the nearest peacekeeper, but Tariq asked him to remain calm.

  “They can’t help,” he said. “I have a message for all of you. Hiebimini for Hiebim.”

  Assad Tariq closed his eyes before he squeezed the detonator. He did not feel a thing.

  A white hot blast instantly incinerated every Chancellor, tourist, and Hiebim within a hundred-meter radius, and a wall of flames roared across the mighty hangar like a Hiebimini dust storm, shattering the giant glass elevator that transported new arrivals to the lower levels then rolling over the kilometer-long airfield. Battalions of peacekeepers had no opportunity to run, to even conceive of the nightmare falling upon them.

  The great vessel, four kilometers long and the flagship of the outer colonial armada, shuddered. The remaining twenty-one thousand surviving humans onboard heard a long whine, as if the cry of someone far away in need of help. The whine became a low, continuous wail, but it came from no lips; rather, this was the struggle of the great flying buttresses that partitioned the civilian and military communities. The crater that formed directly beneath what was Transport 453 almost broke through, but the larger damage was more important. Cracks radiated in all directions. Pieces of the buttresses fell to the city below.

  The residents of Nephesian City screamed and ran. Most of them, anyway. Some hesitated. Few remembered where the escape pods were located. So much time had passed since their last mandatory training. This simply was not possible.

  The students of philosophy Prof. Julia Adams stumbled over each other and looked to her for guidance, but she froze. Her only thought was that they were in the center of the ship, a full kilometer from the pods. The words came off her lips almost indiscernible. “We can’t make it.” A boy grabbed her by the wrist, but only at the instant when the buttresses failed and the hangar deck collapsed.

  The containment field around the artificial sun went offline, and the energy drone that for generations had lit their encapsulated world dropped. The screams of the children and the hundreds of others who came to the park for lunch and for play died away as the massive drone – two metric tons and fifty meters diameter – smashed into the park. The drone splintered. For a few seconds, those lucky enough not to have been crushed beneath were hopeful. A yellow gel erupted from a crack in the drone, which otherwise seemed intact. The survivors took no chances and ran toward the escape pod sectors. But Prof. Adams was right – they wouldn’t make it. The drone exploded as if it were a volcano and set every living thing within sight on fire. Nephesian City burned quietly as the Carrier struggled to maintain gravitational and orbital stability.

  The forward Command-in-Control fell into panic the instant of the first explosion. The massive, multi-tiered control hub lost all sense of decorum as some officers rushed to find their families while the command staff struggled to enforce emergency protocols. The chaos gave Telemachus Herod the perfect opportunity to conclude his life’s work.

  He had barely stepped off the train when Transport 453 detonated. His lack of security clearance meant nothing, and he raced past the checkpoints unnoticed – another in a soup of horrified citizens. He ran into Command-in-Control, scanned the proceedings for two seconds, and deciphered the location of greatest vulnerability. He slipped down a flight of stairs unnoticed, pushed panicky operators out of his way, and took a position in the second row of CV panels. He was less than five meters from a giant forward view port. For an instant, he witnessed the spectacle of orbital sunrise over Hiebimini. He raised his hands as to summon troops, gave the message now being delivered all over the planet, and pressed the trigger.

  The force of the blast shattered the view port. Those not killed by the explosion fell forward, vacuumed into space. Minutes later, the Nephesian shuddered again and lost gravitational control.

  Far below, on the Ashkinar continent, in the small town of Asra, there was a disturbance in an enclave. Matriarch Trayem Alessa heard a series of screams followed by distinctive Hiebim curses. She opened the pivoting door to her private quarters and stepped into the corridor hoping to find someone who could provide an easy answer. She did not need to be bothered with distractions today. She was far behind on her accounting responsibilities.

  She looked to her right and saw three children scurrying down the corridor. She called for them, but they would not answer. Then, as she was about to turn to her left, Alessa felt an unexpected presence. An instinct told her to retreat, to close the pivoting door and hide. She twisted her neck anyway.

  A man in a black shomba with veiled face stood before her, a sword almost as thick as a machete gripped in both hands and pointed at her chest.

  “What are …?” She started.

  “I have a message from Trayem Hadeed,” the disciple said. “The control of those who emasculate the Hiebim people ends today. You are accused of collaborating with the Chancellor masters and committing crimes against your people. Your time is done, Trayem Alessa.”

  Hadeed. The name fell upon her with the claws of an Anirabian wildcat. She saw the anger within the boy at an early age, feared for his safety when he ran away at fourteen, and feared for the rest of her clan when he disappeared at seventeen. Her last cognitive thought was that she knew this was coming. Somehow, she always knew. The disciple ran his blade through her chest and impaled her against the wall.

  Outside the enclave, more than three hundred Trayem were herded together by twenty veiled disciples with blast rifles. The men and women in black shombas arrived moments earlier in a pair of six-wheeled Tumblers. Now, they held back the clan as they paraded the other four Matriarchs to the front and forced each woman to her knees.

  Trayem Mazri, who disappeared from the clan when he was eleven while returning home from haepong practice, admired Hadeed for the clan blood they shared. When he saw the truth in his new master’s words, he prepared each day for this moment. He returned to Trayem when he was fifteen and spent two years making arrangements. No one suspected him – not until he donned a black shomba less than thirty minutes earlier. He stood behind the Matriarchs as he shouted a proclamation to his clan.

  “Our history is at an end. Today, we set fire to Hiebimini and to the skies to announce our revolution. No Chancellor master or those who support those creatures must live on our world. Each of you will come with us today. This will be for your own protection. Your Matriarch will not come with you. Their time is over. Today, we become who we truly are.”

  Mazri ordered his squadron to force the clan toward the Tumblers. Forming a solid wall, they raised their blast rifles and pushed the horrified crowd into retreat. Mazri pulled out his plasma pistol. Without hesitation but with great pride, Mazri shot each Matriarch in the back of the head. The clan pushed and shoved its way forward. Children cried, women fainted, and men rushed the disciples. Shots were fired, and spelling blades were thrown with great accuracy.

  Meanwhile, the devastation in Messalina drew in pe
acekeeper squadrons from throughout the city. At the riverfront market, a squad of ten worked hard to push back emotionally distraught onlookers, attend to the injured, and call for reinforcements. In the confusion, they did not pay attention to the small boat pulling up alongside the docks. They did not notice eight Hiebim in black shombas who raced onto the dock, pulled veils over their faces, and removed blast rifles from their cloaks.

  A scream from an onlooker got their attention, but it was much too late. The first soldier to face the ambush was a fourteen-year-old newb on his second month of duty and whose parents were, at that moment, being incinerated aboard the Nephesian. First Corp. Peter Hewlitt quickly trained his weapon and fired. He killed two disciples almost instantly; just as quickly, however, flash pegs penetrated his own armor. The impossible pain, which burned deep into his gut, was a staggering blow. However, this paled compared to what happened when a retrofitted flash peg detonated against his chest armor. Peter Hewlitt’s suit magnetized the electrical impulses and seared his entire body. He convulsed then fell lifeless, the face beneath his shield cooked and unrecognizable, his body a smoking hulk.

  As new panic fell upon the marketplace, the disciples and peacekeepers engaged each other fully. Before they were finished, only two of the eight Hiebim survived, but all ten peacekeepers were electrocuted. No one came near as the surviving disciples jumped aboard their boat and sped away. Other battles rang out across the city.

  On the far side of the planet, the flashing red beacons of the tower atop the Nimishian brontinium mine, the planet’s largest, marked a spot where a shaft four hundred meters wide was dug thirty kilometers deep. A green fog ascended toward the clouds. The deep whoosh of the drills stampeded through the night and shook the ground. All appeared business as normal.

  However, alarms soon blazoned through the mine, and their echoes reached the surface. Emergency evacuation procedures had been engaged precisely on cue, just minutes after a sleeper cell entered Command-in-Control, electrocuted the peacekeepers on duty, slaughtered all the rest, and created a false emergency. Thousands of Hiebim workers reached the evacuation pods, each of which contained up to fifty laborers, and they soon cleared the surface as if being spit out by the planet. When the cell was convinced their people were clear, they retreated to a last available pod then sent a signal that rushed south toward the nearby mountains. There, a bald, disfigured young man of seventeen launched a personal Scram loaded with two hundred pounds of Phalyotrax. He set his coordinates and piloted the Scram toward his target.