The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  “Know this: We have lit the flame today, and the heat will scorch every inch of this planet and beyond,” Hadeed shouted. “Your oppression of the true owners of Hiebimini is at an end. We will take control of our own future, gather the wealth of our world and take dominion over the land given to us more than one thousand years ago. We will stretch out our arms to every corner of this world and we will kill every Chancellor whose stench fouls our soil, every peacekeeper who treats innocent clansmen as objects of torture and slavery.”

  He rambled about how his soldiers numbered in the thousands, how they would live “in the shadows” and attack when and where they were not expected. Only his reference to the mines proved of real value to Ephraim.

  “We have destroyed the largest source of brontinium on this planet. Although you may have dozens of others, understand who works those mines. Without the Hiebim, you will not be able to extract the wealth of our world any longer. If you persist in stripping our world of what is rightfully ours, your blood will turn the purple plains of Messalina a deep, permanent red.”

  By and large, Ephraim’s bureaucratic colleagues could dismiss Hadeed as a raging psychopath, a target to be destroyed and thus cripple the insurgents. If he were the only one broadcasting, perhaps the decision would have been made already. Yet he was not, and it was the other face that dismayed Ephraim’s colleagues far more. Spec. Andrew McClatchen appeared in traditional Hiebim dress, his head shaved but his eyes as passionate and focused as Hadeed’s. The message he delivered was a betrayal that cut far too deep for this committee to stomach.

  “I was proud of my heritage,” Andrew told all Hiebimini after introducing himself. “I followed the typical pursuit of a Chancellor boy and became a loyal servant of the Unification Guard. During my service, I committed atrocities against ethnic populations. These crimes were never reported because they were – and remain today – a standing policy of the UG. Most of the countless Hiebim who have disappeared over the centuries were in fact victims of a policy of targeted assassinations and cleansing operations known by the codeword ‘Scorch.’ These crimes have been committed throughout the colonies. They represent only part of what is behind the veil that keeps the true mission of the Chancellor caste hidden from you and all other ethnics. They claim to be your partners, but they are not what they seem. Today, I ask all Hiebim, who are free and sovereign people, to stand against the policies and oppression of the Chancellors and their peacekeepers. Join Trayem Hadeed and his Messengers of Honor in their crusade. I will be proud to stand by your side in our fight against these despicable tyrants.”

  At this latest showing, Gen. Aldo Cabrise, the tallest man in the room, removed a plasma pistol from his holster and blasted the CV pod.

  “Had quite enough of that, thank you,” he bellowed. “When we are finished here, I will personally draw up a mission to capture and quarter that bastard. I want McClatchen’s parts floating in orbit with the thousands he killed.”

  Gen. Cabrise was the most antagonistic Carrier Commander all day. He endorsed a wide-scale bombardment of fusion slews from the Carriers. Collateral damage was the least of his concerns. The tally of Chancellor dead in space and on the ground had reached nearly thirty thousand. The equivalent of four battalions of peacekeepers were among those lost. That more than two thousand Hiebim were also dead was of no consequence. This had become, he said, a zero-sum game, and he intended to make the necessary maneuvers to even the body count. Only then, he suggested, should long-range considerations to stabilize the planet be enforced.

  “I am far from a politician,” Cabrise told his colleagues. “So I will not engage in the niceties of compromised language. I will simply say that we stand here in a position of undeniable power. We have it in our capability to wipe away every clay-digger from the face of Hiebimini. We should use that might to exterminate this scourge and their message as soon as possible and by whatever means possible. Politicians are not needed here.”

  Cabrise made a special point of staring directly at Ephraim, who was at most an unofficial adviser, invited to this conference only when Kellene Madlock learned of his arrival less than nine hours after the attacks. Cabrise earlier questioned the timing of Ephraim’s arrival and voiced suspicion when Ephraim explained how he was here following a lead about Ilya. Ephraim took this moment as his opportunity and pointed to the shattered, smoking CV pod.

  “Yes, General,” Ephraim said. “I do believe we have a firm understanding of your position, and precisely how that planet will look when you are through with it. Yes?”

  Ephraim glared around the table, where only a few attendees had yet to sit, still stunned by Cabrise’s plasma-pistol theatrics. Perhaps, Ephraim surmised, the general had just provided a helpful opening. He invited Cabrise and the others to take a seat.

  “I am not here in an official capacity,” Ephraim said, “and as such, you are not obligated to consider my proposal. However, I would remind you of my term as regent. I know this world and these people as well as anyone in this room. Yes? That being said, we are faced with an unprecedented dilemma. If you will allow me a few moments of your time, I believe I have a solution that will best serve the long-term interests of our people and the ethnics.” He turned to Cabrise. “General, with your indulgence?”

  Cabrise stiffened his jaw but took his seat.

  “Thank you.” Ephraim offered a proper side-nod around the table. “We have been struck in a place beyond where our imagination could have conceived. Every natural instinct within each of us cries out for vengeance. It is the legacy of our forefathers from pre-history, the origins of man as a civilized creature, that we meet blood with blood. And it is precisely this instinct that will be the ruin of us all if we allow ourselves to act upon it.” Cabrise started to object, but Ephraim raised a single index finger and quieted the general.

  “These insurgents struck at more than two hundred locations. This was a carefully designed series of coordinated attacks from a group with surprising resources, intricate planning, and remarkable patience. Our best intelligence saw none of this coming. I propose that such insurgents would not have revealed themselves without thorough preparation for what would occur next. They will not be found in one fixed position, and many of them will inevitably blend in among the population. We have already received some evidence of signals being transmitted from the Schrindorian Mountains, but that range is more than four thousand kilometers long and represents the most difficult terrain on the planet. If the insurgent leaders – especially, this Trayem Hadeed – are hiding there, we will not find them for years. We will, however, exhaust vast resources and suffer innumerable casualties in the pursuit of these criminals. Therefore, I contend that we are faced with a choice: Pursue our vengeance or secure our vital interests.”

  Ephraim scanned the table. A few heads rose at his last words, and some of his colleagues leaned forward. Gen. Cabrise looked away, shaking his head. Ephraim remained undaunted.

  “Our only interest in this otherwise somewhat miserable world is brontinium,” he said. “Let us agree on this point. If the mines were rendered ineffectual, as Nimishian was yesterday, all of us would leave and never return. It is, therefore, my proposal that we secure our primary interest. I suggest each mine and refinery be placed under permanent guard by a battalion of peacekeepers. We institute new security measures to prevent sabotage and allow in-depth screening of all ethnic laborers. We expand housing facilities to allow for extended rotations. Such an operation would utilize less than seventy percent of UG forces currently in orbit.

  “In order to eliminate any suggestion of an illegal occupation, we will increase profit shares for all workers while at the same time increasing production by up to twenty percent. This will remind them that without the mines, they have no economy. They will also be safe from the insurgents when living behind our ranks. We will increase relief rations to afflicted communities and therefore re-establish our role as partners to the Hiebim.

  “My friends, the vid fro
m Specialist McClatchen poses a considerable public-relations concern. We must not underestimate its impact. Although his accusations cannot be proven, many of us in this room know them to be true. Therefore, if we take any provocative action that may reinforce suspicions borne of that vid, we may find ourselves no longer hunting insurgents. Rather, we will be at war with the whole of the Hiebim people. We must act in accordance with the Constitution of Sovereignty and temper our vengeance.”

  Gen. Cabrise pounded the table. “And the killers roam free. Typical politician.”

  Ephraim smiled even as others cheered Cabrise.

  “On the contrary, General. These killers will all be destroyed, but not from the UG aggression they are counting on. Very simply, we add a new amendment to the Constitution allowing for dispersal of military weapons through Sanctums to organized militias certified by clans united against the insurgents. And yes, there will be unity. After all, more than a hundred clans saw their Matriarchs executed. Ostensibly, the weapons will be used for self-defense. Inevitably, however, they will become the tools of war. Yes, my friends. It is my proposal that we allow the Hiebim people to shed the blood of their brothers and sisters for us. The brontinium will be refined at record levels while the clans slaughter each other. When they have reached the nadir, we will bring them together again in peace and revitalize their world. Through this, we will show our benevolence and forgiveness.”

  Ephraim allowed his colleagues a moment to soak in his unorthodox approach.

  “Ultimately,” he concluded, “ethnic anger must burn itself out on Hiebimini, for if it does not, a fire will be struck that will reach across light-years and will never die. We can do this, my friends. We can honor those who have passed, see vengeance to fruition, and maintain the place in human society to which we are entitled.”

  Ephraim immediately praised himself for immaculate oratory skills. He couldn’t be sure they reached the stature of Frederic Ericsson, who convinced whole nations to slaughter Heretics of God in the name of lasting peace, but his skills didn’t need to be. He needed only to persuade a room of cowed, one-dimensional bureaucrats. The discussions that followed proved he was on the proper course. After more than an hour of debate, even Gen. Cabrise knew he was defeated and offered amendments to Ephraim’s proposal.

  Ephraim could not remain for the official vote, but he knew all was well. As he departed, Kellene Madlock whispered in his ear.

  “Publicly, they’ll never speak to you for so long as you take a breath. Privately, they’ll thank you every time a diode enters their possession.”

  Ephraim laughed. “Good business, good friends. Yes?”

  After dinner, Ephraim retired to his quarters and pondered his next three days here. All intercolonial vessels were quarantined until security teams could sweep them and complete background screenings of outbound passengers and crew. He decided he did not care for the way he left things with Frederic on his last visit, so he journeyed through the blue glasses.

  Ephraim found his ancestors in an ornate concert hall, quiet and mesmerized as a large woman in Nordic dress belted out an aria from an unfamiliar opera. This choice of venue unnerved Ephraim. He had never seen his ancestors in such formal trappings. They filled perhaps two-thirds of the seats. He found Frederic in the sixth row from the stage smoking a cigar. He sat next to his closest friend within the link but received no immediate acknowledgement. The singer reached a high note, and Frederic’s eyes broadened. As if through reflex, Frederic reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out another cigar, which he handed to Ephraim.

  “All is forgiven,” Frederic said with a nod. “We move on. Yes?”

  Ephraim felt relieved. “We do. Hiebimini is secure. Exactly where we will need it to be.”

  “That’s good.” Frederic puffed on his cigar. “She is magnificent. Don’t you think?”

  “In truth, opera has never been one of my favorite indulgences.” Ephraim spied the tense crowd around him. “Unusually subdued.”

  “Yes. They’re rather paralyzed, I think. Concerned about the future. About the link. Ilya’s actions have refocused their attention on the endgame. Even the bloody Eglantines.”

  Ephraim tensed. “About Ilya … I hope you understand the anger I displayed last time. The crucible will be in place, but Ilya is the key to bringing our mission to an end. I am desperate to find my son. If you and my ancestry can offer any assistance, I would be …”

  Frederic removed a lighter from his jacket pocket and insisted Ephraim light the cigar. Once Ephraim did so, Frederic advised him to calm himself and listen carefully.

  “Something has happened since your last visit. Ilya came to us again. No more than two days ago, I would estimate. Very different young man this time. Calm. I dare say, at peace. He gave me a message, and he instructed me to repeat it to you verbatim.”

  Frederic looked around, but no one seemed to be paying attention to this conversation. “First, Ephraim, you need to understand something. My daughter died when she was sixteen. She fell into a diabetic coma and lingered for two months. A century later, diabetes was eradicated. The world of the living celebrated while I cursed it. I blamed modern medicine for being too slow and inefficient, and I blamed my daughter for leaving me too soon. But not until centuries later did I finally blame myself. She had my blood, the blood of her grandfather, the progenitor of us all. Yet I never introduced her to her legacy, never showed her the glasses, never gave her the opportunity to become part of this link. Only my sons. Ephraim, I no longer blame. I simply accept my past, and I revere the time I had with her. You must do the same with Ilya.”

  Ephraim gritted his teeth. “His message?”

  Frederic nodded. “ ‘Father, I loved being your son. I will treasure those memories. Now I follow a different path and a different teacher. Do not continue to search for me. I will not be found. Goodbye, Father.’ ”

  The aria cut through Ephraim’s spirit as surely as did the words of his son. He sank into his seat and dropped his barely smoked cigar. He thought he heard Frederic apologize. Ephraim thought to remove the glasses, but his hands would not move. The sudden emptiness would have felt the same in either world. Ephraim sensed a truth to which he had blinded himself for two years: His son was indeed lost.

  “Bravo,” Frederic shouted as the aria concluded amid polite applause. “A magnificent instrument. Wouldn’t you agree, Ephraim?”

  THE

  FATHER

  TWENTY SIX

  THE BLOOD-DIMMED TIDE

  SY 5316

  Hiebim Civil War, Year 5

  THE REFUGEES OF THE CONFLICT were easy to spot. They usually numbered between ten and twenty, just enough to create a small community capable of supporting itself while traversing the endless plains by caravan. They were a fair blend of shell-shocked elders who realized their old traditions lay in ruin, middle-aged women who once thought themselves on track to become Matriarchs, and the children (mostly girls) who managed to hide as their enclave was being sacked. Most walked alongside a solar-powered deep-plains wagon that carried water rations, meager greens scavenged hurriedly from their hydro-farms, satchels of protein wafers distributed by UG relief squadrons, sufficient materials to set up a proper camp, and extra linens in which to burrow themselves during the cold nights of the Hiebim winter.

  They moved without purpose or direction, their shoulders slumped forward and their conversations almost non-existent. Their eyes, however, remained in a state of permanent yet empty glare, for they could not shake away the horrors that befell them. The refugees never cried, not even the youngest; they left those tears behind, shed upon the burned, mangled bodies of their clansmen.

  The last survivors of the Tekrit massacre fifteen days ago dreaded the falling sun, for it was under a serene, ebony blanket decorated with the sparkles of the Milky Way that a raiding party killed more than two hundred clansmen with blast rifles, spelling blades, and Phalyx bombs. Few could agree on which side attacked – the Tekrit were designated neutr
al in the struggle between the Messengers of Honor and the Patriots of Hiebimini – but no one still cared. The UG relief squadron first on the scene insisted the Tekrit were innocent victims of a military blunder by the warring factions. However, the only anger any survivors could muster was toward the peacekeepers, who could have ended this struggle before it began but kept their mighty weapons far from the battlefield. They grudgingly accepted whatever rations the UG offered, turned their backs on their ruined homes, and faced the long journey across the open plains.

  The elder who became their leader by default directed them toward what appeared to be a safe outcropping of boulders at the base of a tiny mesa. They would set up camp, distribute food and water rations, then hunker behind the boulders and pretend they had a final destination, for only in this way would comfortable sleep be possible. They were within fifteen minutes of their campsite when the first swirl of dust appeared across the southern horizon. Some said this was a gathering dust storm, the most dangerous of which appeared during winter. The elder, however, knew different. He bent down, placed his ear to the soil, and listened. He recognized the vibration but did not warn his clansmen. After all, if this Tumbler was coming their way, nothing – not even a defensible position behind the rocks – would matter.

  The Tekrit reached the base of the mesa less than a minute before a long deep-plains transport roared to a stop, whipping up clouds of pink and gray dust. The refugees made a half-hearted effort to fall back among the boulders, but they had no weapons. More than thirty men and women in black shombas and facial veils disembarked from the Tumbler, blast rifles at their sides. The elder stood by the caravan, the first Tekrit these soldiers would meet. He thought to move toward them, to offer any help they desired, but his knees trembled and his heart fluttered. Just for a moment, the Messengers of Honor clustered in front of the Tumbler, and this lack of aggression gave hope to the elder. But just for a moment.