The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  Hadeed did not turn to Omar until after Abraham became the youngest general and took control of the jihadeen. He saw a boy who could have been bitter, his self-esteem battered by the shadow of an older brother revered almost as much as the father. Instead, Hadeed found an energetic son with buoyant, eager eyes and an insatiable desire to give his life in the service of his father. Unlike other young warriors who killed on the battlefield before they came of age, Omar maintained his capacity for tenderness and compassion. Unlike the others, his deep brown eyes were not distant; he did not think about the bodies of enemy dead without a measure of sorrow. Hadeed hoped Omar would never change, but he also realized these were the qualities Adair most despised. Even Hadeed would once have considered them to be weaknesses.

  Omar glanced toward the empty entrance to the cave. “Father, you do trust me to give strong counsel, don’t you?”

  Hadeed nodded. “In some ways,” he told Omar, “you remind me of Damon. Very thorough, only offering counsel after analyzing all the evidence very carefully.”

  “Except I’ll never betray you. Father, you do realize there’s more behind Gen. Benazir’s words than concern about Abraham?”

  “Yes.”

  “Father, I think the truth can’t be said. Not by any of the generals. They’re blind to it.” Omar swallowed hard. “What’s happening with Abraham is just an example.”

  “Do you agree with Asiah? Should we try a new approach with the jihadeen?”

  Omar never took his eyes off his father. “I haven’t spoken with my brother much in the past year. Father, I think he doesn’t care about the crusade anymore. He loves the hunt. He loves the slaughter. I don’t think he cares how many he kills or why. If you take the jihadeen away from him …” Omar choked up.

  Hadeed nodded. “Then even we who wear black shombas will be his enemy.” Omar’s eyes bulged. “Yes, Son. I have thought about this. But if there is any chance of saving him and saving our crusade, should I not try, as Asiah pleaded?”

  Omar wet his lips and looked away. Water came to his eyes. “Father, you know the truth as well as I do. You aren’t blind like the others. I see what this is doing to you every day. Father, we can’t win this war.”

  Hadeed fell back into his chair and closed his eyes. “Fayed Omar, never say those words again. If the wrong person were to hear you, they would quickly forget you are my son.”

  “But it’s the truth. Even if we defeat the Patriots, and I don’t see how, we’ll have nothing left for the Chancellors. We’ll be tired and ruined, exactly how they want us to be. Most of our warriors don’t even remember what we were fighting for. They don’t see peacekeepers in their nightmares anymore. Now they just see Hiebim who used to be their clansmen, except they aren’t wearing black shombas. Father, I know what dreams you had for us, and I love those dreams. I’ll die for them, right by your side. We have to fight. I know that. We’re the Messengers of Honor. But we lost our way, and we can’t win. Maybe … maybe if you could give us a new vision …”

  Hadeed had avoided hard reality for so long he almost forgot its face. Omar’s words stung every corner of his spirit. These were concepts he fought to keep away from his conscience for five years; he would have killed the first general who might have spoken them. Yet, coming from a thirteen-year-old, they carried validity and purity.

  Hadeed was confused and tired, and he wanted to sleep. To dream this all away. Yet the day was just beginning.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  ABRAHAM’S VORTEX

  Eight months later

  ASRA USED TO BE A NONDESCRIPT TOWN where twenty thousand Hiebim went quietly about their perfunctory business during the day and made even less noise at night. Only the lighted haepong packs, where boys defended their dreams of one day playing for a continental championship, carried any drama after the sun disappeared. Except for two long-forgotten incidents of note – a peacekeeper raid on the Agriculture Ministry and the disappearance of a rising young haepong star from clan Trayem – few Hiebim or Chancellors ever gave this arid community on the desert’s edge any notice. All that changed following the attacks of 100.5311.

  Reprisals began en masse when Asra was publicly identified as the birthplace of the terrorist Trayem Hadeed. Outraged local clans came after the twenty or so Trayem not spirited away by the Messengers of Honor during the attacks, and many Trayem on shift at the nearby Radnor mine that infamous day found themselves with spelling blades in their chests soon after returning to Asra. However, not all the region turned against Trayem. Some young males who read black-market copies of Testament to Truth or who saw the bodies of executed Matriarchs as a sign that their years of emasculation were over, openly supported the Messengers. Weeks after the attacks, sanctioned haepong matches resumed, but players were killed in alarming numbers – some boys took the pack armed with spelling blades. The street-by-street bloodbath began within weeks. Elders and surviving Matriarchs struggled in vain to contain an internecine violence they never imagined possible. Yet some observers – mostly men not old enough to be elders but young enough to remember their own sheltered upbringing – said the anger had been simmering for generations, that it was a latent virus quietly waiting for an excuse to strike. In time, the town no longer segregated itself by clan but rather by supporters of the Patriots and the Messengers.

  Six years later, only a few hundred Hiebim roamed what was left of Asra, and all of them were soldiers. Beneath the pristine night sky, Asra crackled with the automatic report of blast rifles. Bright flashes of plasma pegs and whistling streams of tracer fire lit up the town as if it were a carnival. Occasionally, the ground shook as a yellow flaming rose blossomed at the spot where a Phalyx bomb detonated.

  Hadeed watched and listened from two kilometers away in the hills, safe within the Messengers’ observation post. He wanted to take a more active role in field operations, but his generals agreed from the start that Hadeed was too powerful a symbol to put at risk. Better he command from an undisclosed location. At times, he felt like little more than a propaganda tool, seen by the public only through messages recorded on a vididrone then hacked into the global stream. This time, however, he overruled their advice. The reports about the jihadeen had become increasingly gruesome, and Abraham refused orders to return to the Schrindorian Mountains. Hadeed listened carefully to his generals and, with the exception of one, he could hear the message beneath their words. Deal with him, Honor, or we will do it ourselves.

  “It should be over by dawn,” First Gen. Fergus Willem said, standing at Hadeed’s right. “We have the last contingent of Patriots bottled up. Gen. Faisel is preparing a final strike.”

  “Size of the enemy?”

  “Less than forty. They are down to small arms at best.”

  “Against six hundred? Have they offered to surrender?”

  Gen. Fergus looked away from his liege. “No, Honor, and they will not.”

  Hadeed did not have to ask why. He had heard many stories of enemy who laid down their arms before the jihadeen, only to discover fates worse than death.

  “If Asra was not such a powerful symbol,” Gen. Fergus said, “I am sure the Patriots would have fled long ago. They were holding their own until the jihadeen arrived.” The general sipped from a flask. “Honor, they are remarkable warriors, the jihadeen. Each one fights with the cunning and courage of fifty Hiebim. They worship your son as if he was you, and he is younger than them all. They will not understand why you are doing this.”

  “But you do, Willem. If this is how we are going to prosecute the war, there will not be any of us left to fight the Chancellors.” Hadeed had allowed Omar’s message many months ago to sink in before he finally came to accept the bleak reality of a failing war. He saw a chance to change the course of events once Asra was cleansed of the enemy and Abraham was recalled. “We have to be known as liberators, not monsters.”

  Hadeed turned to his left and acknowledged Omar, who quietly pushed his father toward adopting this new, less malevolent vi
sion. They had talked in private almost daily, until at last Omar convinced his father to consider the idea of holding prisoners in humane fashion and perhaps even turning over the lesser threats to UG relief squadrons. In this way, Omar argued, they could rid themselves of the burden of prisoners while projecting a stronger public image to neutral Hiebim. Hadeed could not believe he succumbed to this reasoning, which went against his initial doctrine of killing any enemy combatant. He feared how his forces – especially the jihadeen – might consider this change a sign of weakness. Yet Hadeed could not deny his son’s wisdom. He looked into Omar’s plaintive eyes and saw himself, a boy alone against an overwhelming tide, the only one who could see behind the veil. He chose to believe in Omar’s courage; a boy had taken a leap of faith to change history once before, so why not again? Hadeed planned to announce his policy shift once Abraham was recalled and the jihadeen reassigned.

  The trio stayed at the observation post all through the night. More than fifty kilometers to the west of the town, the distinctive green glow of Radnor lifted above the horizon. Less than an hour before dawn, Asra became silent. When the first snatches of light blue-green filled the sky and changed the landscape, a two-wheel rideabout raced across the plains and came to a stop fifty meters below the post. A warrior with black shomba emerged from the rideabout, cleared the first wave of sentries, and made his way directly to Hadeed. The warrior gathered his breath, removed his veil, and bowed before his liege. Hadeed recognized Trayem Mazri, who publicly executed four Trayem Matriarchs during the initial attacks.

  “Honor, oh Honor, it is such a great privilege to have you here as witness,” said Abraham’s No. 2 commander. “I have the duty to report that the home where we were born has been cleansed of the enemy and is once again under your domain.”

  “Congratulations, Mazri,” Hadeed said. “And does your general believe we will hold Asra this time?”

  “Yes, Honor, he does. We are taking special measures to ensure that no enemy would dare return to face our wrath.”

  “Wrath?” Hadeed nodded as he turned to Gen. Fergus. “I can see where this might deter a weak enemy, but I would rather we secure the town with fortifications and proper weaponry. I trust my son is seeing to those measures as well?”

  Mazri seemed confused at first, as if stung by a back-handed compliment. Hadeed knew he was making a valid point – this was, after all, the fifth time Asra had changed hands. Hadeed wasn’t sure he wanted to know of Abraham’s “special measures.”

  “I assure you, Honor, the town is quite secure. We only heard of your presence in the past few hours. Gen. Faisel has extended an invitation for you to tour Asra this morning.”

  Gen. Fergus did not give time for a response. “No. Absolutely not.” He turned to Hadeed. “Honor, even if Asra appears fully contained, we cannot discount the potential for rogues in hiding. We have encountered this before.”

  “Yes, we have.” He turned to Mazri. “My son was given a direct order to report to this post as soon as primary operations were completed. He sent his No. 2 instead. Mazri, I demand your honesty. He has no plans to come, does he?”

  “In truth, no. He does not disobey out of lack of respect. On the contrary, Honor, he speaks of how he loves you. But he believes his place must always be on the battlefield for as long as the war rages. He believes that if he were to leave the jihadeen, even for a short time, disaster would befall us. We of the jihadeen are of a single mind and heart. He only agreed to send me as a courtesy. He expects me to return within the hour.”

  “Courtesy,” he said to Omar with a smile. “Your brother is not just a great warrior, but a gentleman. Omar, program a vididrone to my cue. I am going to tour Asra this morning.”

  Gen. Fergus protested, but Omar interjected. “General, I’m sure my brother’s warriors will protect my father. Better yet, I think CVids of my father and brother walking together in victory will be a morale boost for the Messengers and excellent propaganda for the stream.”

  Father and son shared a knowing nod, but Gen. Fergus insisted Hadeed would travel to the town in a fully-armored Tumbler, to which Hadeed consented.

  As the sun rose above the hills, Hadeed arrived in the town he had not visited for twenty-five years. He stepped from the Tumbler into the heart of what was once the business district, and drifts of smoke carried the acrid aroma of burning flesh. Every structure within sight had been ravaged by the conflagration; many smoldered in piles of rubble, while others still recognizable were pocked with holes from rifle blasts or had become mere shells, their insides charred by incendiary bombs. Shrapnel decorated the sandy streets like confetti. Charred bodies lay amid the ruins like perverted contortionists.

  Hadeed had but seconds to absorb what had become of his birthplace before he was mobbed by adoring warriors. The primary guard flanking him as he exited the Tumbler spread out as jihadeen rushed their liege with blast rifles raised toward the sky. They shouted “Honor” in rapid succession as they danced. He had not seen this sort of giddy exuberance since he was a small boy, and the moment took him aback. He gave his most vibrant albeit awkward smile. The jihadeen did not settle until a shrill whistle from behind disrupted their chants.

  They opened a corridor for Gen. Faisel Abraham to pass. Hadeed stiffened. He had not seen his firstborn face-to-face in two years. The man who approached Hadeed immediately unnerved him. Abraham stood as tall as his father, and his eyes pierced Hadeed with the unyielding ferocity of an Anirabian wildcat. Clay dust coated his fighting robe, shomba, and face. Blood stains decorated the robe. Abraham carried his blast rifle across his chest. The general bowed his head and greeted his father. Hadeed studied the blood-drenched tattoo of a spelling blade on each of his son’s cheeks, the symbol of the jihadeen.

  “Another victory,” Abraham said, his voice cutting deep and ragged, as if he were three times older. “All for you, Father.”

  “Congratulations, General. I am pleased to know Asra has fallen into such capable hands.” He looked out to the crowd. “This is a memorable day in our crusade. Each of you represents the best of what it is to be Hiebim. Honor those men and women who fell and look ahead to the great victories still to come.”

  A roar lifted from the crowd. Hadeed wanted Abraham to join him inside the Tumbler for a briefing, but Abraham insisted on a tour.

  “There is nothing left of the Trayem enclave,” Abraham said. “It was destroyed by Patriot scum more than a year ago. But I believe much of the town can be salvaged. Please, Father.” The general directed his father through the crowd. A vididrone cued to Hadeed’s voice command followed them through the streets. Abraham ordered Mazri and the other top lieutenants to resume their cleanup operations. Hadeed and Abraham walked side-by-side, with Hadeed’s primary guard flanking them. The Tumbler, per Gen. Fergus’ order, followed slowly behind.

  They turned a corner and entered a thoroughfare that Hadeed tried to place within his memory, but the carnage unfolding before him made such a recollection impossible. Bodies of both Patriots and Messengers lay strewn indiscriminately, more than half missing limbs. The thoroughfare was besotted with craters from Phalyx bombs, and blood stained the clay in random splatters. Red-brown puddles began to dry under the rising sun.

  “We’ll be accounting for our warriors the next several days,” Abraham said with matter-of-fact solemnity. “We’ll be putting the incendiary lasers to the Patriots, of course. Sorry lot. Don’t deserve proper disposal. Right, Father?”

  Hadeed fought the dryness in his throat. “You have matters well under control, Son. I would have expected no less.”

  “We lost three jihadeen overnight. Tell Gen. Fergus I’ll be expecting three suitable replacements before we face our next target.”

  Hadeed disliked the tone. “Is that an order, Gen. Faisel?”

  Abraham halted. “Of course not, Father. Merely a request. Fergus understands my needs. He hasn’t let me down before.”

  “No. My first general listens to his officers.” They res
umed their walk. “Abraham, you speak of your next target. Have you considered slowing your advance? My other generals agree that Asra needs extensive attention. It can be an outstanding supply depot and command center, perhaps even rebuilt to house a civilian population sympathetic to us.”

  “I agree, Father. Given our proximity to Radnor, we could show the peacekeeper scum we’re not afraid to live in their shadow. However, such maneuvers are best suited to the regular army. The job of the jihadeen is not to manage supply depots or command centers.”

  Abraham did not slow his pace or look at his father as he talked. Hadeed barely recognized his son, yet he convinced himself this transformation should not have been unexpected. After all, Hadeed had put asunder his entire childhood at the top of the yellow mesa when he killed Miriam’s jealous aide in order to conclude his Passage of Summit.

  “The job of the jihadeen,” Hadeed said with force, “is to carry out orders and act in the best interest of our crusade.”

  Abraham pointed to his left and acted as if he didn’t hear his father’s last statement. They turned a street corner.

  “This is our job,” the general said, directing his father’s attention to four charred carcasses dangling from nooses along what used to be a storefront. “These cudfrucking traitors deserted their posts when the fighting turned against their Patriot brothers and sisters. They came to us claiming they had been forced to fight against us, and they believed in your crusade, Father. Cudfrucking cowards. Not even worthy of being called men. At least the other Patriots were brave enough to stand against us. These four …” Abraham took a deep breath and stared at the carcasses. “Men like this deserve to die, Father. They have no courage and no spine. They would never stand against the Chancellors. It’s the job of the jihadeen to cleanse Hiebimini of these cowards. This world will be liberated by warriors and ruled by warriors.”