The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  One warrior stepped forward, leaving his blast rifle behind and removing his veil. He walked slowly but with purpose, his eyes never leaving the elder. At last, the warrior opened his arms full to his sides, and the others began to move. They formed a phalanx, spreading out with even spacing until they closed off all avenues of escape. They kept their weapons to their sides.

  “My name is Gen. Faisel Abraham,” the unarmed soldier shouted. “I am the son and emissary of the venerable Trayem Hadeed, Liberator of the Hiebim People, Restorer of the Arabis Creed, Commander of All Forces Loyal to the Messengers of Honor. At this time, I ask for an audience. Our business will be brief. Come forward and be counted.”

  The elder turned to his fellow Tekrit, some of whom slowly emerged from behind the rocks. He called out for others to follow. He was not a stupid man; he knew they had no options. As the Tekrit stepped forward, the Messengers refined their phalanx and closed in. Faisel Abraham stopped within a few feet of the elder.

  “Do you speak for them?” Abraham asked.

  The elder hesitated, uncertain how to phrase his response. He studied Abraham’s clean-shaven face, and his heart sank even further. Abraham was barely a man, if that, and he represented to the elder the most shameful disgrace perpetrated by both sides of the war – the use of boys and men barely of age to fight this never-ending slaughter. He saw it in Tekrit when the clan officially declared neutrality; many boys, upset with what they called a cowardly act, chose sides and disappeared almost overnight. Not even three Matriarchs could suppress their wild rage. In this moment, the elder summoned every remaining ounce of his anger and wished his life could end with his hands around Trayem Hadeed’s neck.

  Abraham grew impatient. “Old man, I am an expert with a blade. Would you like to feel it against your neck? If not, answer my question.”

  “Yes,” he said meekly. “Yes, venerable Abraham. They are mine. I am theirs.”

  “Good.” Abraham revealed a portable CV from beneath his cloak and asked the elder to identify his clan. He called upon the holographic glyph to provide background on Tekrit. Satisfied, Abraham tucked the CV inside his cloak.

  “You are fortunate,” Abraham said, loud enough for all Tekrit to hear. “Your clan is not listed as an enemy of the Messengers, and we have determined you can be reeducated to the ways of pure Arabis. Otherwise, we would have no choice but to execute each of you. However, you must also understand that this war does not allow for Hiebim neutrality. We are fighting to unite our people under one banner so that we may have common purpose when we seek to remove the Chancellors from our soil. Today, I ask each of you to choose a new course. My father will accept each of you with open arms and a compassionate spirit should you join the Messengers of Honor.”

  The elder glanced back at his people, who returned his confusion with vacant eyes and empty hearts. “You ask us to join your army,” the elder told Abraham. “But we have no interest in fighting. Venerable Abraham, please leave us alone in our misery.”

  Abraham, three days from his sixteenth birthday, nodded as he examined the refugees.

  “You are tired,” he told them. “Understandable. War, by its very nature, brings suffering upon all. But it is a necessary torment to achieving a greater goal. Our goal, specifically, requires Hiebim in large numbers. My father accepts warriors of all ages. Even you can serve a purpose, old man.”

  “But we have no allegiances,” the elder said, “and we will not stand against you.”

  “Not today, perhaps, not until your minds are swayed by the Patriots. Your choice is simple. You are with us or you are against us. We have ample room in the Tumbler for all of you. We will take you to a place where you will be fed and sheltered and reeducated. All those who will fight for the Messengers, step forward now.”

  No one moved, and again the elder pleaded. “I beg you, venerable Abraham. We are a lost people. We have nothing to offer you or your father. Please.”

  Abraham responded with the inkling of a smile then raised his gloved right hand before pointing to the refugees. “The girls,” he told his warriors, five of whom broke from the phalanx and surged toward the nineteen Tekrit.

  The veiled warriors surrounded five of the six children. Some of the girls, none older than twelve, quickly acquiesced, but two kicked and screamed. One, perhaps eight years old, fought her captor vigorously and got help from a boy slightly older and who, judging from his looks, must have been her brother. He tried to free her by hand, grabbed a small rock, and pelted the captor. The warrior tossed the boy to the ground, raised his blast rifle and fired, painting the base of the mesa with the boy’s brain. Abraham drew closer to the elder.

  “You can stop this,” he whispered, “but I suggest you act quickly.”

  The elder wanted to save his people, but he saw no acceptable way out. “Monsters,” he said. “Even if we join, we’ll become monsters like you. Please, venerable Abraham, can’t you see what you have done to the Hiebim people? We were peaceful once. We were …”

  Abraham looked away. He raised his arms above his head. At that signal, the entire phalanx closed quickly, as warriors descended upon the survivors. While five warriors dragged young girls toward the Tumbler, the other twelve Tekrit howled for mercy and scrambled behind the rocks. A perverted stew of blast rifles, screams of horror, and giddy laughter echoed off the base of the mesa. Abraham lost his smile.

  “We should have killed all of you fifteen days ago. We will not make the same mistake next time.”

  The elder saw a flash appear from underneath Abraham’s cloak and perhaps heard the twang of metal as it cut the breeze, but he couldn’t be sure what the son of Trayem Hadeed had done until he felt blood pouring from his neck. He gurgled as he grabbed his throat in desperation and felt the perfect cut of a lightning-fast spelling blade. The elder fell to his knees and saw the world fade from view. Abraham waited until silence was achieved before he ordered use of the incendiary lasers.

  * * *

  Two days later, the planning lair for the Messengers of Honor fell into an awkward silence of its own when Gen. Benazir Asiah concluded his report on the massacre of the Tekrit refugees. He provided clinical details, outlining only the tactical report provided by Gen. Faisel, who had been overseeing the cleansing operation when Benazir’s Scram arrived on the scene a continent away. The shadowy lair, deep in the heart of the Schrindorian Mountains, echoed only with the whistle of a sudden gust of wind that snaked through the narrow entrance. Gen. Benazir, Gen. Baqqari Adair, and Lt. Gen. Azul Ahmed studied their liege, waiting for a response.

  Hadeed did not have the energy to stand, so he examined the strategy table from a chair, the words of his trusted general barely registering. His weary eyes fell at random across the great lighted table, as if he were pondering possibilities; but Hadeed saw only a fog between him and the path toward victory. He rarely stood during planning sessions any longer, the complexity of the task thoroughly confounding and frustrating. His only comfort came from the hand resting on his right shoulder. From time to time, he looked up at thirteen-year-old Fayed Omar and felt the energy to continue.

  “What is this?” He often asked Omar in confidence. “This is not the war I imagined.”

  Omar reminded Hadeed why this war began, of why it could not end without victory. And yet Hadeed’s victory seemed further away now than when he was a seventeen-year-old humbled by the opulent spectacle of an Ark Carrier.

  “Casualties?” Hadeed asked Gen. Benazir.

  “No. None of our own. In truth, Honor, I would not have mentioned this operation at all were it not for other concerns.” Benazir turned toward his fellow generals and swallowed hard. “Honor, there is a growing consensus among your command that we may have a far more extensive problem than the current state of the war. I am hesitant to pursue it … I …”

  Gen. Baqqari was quick to intervene. “Should not be rash, General. Honor, as the report clearly outlines, this was an efficient operation. We gained five more recruits and e
liminated potential enemies. Once again, Gen. Faisel has proven himself a brilliant tactical and motivational leader. We need more of his prowess on the lines if we are to break the stalemate.”

  Gens. Benazir and Baqqari glared at each other, waiting for Hadeed, hardly the first time the two could not agree.

  “What is this consensus?” Hadeed asked.

  “While Gen. Baqqari is correct in her tactical assessment of Gen. Faisel’s abilities, there is concern that some of his actions may have negative long-term implications for our crusade.”

  Hadeed grasped the words, for he had heard whispers to that effect, but this was the first time anyone made a direct, negative complaint about Abraham while in his father’s presence. Hadeed asked Benazir to explain, even though he did not want to hear the response.

  “Honor, when I questioned Gen. Faisel about his tactics, he did not attempt to hide a simple truth: These refugees offered no resistance and posed no immediate threat. When I asked him why his squad massacred them and burned the bodies, he said, ‘This is not about war. This is about purity. Anyone who will not subscribe to the ideals of pure Arabis must be killed.’ Honor, many of us believe Gen. Faisel’s actions, if allowed to continue, will undermine our attempt to unify the people once we win the war. From the outset, we stated publicly that those who do not choose sides and do not offer comfort to our enemy will be spared. Yet, in eighteen months, Gen. Faisel and his jihadeen have gone far beyond those boundaries. Honor, I ask … ”

  Gen. Baqqari would have nothing of this. “And you consider yourself a loyal servant to Hadeed?” She demanded. “The jihadeen have won more conflicts and gained more strategic footholds against the Patriots than any ten of our squadrons. As Gen. Faisel’s birth mother, I am proud he has carried Hadeed’s message to the people without compromise. You are a brave man, Asiah, undermining my son when he is far away fighting for us.”

  Hadeed’s eyes flittered back and forth between his bickering generals, settling on Benazir. He craved poltash, but the black market supply dried up in the first year of the war.

  “Honor,” Benazir continued, “I love your son as I love you. He is a hero to the crusade. Yes. But I am concerned he has crossed the line and made our position increasingly untenable. His actions suggest not war but atrocity, not strategy but savagery. I believe his jihadeen have only had great success in bringing young, well-prepared female recruits to our reeducation camps because they rape these girls into utter submission. Most of these girls are willing to be strapped with Phalyx bombs and sent behind enemy lines because such an alternative is better than life. Those who escape or are captured by the enemy undoubtedly speak of what we have done. Honor, I ask you to consider only this point: What victory can we hope to achieve when our tactics are no better than the worst of those people we seek to remove from our planet?”

  Baqqari wanted to jump in, but Hadeed waved her off.

  “Asiah, he’s my son. When I gave him command of the jihadeen, I told him to prosecute the war as he saw fit. I gave him our most devoted, uncompromising warriors. Abraham knew what I was asking of him. When he became a general, we were months from losing this war. He has reversed that course and brought the crusade to a position of equal strength with the Patriots. Would you propose that I put our gains at risk by reining in his jihadeen?”

  “Of course he would, Honor,” Gen. Baqqari said.

  Gen. Benazir took a deep breath, moved his eyes across the planning room, and walked around the strategy table. He came to Hadeed’s side and bent down until he met his liege at eye level.

  “I am concerned for him, Honor. His lust for blood, I believe, is insatiable. The reports I have received about his methods of torture … Honor, I would not share them with you on pain of death. You are the only one who could have his ear. Please speak to him. I am afraid our war is being twisted into something none of us ever wanted.”

  The irony of those words did not escape Hadeed, who had seen his great campaign twisted out of shape in its opening days. He had never imagined the course the UG would take in response to the initial attacks, or how it would so effectively foment a civil war. The peacekeepers’ restraint, even as more than three thousand of them died in largely defensive actions over the first six months, stunned Hadeed and his generals, who desperately needed a full-out, illegal occupation in order to unite the natives. Instead, the UG won over a majority of the population by supplying them with the instruments of war and deep layers of protection where needed. After the UG recalibrated peacekeeper body armor to make it once again resistant to ground weaponry, the brontinium mines and refinery stations became the safest places on the planet. Laborers increasingly chose to remain at their work sites rather than risk an insecure future within their enclaves. If not for the bombs made from Phalyotrax, the Messengers of Hope would have been little threat at all to the UG and its true Hiebim partners.

  Each day, Hadeed woke slowly and with less desire to approach the sun than the day before. He listened with restrained interest during his daily briefings and gave an automatic nod each time a general proposed a new military strategy. He relied on Omar, a writer whose skill would soon surpass his father, to oversee all propaganda operations and most administrative concerns. Although Hadeed once allowed Omar a brief excursion into battle – enough to allow him to make a few easy kills – he kept his youngest son close. Now, as he listened to Gen. Benazir’s pleas, Hadeed wondered how he could have let it come to this. What was the message of this war? When had he ever imagined so much Hiebim blood spilled by Hiebim hands?

  “I will talk to him,” Hadeed told his general. “Perhaps a new approach is in order. Thank you, Asiah, for your courage in coming to me.”

  “Always for you, Honor.”

  The morning briefing now concluded, all Hadeed’s generals departed except for one. Gen. Baqqari crossed her arms, clearly indignant, and held her place opposite the table from Hadeed and his son. Hadeed allowed her a moment to glare in disgust, a pose he had seen increasingly over the past several months. He no longer recognized the woman he first bedded sixteen years ago.

  “A new approach?” She mocked him. “And perhaps you also wish to concede this war? Abraham is the man you made him into. You wanted pure Arabis. You wanted a warrior unafraid of blood and willing to slaughter in your name. You hand-picked his first kill. And now, Hadeed, you suggest a new approach?”

  Omar’s hand left his father’s shoulder, and the boy leaned across the table.

  “Father must not be talked to this way by anyone, Adair.”

  She snarled. “Fayed Omar, I am a general and your mother. You will address me properly or not at all.”

  “You gave birth to me, Gen. Baqqari, but I have no allegiance to you. I thank my father each day for that gift. And you will address him as Honor. That rank you value so dearly can be stripped away. Never forget that.”

  Hadeed found this exchange a perverse and somehow refreshing diversion.

  “It appears,” he said, “that among my wiser choices was to avoid raising my sons in a family unit. Would this have been our fate? Daily verbal skirmishes over semantics?” He twisted his eyes between his former lover and his son. “Adair, for all the shared identity you and Abraham possess, none appears to have been left over for you and Omar. I would suggest it’s a pity, but I think neither I nor Omar particularly care. Your public enmity for each other, however, is a concern. We cannot allow this tension to disrupt command unity. Adair, as a general in my army, you are expected to set a standard. Omar is a valuable part of the command structure. He may be a boy in age, but I consider him a man and worthy of your respect. He fights for our cause every bit as …”

  “Do not say it, Honor,” she said. “Do not suggest he fights for us as much as Abraham. He may have killed on the battlefield, but he does not have the stomach for what needs to be done.”

  Hadeed reached out beneath the edge of the table and grabbed Omar by the hand, signaling the boy to restrain his anger. Omar complied.


  “I serve the Hiebim people,” Omar said slowly and firmly. “I will stand beside my father in victory or fight to my final breath in defeat.”

  “Which,” Hadeed added, “is no different than Abraham’s commitment. The matter is closed, Adair. As is this briefing. Attend to your duties.”

  The woman was slow to leave but had little option other than to obey Hadeed’s direct order. She saved her most piercing glare for Omar as she departed the cave.

  “As a Matriarch, she would have been a nightmare,” Hadeed mumbled. “Much worse than typical.” He smiled as Omar bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Father, for defending me. She is not the only one … sometimes, I believe the other generals don’t respect me or think I should not attend strategy sessions. Maybe I’m too young. Or I’m not forceful like Abraham.”

  Hadeed stood and gave his son a full, deep hug.

  “No. They see how important you are to me. Adair is a creature I have never fully understood. In truth, I do not believe she would last six hours on the front lines. She’s rash and arrogant. Get herself killed. Perhaps I should reassign her? No?”

  They separated from their hug with matching smiles. Hadeed instantly realized how few moments such as this he ever shared with Omar. In the run-up to the war, he focused his fatherly energy on Abraham, assuming for a long while that victory might be achieved before Omar grew old enough to fight. He knew Omar felt jealous and often tagged along to Abraham’s field training, perhaps as a reminder to his father that he was only three years younger and his time would also come. Once the war began, Hadeed surrounded himself with generals, oversaw a few operations, and consumed himself with finding a solution to the Chancellors’ ingenious strategy of non-intervention.