The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  “Abraham,” he said softly, “I believe all humans need a compass.” He reached out until his arm was fully extended and balled his fist. “We are creatures who must be able to see an attainable object in the distance. This object focuses and hones our passions, and the compass shows us the path to the object. The Hiebim people have been without passion for centuries because we have had no compass. And this is because …”

  Abraham jumped in enthusiastically. “Because the Chancellors made sure we could find no object. Right, Father?”

  “Exactly, Abraham. They crushed the aspirations of every ethnic group at the dawn of colonization, stole our rights to representation, and claimed the wealth of our land for their own. And then … and this is the brilliance we must never forget, Abraham … they created government without government. They fed the illusion of ethnic sovereignty to our ancestors as if it was the gift of many lifetimes. They blinded our ancestors long enough to create impenetrable bureaucracies propped up by an invincible military. They dropped a veil over us, Abraham. Gave our ancestors no need for passion or conviction.”

  “And,” Abraham interrupted, “when passion dies, there can be no objects. If there are no objects, there can be no compass. Right, Father?”

  Hadeed’s chest swelled with pride. His son was developing faster than he could have hoped. That the boy was an outstanding physical specimen was a success by itself given how he never received the mandatory Genysen injection at age two. Hadeed would not allow the injection for Abraham, Omar, or any other children born to the new Hiebim generation. He said a thousand years on this world was enough time to build up genetic resistance to whatever nightmares the drug supposedly fought back. However, Abraham’s intellect and insatiable curiosity most pleased Hadeed. The boy read voraciously and listened to strategy sessions between Hadeed and his generals. He studied haepong stratagems as lessons for life and war.

  “You are truly my son,” he said, rubbing the boy’s hair. “Our revolution will provide a compass for all Hiebim to follow. They will need our leadership because they have been moving through life without purpose for so long. We will start by showing them that revolution can be achieved, even against an object that does not at first appear to have a clear face.”

  “Exactly, Father. We can’t just fight peacekeepers or those thieves in the Sanctums. Our fight has to be against all the Chancellor scum. This is about saving our culture. When the Hiebim people understand that then … then they’ll see that the enemy is anyone who was born to a Chancellor. Or,” he paused, his smile disappearing and being replaced by a frown. “Or any ethnic who collaborates with them.”

  Hadeed smiled. “I should offer you a job writing my speeches.”

  “Really? Thank you, Father. I study every minute I can. I want to be ready when the war begins. I want you to be proud of me when I’m standing at your side.”

  “Abraham, of all the things still uncertain to me, that is not one of them.”

  They shared a quiet moment watching a squadron of young warriors run drills. Abraham placed his hand on the rifle.

  “Father, when will I be shaved?”

  “Before we go to war.”

  “Why not now? I’m as devoted to you as all the stolen children who proved their fealty.”

  “True. But they are not my son. They will be soldiers on the line, and most of them will sacrifice themselves. You will be a general someday and heir to the Hiebimini we create after the Chancellors are gone. Abraham, you have more to prove than the others. Fealty is for the disciples. To be a revolutionist, to provide a compass for the unwashed, demands much more.”

  The boy spoke barely above a whisper, his head bowed. “I know, Father. I just … Father, I know many of us are going to die in the war. I don’t want you to protect me.” He raised his eyes to Hadeed. “When the time comes, I have to fight. I have to be with them. I’m Hiebim.”

  “And you will be. Abraham, you will leave a trail of Chancellor blood all across this planet. In fact, I will make you a promise.”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “You will kill a Chancellor on the first day of our war.”

  Abraham did not respond. He studied his father’s eyes and nodded. Then he looked upon the training drills and seemed perfectly at peace. His left hand did not leave the blast rifle.

  “Of course,” Hadeed added with a wry smile, “you cannot kill until you know how. The rifle is yours. Report to General Benazir at dawn. He will be expecting you.”

  Abraham hesitated before grabbing the rifle then tucked it against his chest in an embrace. He leaned over and kissed Hadeed on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Father. Can I tell Omar? He’ll be jealous.”

  “Certainly, but be kind. Set a good standard for him.”

  Hadeed bathed himself in a blanket of paternal satisfaction as he sat alone on the ridge for the next hour watching his disciples train.

  The second obstacle to the revolutionist who seeks to remove an oppressor is found in the concept of war itself. The expansion of the colonies created a millennium of what appears to have been relative stability. This is a most remarkable illusion designed not by the so-called humanitarian policies of the Unification Guard but by the jurisdictional freedom allowed to Carrier Commanders and their genetic abominations. Their blast rifles, energy slews, and torture chambers have systematically cleansed every colonial society of voices counter to the Chancellor agenda before the voices can be raised. They claim their methods have kept our societies safe and clean, which is undoubtedly true as illusions go. The ultimate ramification of these policies has been to silence the idea of war as a viable alternative, both as a moral and practical matter. Why concern oneself with the notion of violent overthrow when the likelihood of its failure is as certain as the inevitable human slaughter? Again, the revolutionist is confronted with a dilemma: Who will believe my principles strongly enough to follow me into death?

  Hadeed listened to those words several weeks later as he puffed on his pipe and studied the sorry state of the peacekeeper hanging before him, still strapped against the cave wall. The audio playback of the manifesto ran unabated, as it had for seventeen months.

  “How many times have you heard those words about violent overthrow?” Hadeed asked the man-boy. “And how often have you laughed at them?”

  The peacekeeper’s eyes were all but hidden behind long, noodled strands of bleached hair that fell to his stomach. His beard, a matching blend, covered much of his face like foam and all but camouflaged his mouth. Much to the amazement of Hadeed and the prisoner’s daily feeders, the man-boy’s muscles seemed incapable of atrophying. They were smaller, to be sure, but far more intimidating than even the best Hiebim haepong warrior. At each visit, Hadeed asked whether the musculature was designed as a permanent feature without need for additional training. The soldier never answered.

  His defiance had disappeared a year earlier, when his mocking words and strings of profanities turned to utter silence. Only in the past two months did he begin to offer the slightest responses, usually “yes” or “no.” Then one day, as he was being spoon fed, the peacekeeper began to cry. The feeder was so taken aback as to call for help. At first, almost everyone who examined him thought his emotional breakdown was a peacekeeper trick, a psychological ploy. Hadeed, however, reached a very different conclusion, especially when the soldier at long last answered the question given to him from the day of his capture: What is your name? Hadeed, who visited the prisoner almost every day since receiving that answer, waited with great anticipation for the next important breakthrough.

  “Andrew,” Hadeed said between puffs. “Andrew McClatchen? Did you hear me?” The prisoner lifted his head. “The subject was violent overthrow. I was wondering whether you had an opinion on the matter.”

  The prisoner muttered something. Hadeed refused to come closer.

  “If we are going to have a dialogue, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  The soldier moaned. “Andy.”
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  “Andy?”

  “My name. They call me … Andy. My father is called Andrew.”

  “Andy. Interesting. Sounds weak. Certainly not befitting a great and powerful warrior of the Unification Guard. Still, you have held up far better than any Hiebim would under the same conditions. If you prefer to be called Andy, I can accept the compromise. Now, Andy, what do you have to say about the moral and practical implications of violent overthrow?”

  Specialist Andrew McClatchen, Reg. 404 Battalion Delta, attached to Carrier Nephesian, peered through his hair without blinking. His jaw hung limp and his lips open without words. Water filled the corners of his eyes.

  “Don’t understand.”

  “No? I’m sure your training included a study of the entire history of human warfare, even if most of it did occur before the Chancellors discovered the Fulcrum. I am simply trying to be a courteous host. You have been forced to listen to my words for seventeen months, and now I would like to hear yours.”

  Again, the cave fell silent except for the continuous drone of the audio playback. Hadeed took the final puffs of his poltash and emptied the ashes onto the gritty floor.

  “We had a farm,” Andrew said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “A hydro-farm. It was in the Dakota Territory. Biggest in the Pan American Consortium. I loved the land. We had a farm.”

  Hadeed grew impatient. “Yes. My clan also had a hydro-farm. We needed it to survive. I doubt you could say the same.”

  “But we …”

  “I am not interested in your past, Andy. Hear me.” Hadeed stepped close and pulled the prisoner’s hair from his face. “Where you came from is irrelevant. Understand this: You will die at my hands or you will become my brother and fight for my cause. Either way, your future is tied to Hiebimini. You will never go back to Earth.”

  Tears fell from Andrew’s eyes.

  “Please. Kill me.”

  Hadeed stepped away. “Apparently you aren’t ready for a discussion about the philosophy of revolution. But you’ve come far, Andy.” He forced a grin. “I know. The process has been difficult. Think of this as the depths of a sickness, a pain in your gut that is merciless and without end. This is your low point, Andy. One day you will come out the other side and …” He turned toward the cave exit. “And then the sun will shine and you will be my brother.”

  Just as Hadeed stepped into the sunlight, he heard the prisoner moan.

  “Please, Hadeed. Please kill me.”

  Hadeed looked around to the bustle of the camp and took in the smells of the communal meal being prepared in open pits fifty meters away. Two boys with shaved heads ran past, each with a haepong stick. He called across the gorge to Benazir Jessira, one of the prisoner’s feeders.

  “Yes, Honor,” she said with a flurry as she stood at attention in his presence.

  He kept his voice low. “Tonight, I want you to give him an extra serving.”

  She winced but promised to follow his orders.

  As Hadeed made his way toward his own lair, he heard an echo of the prisoner’s words: “They call my father Andrew.” A fog fell over Hadeed, and he could not think clearly. Just as quickly, however, the fog lifted and Hadeed cursed his momentary weakness.

  Perhaps the greatest challenge of the revolutionist lies in the clear definition of his cause, its philosophical foundation, and its intended outcome. A study of pre-history shows us that most revolutions of that era failed or were victorious but ultimately supplanted by disastrous civil wars because they did not meet at least one crucial test of definition. Very simply, the revolutionist must provide strong answers to a single question: Why do we fight? Answers of a political, economic, or – as history has shown – religious nature are insufficient to sustain a successful overthrow. While such grievances may offer subtext to any cause, they must all work in support of a central, philosophical premise that will bind all those who seek a new order. The Chancellor bureaucracy and its millennium of colonial suppression has created an environment so counter to the natural will of humans as to create a clear, unifying principle. Natural will dictates that each human, regardless of ethnicity or caste, is from birth unbound to the artificial construct of any manmade dictate that pre-supposes a hierarchical society. As such, each human is free to pursue personal liberty and remove all obstacles to that aim. Because the principle of natural will is without rational dispute, the only questions remaining before the revolutionist are precisely how those obstacles must be removed and what form of pure society will be created afterward.

  “Always reading,” Adair whispered in Hadeed’s ear as she finished dressing.

  “Study,” he said dismissively. “I know the words by heart, but I need to see them in print so I can remember when I wrote them … and why. Do you ever study, Adair?”

  “Honor, I …”

  “You force these words down the throats of our youngest every day, but do you actually study them yourself? Understand their truth?”

  She answered, but Hadeed wasn’t listening. Tonight’s encounter with the mother of his sons was especially hollow, which continued a longstanding trend. Ever since Adair grew flush with perceived power, Hadeed found her less attractive and the intimacy less satisfying. He much preferred the younger, blind devotee who came to him years ago willing to sell her flesh to mingle with his. On occasion, he tried to find comfort in the arms of other disciples; but Abraham and Omar, who could hear the activity from behind their partition, preferred to see their mother and father together. Fortunately, he told himself, they had not brought up the possibility of her living with the three of them.

  “I understand the words completely,” she said. “Have you not been satisfied with every child who has completed indoctrination?”

  “Yes. Almost. There was the one mistake a year ago. Luckily for you, Abed Assam was not as proficient with a spelling blade as he believed.”

  She laughed. “I was better than he expected. Tragically.”

  Adair tried to wrap her arms around him, but he pushed her away from his work center.

  “Enough. You are a teacher, not a wife. Focus on your strengths, Adair.”

  She would not back down. “Honor, I have been thinking about my role after the war. You will need someone at your side.”

  Hadeed turned to her in amazement. “After the war? You refer to the one that has not even begun? Adair, you are alive and have position because you gave me sons. When the war begins, you will be fighting alongside the other warriors. Survive the war first, then we will talk about what happens afterward.”

  The curtain into his lair whipped open suddenly. Adair looked up in dismay, and Damon apologized for interrupting.

  “Honor, I thought you were alone …”

  “Enter. Adair is leaving.” He turned to her. “She has lessons to prepare.”

  Hadeed did not look up after Adair departed or as both Damon and Willem arrived together, standing at one end of his work center. “We kept her from becoming a Matriarch but created a monster anyway,” he said. Both his aide and his top general smiled, but he knew their expression had nothing to do with his comments about Adair.

  “Yes?”

  Willem nodded to Damon, who spouted the news as if lifting a great burden.

  “We have it. The countermeasure to the body armor.”

  Hadeed stood, but he wanted to shout for joy. “You’ve confirmed this?”

  “Without doubt,” Willem added. “Every test has supported our initial theories. I only wish we had not required twenty months to reach this moment.”

  “No, Willem. I would rather have this perfected over time than be based upon shortsighted guesses. Tell me. What is the countermeasure?”

  “The armor is designed of a fabric that amplifies the human body’s own natural electrical output. The chest plating acts as a modulator. In essence, it instructs the body how to defend itself. It creates a shield that deflects almost all projectiles and creates a heat-retardant wall against incendia
ries like flashpegs. The only things capable of penetrating are energy slews, Cromartian lasers, and Surfett bombs … and even those have to be within a few meters to overwhelm the modulation. Our problem is that almost our entire arsenal is blast rifles, which leaves us with flashpegs as our only hope.”

  “Willem, you haven’t answered my question.”

  Willem paused. “But I have, Honor. The answer lies in flashpegs. We have found a way to retrofit them. We can design them to neutralize the chest plating with voltage equivalent to that found in dry lightning. The armor will magnetize the voltage and spread it evenly across their bodies. Each peacekeeper hit in the chest plating will be electrocuted.”

  “Outstanding. And if a warrior does not hit the plating?”

  “Other hits will create serious injury. The flashpegs will incinerate on impact as designed, and the residual electrical buildup in the fabric will dissipate. The flashpegs will burrow perhaps an inch inside the skin. Needless to say, we will have to reanalyze our combat formations to bring the front of the enemy into more direct focus.”

  Hadeed turned to Damon. “You have no doubt this will work?”

  “None, Honor. When we start killing peacekeepers en masse, they’ll want nothing to do with Hiebimini.”

  “Finally.” Hadeed balled his fists together. “The last piece coming together. How soon can we begin retrofitting the rifles?”

  Damon hesitated. “Honor, I believe you misunderstand. The rifles are not in need of retrofitting. We have to do this to each and every flashpeg.”

  “Each … Damon, each rifle holds a central cartridge of eighty flashpegs. We have more than ten thousand rifles.”

  “Yes. Almost half spread across the planet. The logistics of this will not be easy.”

  “How long?”

  “Given the delicate nature of the retrofit itself and the logistics of extensive travel without drawing the attention of Chancellors … or others … we estimate twenty months.”

  Hadeed squeezed his fists until they turned cherry.