The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  The

  Father

  Unbound

  By

  Frank Kennedy

  © 2018 Frank Kennedy

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

  www.frankkennedy.org

  To my readers

  A HUGE thank you. I hope you enjoy this work. Please consider writing a short review on Amazon afterward and join my newsletter at frankkennedy.org or through Facebook @frankkennedybooks. Additionally, check out my other published works here.

  And from the three-winged beast is delivered the gifts of expeditious annihilation and the undiscovered path toward renewal. The fallen know only the window through which they see, but the lasting blood is drawn from fire and braced in twelve eyes. They are the five encased for the one, appearing through the arrogant rift of the soul, in geometry unpredicted. From this gift is found final truth, the path reborn.

  - An old family prophecy

  ONE

  THE CRUSADE

  The Jordan Valley

  Earth, Standard Year (SY) 2310

  THE AXE SWUNG quick and true through the boy’s flimsy, rusted armor and cut deep through his chain mail and into his belly. His sword fell from his right hand and clanked as it landed on the armor of the boy’s oldest brother, a zealot who carried vengeance and the last of his bloodline into another fruitless battle and whose head lay next to its body. The boy crumpled to his knees and felt a surge of warm blood roil into his mouth. An enemy warrior – one who would dare to deny this boy his Lord and savior – tore the axe from the boy’s gut and proceeded across the battlefield. The boy no longer could hear the thunder of war; his ears detected only a distant ringing, and his vision blurred. He coughed blood and lay upon his brother’s torso, wrapping his right hand around the hilt of his own sword, embracing the inevitable.

  Time passed. God did not come. The boy turned his eyes toward the setting sun. The battlefield glowed, as if from fire. The sun’s fading orange rays reflected off the bloodstained armor of the thousands of Arabis men and boys who lay in agony or gracious death nearby. Wisps of smoke passed over them as low-hanging clouds. Their army’s beautiful blue and black flag of an eagle soaring over crossed swords rustled in a small breeze, standing tattered at an angle, its staff thrust into the body of a warrior. The silhouettes of men crossed the horizon, at times disrupting the sun’s fierce glow. The boy had no sense of victory or defeat; he knew only that the tumult of clashing weapons and the earthquake of the horses’ stampede had vanished. He expected his people to carry him off to his final rest. He crawled to where his shomba, a turban-like head wrap, lay after being jarred loose during combat. He checked for bloodstains on the intricately woven fabric, said a short prayer, and positioned the shomba upon his head for burial.

  Yet, when the men who walked confidently amid the dead and defeated came into view, the boy did not recognize them. These men did not wear armor, not even chain mail. They dressed in a tight-fitting fabric of black encasing them in a single tunic. They bore red and yellow stripes along the shoulders and down the arms. Their red helmets swooped back over their heads like the horns of a ram. They had pale skin, deeper and narrower jaws, and golden hair. They were not of this continent, like no Arab he knew. As a surge of agony pushed through his gut and into his chest, the boy had an epiphany. He smiled as he reached out his left hand.

  “Angels,” he whispered. “Angels come to carry us beyond. Angels of God.”

  One such angel heard the boy’s words and turned sharply, stepping over bodies to reach the young warrior. He cast a long shadow against the sinking sky.

  “Crusader?” The angel asked the boy.

  “Yes, Lord. My name is Farukh. Please, take me home.”

  “As you wish.”

  Farukh saw a golden spike emerge from the right hand of the angel, who eyes glowed blue like the finest honed jewels. He closed his eyes and prepared to be taken bodily to heaven, exactly as the scrolls promised all men who died with valiant hearts. A bright light consumed him, accompanied by thunder. He was at peace, but he would never understand why. Neither Farukh nor his brother could have possibly understood the great upheaval about to fall upon the Arabis lands.

  However, the “angel” understood all too well, for he was Frederic Ericsson, Consulate-General of the Northern Domain, representing the newly-formed Chancellory. He arrived two days earlier at this desolate place called the Petra Pass, where the endless wars between Arabis tribes had reached its peak. The “angel” from behind the European ramparts brought superior weapons with the promise to lead the Tunisian Alliance to a final victory over the Heretics of God. A partnership was struck, a plan laid forth.

  The agreement was simple: Allow the Chancellory to end this war, exterminate all prisoners and injured, and provide the Arabis tribes with peace in their time. In exchange, the surviving tribes would look the other way during all that might come thereafter. Boys such as Farukh had no idea of the slaughter about to befall them.

  When the thunder of war resumed, a new army - the united forces of Europe and the Tunisian Alliance - began the first great massacre of the Heretics of God. They slathered the Petra Pass in blood amid the unfamiliar quake of mechanized warhorses. Armored fathers of the Heretics raced toward the great, invincible machines facing their deaths with savage honor, crying the name of their God even as they drew their final breaths. Their sons fought with equal valor, the clash of blades and axes intermingled with the volleys of machine-gun fire and the tangerine plumes of incendiary bombs. The great roar echoed deep into the Baccuba Mountains through most of the day. Only as the sun faded did the cries of defiance also disappear.

  The victorious Tunisian Alliance gathered its wounded and retreated to a celebration upon the plateau, while many of their European partners spread out across the valley of death, pistols at their sides, looking for those who could not be allowed to spread the message of God ever again. Frederic Ericsson did not hesitate to join his men. His own father never allowed him to see the consequences of war so vividly, but Henrik Ericsson was now a continent away and could no longer hold sway over his son’s ambitions.

  As Ericsson stepped over the bodies and put bullets through the heads of survivors, he smelled the fragrance of a bountiful future and knew he had begun a necessary campaign. When a young boy caught his eye, Ericsson hesitated for an instant as the child confused the European for an angel of God. When he stood over the boy, he saw trusting eyes, yet battle-worn and desolate.

  “My name is Farukh. Please, take me home,” the boy soldier pleaded.

  “As you wish,” the European said and raised his pistol, which glimmered for an instant in the golden sunset. He fired one shot. The boy’s expression did not change as the bullet tore through his brain. Ericsson bent down over the body and studied the boy’s empty stare.

  “Angels?” He asked. “No. Not for you. But there is something better. You will have to trust me. It will be a wonderful journey, and we will never rely on the fantasy of the Divine to do it. We will spread to the stars and uncover their secrets. You would have loved it, young Farukh.” He looked away, his blue eyes distant and cold. “It will all end one day, of course. We will overreach and dissolve into chaos. Three thousand years of glory, but no more. Even the best plans …” He closed the boy’s eyes. “Farewell, child. I will tell them about you one day.”

  Ericsson strolled casually onward in search of more Crusaders. Deep into the evening, scattered gunshots crackled across the Petra Pass. When the sun rose, the thunder of war resumed, and a new army changed the face of the world.

  THE

  SONS
<
br />   TWO

  FIRST LESSON

  Hiebimini, outer realm of the Collectorate

  Standard Year (SY) 5275

  THE GREAT ARK CARRIER Nephesian, four kilometers long and half as wide and deep, traveled through darkness, its permanent orbit around the colony world Hiebimini now passing through the fourth night of the current rotation. Hiebimini, it was said, had many hundreds of mouths, each a perfect circle carved into the surface and from which a spectacular green beacon shot forth, visible from space as heralds of infinite wealth and eternal prosperity. Most of the twenty thousand Chancellors and peacekeepers aboard the city-ship had long since overcome their appreciation of this view, even though the brontinium mines that were the source of these beacons represented their sole purpose for living two-hundred ninety light-years from Earth.

  Sir Ephraim Hollander, on the other hand, anticipated this spectacle with an equal blend of excitement and revulsion. He knew this was where he was supposed to be – proud he had foreseen it long ago – yet he dreaded having to endure the years to come, when he would spend almost every day planet-bound. He would be closer to the natives, live among them with greater profile, negotiate with clan Matriarchs and elders, all while constantly brushing sand or brontinium particulates from his tunic. The very notion was repellant yet necessary; no one else would ever know why – neither the native Hiebim nor his own Chancellor caste. He knew they would not understand. They would fail to see the beauty of his ambition or appreciate the three thousand years leading to this moment.

  Sir Ephraim watched the final moments of fourth night from his private quarters amidships, fully aware his newest visitor still waited to be acknowledged, standing at attention with the monolithic pose only a well-trained peacekeeper could maintain. Ephraim had not turned from the starboard view port since the soldier’s entry ten minutes earlier, and he was impressed by this latest candidate’s patience. Ephraim tapped a button-sized amp that was molecularly bonded above his right temple, triggering a holocube of data streams into which Ephraim manipulated his fingers until he found the military transcript for Unification Guard Lt. Spec. Elizer Gripphen. He reviewed the young soldier’s record, commendations, and line of descent. He did not need long to realize why Gripphen had applied for the post. As orbital sunrise neared, Ephraim pivoted and faced his visitor.

  “Do you believe victory is morality?”

  Ephraim saw a flicker of indecision in the hulking young man, whose staggering musculature threatened to rip through the elasticity of a bronze and blue, form-fitting tunic. Gripphen, who at 7-feet-4 still had to tilt his chin upward to look Ephraim in the eyes, cleared his throat, released his hands from behind his back, and stood at ease.

  “Naturally, sir. It’s the central tenet of a Chancellor’s life.”

  The deep husk in Gripphen’s voice belied his youth. Although Ephraim did not think it varied much from what one would expect of a fifteen-year-old peacekeeper, he detected a subtle twinge of naiveté, a remnant of the child who disappeared before joining the Unification Guard.

  “Yes,” Ephraim responded, “but do you believe it?”

  “My service record is proof of my commitment. I have done all I have been tasked.”

  “You’re being evasive, Mr. Gripphen. I would expect someone in my employ to be direct.” Ephraim tapped his amp, and the holocube vanished. “I would presume you are referring to your role in suppressing the riots on Moroccan Prime? Your commendation says you led your unit through a gantlet, killing almost thirty ethnics without a single peacekeeper casualty. You would prefer that I be impressed by this. Yes?”

  The soldier cleared his throat. “Sir Ephraim, I … you are no doubt aware that these commendations often exaggerate details in order to …”

  Ephraim flexed an eyebrow as he lowered his forehead, enough to silence the soldier.

  “Lt. Gripphen, the correct answer is ‘Yes, sir.’”

  The soldier forced a half-smile as he conceded the point with a nod. Ephraim studied the soldier’s perfect anatomical geometry, nearly identical to the body Ephraim sported ten years earlier when he, too, was a second-year peacekeeper. He remembered the vitality of that body, the innate sense of his invincibility, and a never-ending thirst for combat. At this moment, Ephraim regretted undergoing muscular recursion therapy upon leaving the UG. He reached into his tunic and found his pipe.

  “The ‘central tenet’ of being a Chancellor, as you put it,” Ephraim said, “has no remote connection to the idea of conquest or battle kills. Rather, Lt. Gripphen, victory lies in our ability to reaffirm our just position in human hierarchy. We must earn, on a daily basis, the privileges granted to our caste for the past three thousand years. From time to time, we must use deadly force to persuade others of our rightful status; in your case, killing thirty colonists because they could not abide lawful Sanctum dictates. However, the most direct and historically consistent path toward maintaining our dominion over the ethnics can be found in our benevolence. They must believe at all times that we are vested in looking after their best interests, even when our actions are blunt. The job of maintaining empire requires nuance. Yes?”

  “Of course, sir. We studied benevolence in Tier One. We …”

  “Quickly forgot its importance,” Ephraim interrupted. “Oh, do not try to deny this. The UG has led millions of peacekeepers astray. Fortunately, with age and a discharge from service comes wisdom. The question before me is whether you, Lt. Gripphen, would show the appropriate wisdom as a civilian. Can I trust that you will abide by my standard of benevolence no matter what the task I place before you?” Ephraim massaged the neck of the pipe, and within seconds the native Hiebim weed inside began to burn. He took a puff and started back toward the view port. “After all, your motivation to take this position is highly dubious.”

  “I ask your pardon, sir. Why dubious?”

  Ephraim kept his back to the soldier. “I have a special fascination with family histories, and the Gripphen descent are well known for the nakedness of their ambition. Your family has always pushed the threshold of what is permissible among Chancellors. Now, at fifteen, you are prepared to vacate an honorable commission in exchange for being the administrative aide to a Sanctum facilitator on the most revolting colony in the Collectorate. The impartial observer might think you transparent at best or remarkably stupid at worst.”

  Gripphen cleared his throat. “Transparent. Yes, sir. But I am hardly speaking to a mere facilitator. It is widely known you are in line for prime regent, perhaps within two years. As chief of staff to such a man, my path toward the oversight presidiums would be secure.”

  Ephraim creased a smile as he drew upon his pipe and savored the sweet weed.

  “Presidiums? Hmmph. You are an honest man, Lt. Gripphen. Honest Chancellors are as rare as they are successful. Obviously, I will have to teach you the fine art of nuance. Yes?”

  Gripphen started toward the Sanctum facilitator. “Then I have the post, sir?”

  Ephraim motioned the soldier to the view port, and together they watched fifth sunrise.

  “I expect anyone in my employ to make a long-term commitment and provide certain … particularities … that I enjoy. Do you understand?”

  “I do. You will find that I can be quite satisfying.” Gripphen started to lift his right hand and reach for Sir Ephraim, but he pulled back.

  “I will expect nothing less. Now, to your question. The post is yours contingent upon your performance in a field test to be conducted one hour from now.” Ephraim glanced to his left and caught a flicker of concern in the soldier’s eyes. “The drought on Ashkinar Continent has lingered far beyond our forecasts. We have encouraged the clans on the southern realm to move north, but most have refused to resettle. Typical. As if anyone else would ever stake claim to those worthless clay fields.

  “We have been managing the water reclamation sites and watching for violators to hydro-farm and personal rations. Unfortunately, the local administrators are as incompetent as t
hey are corrupt. Today we will be targeting a regional agriculture ministry where one clan has exerted undue influence over local rations. We intend to eliminate the problem with a quick-strike squadron. They will be operating under the proviso of Command code ‘Scorch’.”

  Gripphen mouthed that last word and swallowed hard. “So the problem has escalated this far?” He asked Ephraim.

  “Not necessarily, but that is largely irrelevant. The greater point is that you and I will arrive in an uplift in advance of the raid. We will be observers. I believe the raid may yield a special opportunity for us both.”

  “Opportunity, sir?”

  Ephraim laughed, the pipe tucked in the corner of his mouth, tight between his teeth.

  “To show our benevolence, Lt. Gripphen. Follow my lead at all times, never deviate, never question, and prove your worth as a Chancellor. Yes?”

  Gripphen offered the traditional Chancellor side-nod and backed away. Ephraim removed a pair of ocean-blue glasses from the vest of his tunic and never took his eyes off his new protégé as he settled the glasses gently into place. Gripphen flexed a brow and offered a half-smile.

  “They’re beautiful, sir,” he said.

  “Yes, they are. One hour. Hangar Three. Do not be late, Lt. Gripphen.”

  Once the door slid shut and Ephraim was alone, he took a deep puff on the luxuriant poltash weed and reclined upon a sofa. He held the smoke in his lungs and allowed a new lightness of being to cascade through his senses. He reflected upon the path that brought him to this place and steeled himself for what lay ahead. He waved his left hand, and the lights dimmed.

  He thought of all those he had not seen in so long, the ones he missed, and the others who would not be glad to see him. Then he closed his eyes and said, “Come to me.”