The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  Ilya cleared his throat. “What will this mean for me?”

  “Depending upon your duty assignment, you may see combat sooner than expected.”

  Ilya’s eyes glimmered. “Outstanding. We’ll show them what happens when they reject Chancellor doctrine.” He lowered his voice. “Regardless of what we put in their blood.”

  They said little after that, rocking back and forth while watching the sunset. Ephraim decided his son had taken the revelation as well as could be expected. He had not wanted to do this to Ilya so soon, but destiny cried out for action. Ephraim only hoped Ilya would one day forgive him for what was to come next, that his son would not react to the glasses as impetuously and carelessly as Ephraim had done thirty-two years ago. Ephraim still could not erase the look of horror on his own father’s face or what happened afterward. Every time he had entered the link, Ephraim avoided his father at all costs.

  This will be different, Ephraim told himself. Ilya is stronger than I was, more open to possibilities. He can face destiny with a dedicated heart. I have been a better father. Yes.

  He repeated that mantra as he stepped from the shower with a vial of his blood, the wounds on his wrists soldered shut by utility laser. He carried the vial into his personal office, tapped a barely-perceptible nodule over his work center, and watched as a metallic white box, six-inch square, slid outward on a conveyor. Ephraim hesitated before touching the box; this was the first he laid eyes upon it since ending his tour as a peacekeeper. Still, he knew how to operate the device as if from instinct.

  Ephraim pulled back the lid and stared into a mold consisting of a pair of shallow ovals surrounded by deep channels. In one corner of the box, a pencil-thick, closed vial but an inch long contained what appeared to be water, perhaps enough for three teardrops. Yet Ephraim knew the truth: This was not water, and it was more than enough for what had to be done. He poured two ounces of his own blood into the channels then added a drop from the enclosed vial. The reaction was instant. The mold vibrated as the blood’s properties changed and the fluid became sea blue. The blood pushed through the channels and into the mold as if by command and settled there, filling the ovals. Ephraim closed the box and stepped away. He walked to the window and admired the city at night. Although he long thought Philadelphia Redux was sinking into entropy, he never lost his fondness for the streaking transit beams against a starry sky. Ten minutes later, when the vibrating stopped, Ephraim completed his task.

  The lenses were perfect. He removed a false front from beneath the lid, where he found three identical sets of frames. His greatest wish was that the final two would never have to be used, that Ilya would have no need of this box. He fitted the lenses into the frames and waited until his son returned from his days of revelry with friends and lovers.

  In the meantime, he stayed close to his work center and studied the latest batch of Hiebim security reports from the regional Sanctums as well as from his own personal operatives who kept a close eye on the planet since Ephraim’s departure. He learned of the birth of Trayem Hadeed’s second son, of how Hadeed continued to radicalize his followers, stirring up a blood-lust within them. He thought Hadeed’s decision to plant sleeper cells within every clan laid a brilliant groundwork for the inevitable. However, it was Hadeed’s unexpected talent with words that proved most exciting to Ephraim, for he could not have foreseen a manifesto of such subversive eloquence or as capable of breaking the Genysen Effect. He had always thought Hadeed would play a special role in the coming chaos, but never to this degree. When Ephraim concluded the reports, which had been carefully smuggled off Hiebimini two months ago, he responded to his primary operative with a single, encrypted request.

  “All I ask is that I know about it before it happens.”

  The next evening, Ilya returned home exhausted from celebration and sexual conquests. He talked little about those details, however, preferring to focus on the mission ahead, readying himself for the adventure of service aboard a Carrier. The competition among newbs was notoriously fierce, and Ilya intended to do whatever necessary to stand out among his peers. Battalion commanders were known to look for warriors with the fewest inhibitions and promote them quickly to squadron leaders.

  “This should pose no problem for you,” Ephraim told his son. “Trust me, Ilya. You will stand out because you are nothing like your peers.” He gave the blue glasses to his son. “What I told you about Genysen is only the beginning. Truth is a commodity known to the few. You are one of those people. The last.” Ilya stared at the glasses confused. Ephraim smiled. “Son, when I leave our home, I want you to find a comfortable pose, wear the glasses, and utter three words: ‘Come to me.’ And then …”

  Ephraim paused to catch his breath, remembering what happened that night when he was fourteen. “And then, do not be afraid. Yes?”

  He left their home and, for the next hour, walked through the neighborhood promenades. He had not done this since returning from Hiebimini. Walking through Philadelphia Redux did not provide him with the same aura of superiority as a stroll along the riverside in Messalina. However, the city was much more sanitary, and breezes brought the clean, crisp fragrances generated by the purification filters rather than the pervasive, airborne musk of Hiebimini. He stopped briefly to admire the goods at a colonial emporium and focused upon commodities imported from worlds he never visited. He made a mental list of all twenty planets and wondered whether time would afford him the chance to visit each one.

  He returned to find Ilya lying on the floor, curled on his side into a fetal position. The glasses lay several feet away, as if tossed there. The son did not move as the father kneeled beside him. Ilya’s face was red, his tears still flowing. Ephraim moved carefully, refusing to forget his own reaction thirty-two years earlier. He laid a gentle hand upon his son’s shoulder.

  “Some of us are meant for more,” he told Ilya. “You and I. Our ancestors. Yes?”

  Ilya showed little of the man he had become but much of the boy who was nervous as he began Tier 1 Educate so many years ago. He wrapped himself in sobs and managed a few words.

  “They’re going to die, Father. Billions. Die.”

  “Yes. And you will lead them there.”

  “Why? Why me?”

  “Because, Ilya, none of this was supposed to last forever. They said so.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They have many names, but you can call them the Jewels.”

  EIGHTEEN

  FLESH

  Plains of Imadi, Hiebimini

  SY 5307

  THE PEACEKEEPERS WAITED until the dust storm passed before they landed. The tiny enclave – no more than a collection of shanties built by nomads – was covered in green particulate matter from distant brontinium mines. A few clansmen emerged, their shombas wrapped tightly, with protective cloths covering their mouths and noses; otherwise, the enclave could have passed as long deserted. The cleanup under the best of circumstances would take weeks. However, humanitarian units of peacekeepers routinely assisted in such matters, bringing technology that would unburden the community of this blight in less than two days. In this case, however, the small band of peacekeepers on the approaching transport Scram did not come for such a purpose.

  The Scram was already en route when the storm blew through the remote enclave, its squadron of six young soldiers preparing to bring emergency medical and food rations to the survivors of a terrible, late-night attack by unknown assailants. As was often the case whenever rogue elements of the indigenous society got out of hand, the UG dispatched first-responder assistance and offered help to investigate and track down the guilty parties. Such attacks, while uncommon, could not be prevented altogether, as they were usually the product of desperate nomads who split from the primary clan system centuries ago and whose names could not be found on any official register. Many inhabitants of this enclave had never seen a Hiebim city. They were submissive, hurt, and hungry, of absolutely no threat to anyone – exactly how Trayem Hadeed n
eeded them to be.

  He watched the Scram’s arrival from the back room of a safe house, his attention poised on Polemicus Damon’s hand-held CV, which displayed the scene in the enclave’s central street. The first four peacekeepers, each a massive specimen in crimson armor, swept cautiously ahead in a crescent formation – standard operational procedure – with their multi-barreled rifles attached to their arms as if additional appendages. They hid their identities behind a combination helmet and face shield draped over them like a perfectly-sized glove. The soldiers on the flanks scanned the surrounding structures; bright green beams known as radiant sensors flashed from beacons just above their eye notches to penetrate walls and detect the heat signatures of humans and any potential weapons.

  “They won’t see us,” Damon whispered to Hadeed.

  “I wouldn’t be here if I thought differently,” Hadeed responded, turning confidently to six other disciples behind him. “You see? We can hide in plain sight, even from Chancellors.”

  Hadeed spent years building black market contacts through Damon, Fergus Willem, and his other generals with the sole purpose of purchasing technological secrets such as a distortion bubble that confused radiant sensors. The ultimate tactical advantage of a UG force was that it knew the exact disposition of its enemy before the fight began; the brute strength of its soldiers and their weapons offered little more than window dressing. This particular bubble was limited in range – no more than twenty meters radius – but sufficient to complete the mission.

  Hadeed’s warriors held their blast rifles to their sides, the safeties off, and they were prepared should anything go wrong. Their black shombas, woven for battle, draped over their shoulders, down across their chests, and swooped over their faces, hiding every feature except their eyes. Hadeed insisted the enemy never see any part of them except that which revealed their hatred and their determination to die for a free Hiebimini. Moreover, he said, the black veil would hide their identities and rank, allowing them to be true brothers on the battlefield.

  “In this way,” he once told them, “the fight will not end no matter how many of us have fallen – or who. We will be one Hiebim, indistinguishable and fearless.”

  He could see it in their eyes – they wanted to kill the enemy right away. Their years of field training consisted of a steady diet of appetizers causing them to salivate for so much more. Hadeed, too, was ready to pounce. However, what would happen today had to be executed with as little confrontation as possible. Timing was the key.

  As expected, the peacekeeper scouts determined the enclave to be secure and signaled the remaining soldiers, who exited the Scram, rifles at their sides. They gathered in the center of the enclave, between shanties, with their face shields retracted then negotiated terms with the elders and a woman who claimed to be the Matriarch. The conversation was largely bureaucratic in nature, as the young woman who was squadron leader ran down the inventory of relief supplies and recited the bylaws her people would use to conduct an investigation of the attack. She calmly asked the nomads to allow them to do their work without interference and promised to complete their business within three hours. The Matriarch asked for assistance in storm cleanup, and the squadron leader said the matter would be referred up the chain of command.

  Hadeed found all this quite amusing, especially given that the “Matriarch” was an imposter. The other nomads and their actual Matriarch remained inside their shanties, as ordered. They did so to protect their children, who were bound, gagged, and long since en route to the Lucian Wash.

  “This is necessary,” Hadeed had told the nomads when his people entered the enclave in the middle of the night. “You will see the true nature of peacekeepers and you will be helping to free us of their influence. Your children will learn new lessons about their heritage and how to defeat our common enemy.” He gave a long speech, but only two of thirty nomads stepped forward to offer support. Two tried to fight back with violence but were quickly subdued.

  “We will leave in peace once we have what we’ve come for,” Hadeed insisted. “Any word to the peacekeepers, even a hint of our presence, and we cannot guarantee the safety of your children. We will be able to monitor your activities after we’ve gone. If you attempt to report this to the UG, we will return and execute every one of you.”

  Willem, however, suggested that the story of a nighttime attack would need to be more convincing. Hadeed understood Willem’s strategy and consented. Willem took the two resistant nomads outside, making sure they were both childless. A disciple stabbed each through the heart and left the bodies in the street. By mid-morning, after the fraudulent request for UG assistance was confirmed by a sleeper contact in Messalina, both bodies were covered in particulate matter.

  Hadeed wanted no one else to die today if at all possible. He had no intention of killing the stolen children. As the negotiations on the street concluded, Hadeed moved his people into position, making sure they remained inside the distortion bubble. He stayed focused on Damon’s CV display, and in particular on the actions of the Matriarch, who had very specific orders.

  “Honor, I hope you’re right about her,” Damon whispered. “If she raises even the first suspicion, we’ll lose everything we’ve been working for.”

  “She will succeed,” Hadeed insisted. “She owes me this. And I think she appreciates the irony of the moment.” They shared a knowing smile.

  The peacekeepers unloaded supplies and began distribution, assisted largely by elders. The fraudulent Matriarch, meanwhile, engaged one soldier in discussions about examining the CV uplink station in her shanty, a device she said was damaged in the attack and had not been regularly receiving feeds from the global stream. It was their only contact with the world, she insisted, and only by a miracle had they been able to notify Messalina of their desperation. She portrayed herself as ignorant in all technological matters and begged the soldier to assist her. As expected, her play to the young man’s ego was perfect bait. Just before the pair entered the safe house, Hadeed turned to his warriors.

  “Every second is vital,” he said. “Hiebimini for Hiebim.”

  They nodded and moved forward into position, stationed at all angles, hidden but with an eye on the CV uplink station they had brought along for show. Damon hid away his portable CV and took cover at Hadeed’s side. As the Matriarch and peacekeeper entered the front room of the safe house, she kept the massive young soldier distracted with an endless, second-by-second account of the nomads who attacked the village and why the UG needed to do more to secure the entire Imadi outlands.

  Hadeed could not see the peacekeeper, but he heard the young man’s distinctive shuffle. His form-fitting body armor seemed to whisper as it slid over the massive, rustling muscles that Hadeed considered an abomination. When the young soldier interrupted the Matriarch to announce he would have the CV repaired in minutes, Hadeed’s blood ran cold. The soldier’s voice was low and thick, the coarseness that was normally a product of middle age but on this teenager – likely no more than sixteen – the result of genetic accelerants. As the peacekeeper sat at the CV station to begin his work, Hadeed could imagine the man-boy’s arrogant sneer as he studied this shoddy, aging equipment, and he wondered whether the man-boy was thinking of just shooting the Matriarch rather than wasting his time on this contraption.

  The rest happened in a matter of seconds. The fake Matriarch offered her most gracious thanks right before the soldier yelped then collapsed to the floor in a hulk. Hadeed and his men moved into action immediately. He and Damon surrounded the peacekeeper, who was easily seven-foot-six and nearing four hundred pounds. The Matriarch stepped back and removed her veil. Baqqari Adair, the mother of Hadeed’s sons, spit on the soldier’s chest plate and muttered the most reviling of Hiebim curses.

  “I’ve got twenty seconds,” Damon said as he swooped over the soldier whose eyes were locked in a stare, his body paralyzed by the toxic dart rammed into a cheek. Damon waved a hand-held scanner over the soldier’s neck plate
looking for the tiny chip called an EDT (Emergency Distress Transponder) that would broadcast any major physical alterations in the soldier’s health. The beacon was also used by Carrier Command to track the whereabouts of every peacekeeper on active duty.

  Damon reported success – he disabled the chip. His informant was correct about the jamming frequency, information for which Damon paid heavily.

  “Now,” Hadeed told Willem and two others, “take it off, but be careful not to tear it.”

  They worked together to lift the soldier at the waist and had no trouble removing the retractable helmet and face shield. Any attempt to remove the chest plating or the red mesh that washed smoothly over rocks called pectorals and biceps proved impossible. As they dreaded (and their contacts first suggested), the secret to these form-fitting suits was that they were bio-customized for the soldier. In essence, they became an organic extension of the body.

  “As we feared,” Damon said. “There’s an encryption, possibly in the neck plate, that disables the armor. Honor, we’ll have to experiment to break the code because I’m sure this beast will never give it to us. It’s the only way to keep the armor intact. We have to take him.”