The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

He was not afraid of them; on the contrary, he was afraid for them. Only a few – Frederic Ericsson chief among them – seem braced for the inevitable or paid attention to the final countdown. Whatever the case, he wondered how the ancestors would treat Ilya upon his son’s first visit. Would they hail him as the great one who would complete the cycle as the Jewels predicted? Or would they try to dissuade Ilya from his chosen course, hoping the boy would live a long, rich life and extend the carefree existence of his ancestors? These questions rose with Ephraim and went to bed with him, especially as Ilya turned fourteen and prepared for induction into the Unification Guard.

  Frederic Ericsson, who had yet to make a firm commitment toward searching for Henrik, became increasingly concerned. “You have changed,” Frederic said during more than one of Ephraim’s visits to the link. “You are not the resolute, capricious man I once knew. Are you sure your love for Ilya has not created a fog between you and the mission?”

  “No, my dear friend. The ending will come. But who among the link can possibly understand how devastated my son will be when he learns the truth? Yes?”

  Ilya received his orders on a beautiful April morning: Report to Vasily Station in thirty days for transport to the Ark Carrier Thomas Glory in orbit around the colony Indonesia Prime. Ilya shared the news with his father immediately after the beam arrived. Ephraim embraced his son, who was now seven-foot-six – not quite as tall as his father – and three-hundred forty pounds of pure, rippling muscle. They quickly arranged a public celebration befitting all peacekeeper newbs. Before then, however, Ilya had private plans to feast with the many friends, emerging young men and women alike, who had been a part of his large coterie of sexual partners since the days after his Tier 2 graduation. Ephraim understood the urgency – physical intimacy would be strictly forbidden for the first six months of Ilya’s tour of duty.

  Ilya’s distraction allowed Ephraim two days free to take care of the task he had been putting off for months. In fairness to all who came before, and for the sake of a pre-ordained future, he could wait no longer to test his son with the truth. And so that night, after a quiet dinner and a single glass of wine, Ephraim draped himself in a white satin evening robe and retreated to the shower. He carried a utility laser the size of a thumb along with a wide-lipped laboratory vial. He removed his robe, ordered a steam shower, and relaxed on the highest marble platform surrounding the pool. He set the vial to his side and allowed the hot, humid storm to overwhelm him. This, more than anything, he had missed while serving his time on Hiebimini…

  He and Ilya had spent many hours in here discussing philosophy, sociology, and colonial economics – subjects dear to Ilya’s heart. The boy convinced himself he was destined to chair the Humanitarian Oversight Sanctum, the central bureaucracy that monitored and set policy for intercolonial commerce and ethnic “credit shares” (subsidies to colonial assemblies). Ilya firmly believed that HOS had lost its way in recent centuries, creating unnatural disparities between colonies based upon backroom patronage and the pleas of ethnic sympathizers.

  “We must maintain a consistent and fundamental hierarchy that separates the purity of our caste from the indigenous colonials,” Ilya insisted. “Inequity among the powerless breeds contempt and threatens the fragile balance the Chancellors have maintained for two millennia. Wouldn’t you agree, Father?”

  “Perhaps,” Ephraim replied. “But consider this point, Son. If such contempt creates disharmony among, as you say, the powerless, where will they manifest their anger? Will they turn their discontent toward their patrons or those for whom they have been slighted? Consider, for the moment, a study of two enclaves, one facing the other. One morning, the first enclave discovers a chest of gold credits outside their door. This chest will guarantee they will never have to suffer the indignity of rations. There is a CV attached to the chest which says, simply, ‘Courtesy of Humanitarian Oversight.’ Yes? The neighboring enclave receives nothing. They inquire of the first enclave, ‘What did you do to earn this treasure?’ The respondents may be truthful but just as likely will be coy on the fear that any disclosure may endanger their newfound wealth. Their answer, of course, is irrelevant. The neighboring enclave will not be allowed to share in this wealth. Moreover, the patrons are light-years away on Earth. Their proxies in the form of peacekeepers and regional Sanctums are too powerful and too impenetrable to fight. Therefore, the second enclave is left to resent their neighbors for wealth unearned. That resentment will fester through generations but never pose a threat to us.”

  Ilya nodded. “I understand your point, Father, and I don’t disagree. The UG has always been exceptional at putting down the disruptive elements among the colonials. My concern is greater, Father. Hear me out. Humanity, as with any other species, flourishes only with an established and rigidly maintained hierarchy. The natural state of humans is that they are, at birth, the very essence of inequity. We have seen this evolution since pre-history. The European alliances coalesced by the first Chancellors built effective ramparts against the lesser tribes of the Persian East and Africa Major. We were ostensibly three centuries ahead of them when we led the crusades to clean the Earth of the Heretics of God. Those who fought for the Chancellors looked upon our generals as de facto gods. They carried out the great slaughters for us because they understood that they were fundamentally inferior. They have followed our lead ever since because they know that our position in this hierarchy guarantees their survival.”

  Ephraim was proud of his son’s firm devotion to the central tenets of Elevation Philosophy. He loved seeing the passion blaze from Ilya’s eyes and cross his lips.

  “You are correct, of course,” he told his son. “But does your last statement not suggest that any current disparities between the colonials will be resolved in kind, as all previous disruptions have been? Yes?”

  “No, Father. Eventually, we run the risk of an imbalance so profound that it infests the very heart of the Chancellory. Even now there are rogue elements within HOS and the regional Sanctums that collaborate with the indigenous castes. It’s an open secret. My friends have parents who see this happening on a regular basis. Imagine, Father. Collaborating with indigos.”

  Ephraim thought of his many sexual and financial diversions with Polemicus Miriam. He shifted in place uneasily. “And what do they propose should be done about it?”

  “Interim solutions, mostly. Demotions, relocations, perhaps even exile. These people in some respects, Father, are worse than the ones who have ‘gone native’ over the centuries and joined the indigos. What we need is a return to the core philosophy of the Chancellory. Think of great men such as Hammond, Plutarch, and Romilius. They taught us that the pinnacle to which the human race could aspire is a pure state of hierarchical design based upon predisposed genetic, physical, and intellectual purity. Romilius called it ‘Gods in Truth.’ ”

  Ephraim knew the text well. He had read every word of Romilius repeatedly during his Tier 2 Educate. He knew only too well that the message was founded in much more than wisdom, a fact learned not long after Ephraim’s first experience inside the blue glasses.

  “I have never told you before,” Ephraim said, “but Romilius was a very close cousin in our bloodline. Nineteen generations removed, of course.”

  He never had seen his son’s eyes light up so brightly, even after his triumph at Kwin-sho. Ilya launched into a long diatribe about how he would one day reform HOS and restore the pure demarcation between castes. The innocence of the fanatical young Chancellor, Ephraim mused. Visions of reform, the champion of the hardliners. Ephraim was this way before the glasses, before the truth of history. Soon enough, Ilya would have to walk down that path as well.

  Ephraim woke from a short nap in the steam shower and grabbed the utility laser. He positioned his right hand directly over the vial and held the laser with his left. He balled his right fist until an artery created a protrusion on his wrist. Using the laser, he made an incision a quarter-inch wide. He balled his fist tighter, t
urned his arm over, and allowed the blood to flow into the vial…

  Ephraim had known Ilya’s duty orders could arrive any day, so he decided it best to begin taking his son down the preparatory road toward destiny. If the boy could have some sense that humanity was not what it seemed, perhaps his first visit inside the glasses would be less devastating. So, three days after Ilya’s rant about the HOS, Ephraim called his son to the balcony of their thirtieth-floor home, handed him a pipe, and asked him to enjoy poltash as they journeyed to the city’s central park far below.

  Once they lit up and savored the first puffs of the exotic weed for which Ephraim would always have a great love, they ordered the balcony to separate from its docking port. He asked Ilya to choose the music of their journey. Ilya selected a symphony from Ester Sibelius, an early Chancellor propagandist. Sibelius made heavy use of flutes long before any other composers.

  The great city of Philadelphia Redux rose from either side of the kilometers-long tree line below like the steepest cliffs of the tallest canyon. Hundreds of identical monoliths grew from the earth like chrome-plated cylindrical canisters and stretched toward the clouds. These skyscrapers, dotted with thousands of tiny lighted windows, glistened in moving shades of orange, pink, yellow, and red as the dying light of the western sun bounced off them. Yet even their magnificence did not compare to the single goliath at the city center.

  SkyTower, an orbital elevator, exploded from the surface two kilometers wide and stretched through the clouds past what the eye could perceive – through the haze of the stratosphere and beyond. SkyTower carried a dazzle that twinkled against sunset, playing games with light and shadow; clouds appeared to pass through it. SkyTower often paralyzed visiting colonists upon first viewing – culture shock, it was called. Ephraim and his son, however, barely noticed it as their balcony softly drifted across the park, soon to land meters away from the river flowing past Privacy Plot 92, a slice of land belonging to the family for three centuries.

  Scram traffic passed high above in orderly processions, the tiny crafts’ green fuel nacelles creating the illusion of continuous streaks of color as they whispered through the city on transit beams. Other balconies rose from the tree line or separated from the skyscrapers, all flying safely below the primary transit routes.

  Ilya exhaled poltash smoke through his nose. “Magnificent, Father. I’m going to miss this while I’m on active duty. A month of credit restrictions won’t buy me an ounce of this weed.”

  “And well it should not,” Ephraim said. “Your tour in the UG is about service to the Collectorate, not the trappings of luxuriance. You’ll have the rest of your life to enjoy those.”

  “Speaking of which, Abigail Durand has promised me the best lay she’s ever given to anyone the night before I report. If you, um, have someone in mind, Father, you could join us.”

  Ephraim laughed. “I love your audacity. No, Son. I will leave that evening to you and Abigail. Yes?”

  Ilya nodded with the mischievous grin of childhood not yet left behind. Ephraim put his pipe aside and braced himself for a delicate new strategy.

  “Ilya, I have been ruminating over our discussion about the HOS. I also revisited ‘The Partition’ text by Romilius. I know it is your favorite. Yes? I believe this may be a good time to examine this issue from a context you probably have not considered.”

  “Doubt that, Father. I wrote more interpretations of Romilius and the empirical implications of his philosophy than anyone in my Post-Tier.”

  “I have little doubt. Son, as you know, Romilius based his philosophy on what he perceived as the natural state of human flesh. He accounted for many variables, but none of them linked to scientific intervention.”

  Ilya shrugged. “Naturally. It was irrelevant to the core principle. At that time, genetic manipulation was still in its infancy and there was considerable backlash against it. We had not yet discovered the Fulcrum, there were ten billion people on Earth, resources were thin, and science did not seem to be moving us forward. Only the economic policies of the Chancellor Sanctums kept us from doom.”

  “While all this is correct, Son, do remember that a philosopher deals in nebulous concepts. He can neither envision nor anticipate the future. Romilius could not possibly have seen what was coming, or how science would alter his great hierarchy.”

  Ilya frowned. The balcony descended toward the tree line.

  “But it didn’t, Father. If anything, the founding of the colonies and the control we have maintained only strengthened his case for hierarchy.”

  Ephraim nodded. “I would be hard-pressed to find many who would disagree with you. The problem, Ilya, is that neither they nor you are entirely versed in the truth. Let me pose a question: How do you think it is that we have been able to control so many for so long and at such great distances? Solely because we have all the guns? All the technology? All the wealth?”

  “Simple, Father. Entitlement. This is our natural place in the scheme of things.”

  “Truth is never so simple, Son. There are three billion Chancellors, and all but five-hundred million live on Earth. Yet somehow, five hundred million on thirty-nine other worlds – and most of them in orbit – successfully dictate their will to twenty-four billion ethnics. We have maintained this control for a millennium. How, Son, do you think that is possible without scientific intervention?”

  Ilya smiled. “Father, I think you’re trying to pose a hypothetical to test me. We are eleven percent of the human population, but we possess ninety-five percent of the wealth, a hundred percent of the military might, and the compassion to help the indigos when they call upon us. They don’t challenge our supremacy because they see no point.”

  “And that is precisely the contradiction. Why would they not want what we have? Or at least a greater share of it? They struggle through a meager existence with no hope of advancement, while we wrap ourselves in glitter brighter than the sun. Most of our wealth comes from their worlds. Yes? Do you see now?”

  Ilya looked around nervously as the balcony reached the tree line and descended above a roaring river. Plot 92 was two minutes away.

  “What … ? Entitlement, Father. Entitlement.”

  Ephraim grabbed his son. “Genysen, Ilya. Genysen.”

  “What do you …?”

  “When the first ethnics ventured out to their own home worlds, we were faced with two problems. The first was that these worlds were known to be sources of enormous mineral wealth, and the ethnics were going to claim those rights as a condition of their sovereignty. The second was that we had few vessels beyond the original colony ships and little space military to speak of. The Sanctums could see the inevitable: The ethnics would eventually break away from the Collectorate and we would be unable to stop them. The immediate solution was to create the Unification Guard as a scientific and humanitarian fleet to provide protection and development assistance for the original colonial outposts.”

  “Basic history, Father.”

  “Yes, but the rest is not, should I say, well-recorded. Son, you must understand that the greater vision of the peacekeeper fleet and the Carriers was at least a century away. The Sanctums believed control of the colonies would be lost before then. Fortunately, we found an opening in the form of Genysen. The colonists were struggling with new diseases, outbreaks, other vagaries that different worlds present. They welcomed any drugs that would inoculate them against these dangers.” He paused. “Ilya, what I’m about to tell you is known today to perhaps five hundred people in all the Collectorate. Yes? You can never repeat this. Understood?”

  “As always, Father. My word is bond.”

  “About nine hundred years ago, when Genysen inoculations became mandatory for ethnics everywhere, we introduced a genetic manipulative to the drug. Son, the other castes do as they are told because they grow up with a genetic predisposition to favor Chancellors, much as the ancients worshipped gods. It’s literally in their blood.”

  The balcony fired its retros and landed ne
ar the river. The fragrance of tea roses and honeysuckle washed over them at once. Ephraim thought Ilya looked as if he had been slapped silly for the past hour. He wouldn’t speak or leave the balcony.

  “Son, the philosophers you love were not wrong in principle, only in practice. To maintain control, we changed the rules without telling the ethnics. In truth, only the Chancellors directly responsible for the drug’s design knew the secret. Suffice to say, if this became common knowledge on the colonies, the dynamic would change dramatically.”

  Ilya continued to stare in disbelief. “How? If their genes tell them to obey us, nothing we do will turn them against us.”

  “Come now, Ilya. I thought you were much smarter than that. Yes? Genetic manipulation can be easily overridden by environmental factors. Your mother and I carefully customized your gene package in order to produce the remarkable young man you have become. But any significant disruption in your upbringing could have altered your perspective on life.”

  “Then how do we keep them under …?”

  “The UG, of course. The ethnics know they need us as partners. Whenever they call, we are there. The peacekeepers have always intervened to help them in times of crisis or to eliminate undesirable elements in their population. Or,” he added with a chuckle, “those elements we do not find necessary any longer. Such will be your value when you report to duty.”

  Ilya seemed dispirited, but Ephraim coaxed his son from the balcony and along a stone path to their holo-sealed cabin surrounded by tall oaks. He waved his identity into the SightMail column at the base of the cabin, and the seal fell away. They dropped into a pair of sturdy wooden rockers and listened to the rushing of the river for a few moments. Finally, Ilya spoke.

  “Father, why would you tell me this now?”

  “Because you have led a perfect childhood, the best a Chancellor could expect. You will be an outstanding warrior, Son, and soon a leader of thousands, perhaps millions. I want you to set yourself apart, to possess a truth no one around you can see. Our history is a carefully orchestrated blend of truth and fiction. The greatest leaders, the ones with a higher purpose, understand this. Yes?” Ilya did not respond. “The Sanctums have received scattered, confused reports of a new, subversive manifesto that appears to be gaining traction among the fringe elements on several colonies, those who may have already broken free of the Genysen Effect. We don’t know the origins, except the philosopher behind it has introduced a new definition to what we call ‘natural will.’ As you might expect, it runs completely counter to Chancellor doctrine. Most of those who have read it have rejected it outright, but the most disaffected are spreading it even in the face of anti-sedition laws.”