The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  Nothing he had seen in Asra chilled Hadeed like his own son’s words. He remembered Adair’s message eight months ago in the strategy room: “Abraham is the man you made him into.” Only now did he fully realize what she meant.

  “How many cowards are there, Abraham?”

  “Enough to keep the jihadeen busy for years. This is why we will remain on the offensive. If I may be blunt, Father, the only other general who understands this is Gen. Baqqari. As I told her in a communiqué, I have killed thousands, but I feel as if I have barely made progress. Fifty million Hiebim are not engaged in this war, most hiding behind legions of peacekeepers. One day, they will face a reckoning. This is the job of the jihadeen.”

  Hadeed could not look his son in the eyes, for he did not want to betray his horror. He remembered standing above the Lucian Wash with Miriam’s ghostly image and asking her whether his crusade would turn him into a monster. He had steadfastly refused to accept that label until the day he stabbed Damon through the heart. But this was something else entirely. He wished he had never promised Abraham could kill a Chancellor on the first day of the war. He remembered how he turned his back on Abraham and did not watch his son put two plasma pegs through Andrew McClatchen’s head. Why hadn’t he realized what could come of it?

  Hadeed did not know how to proceed but tried anyway. “Yes,” he said. “A great deal of work remains. We agree on that. However, as the supreme commander of all Messenger forces, I expect my warriors to follow my lead, wherever it takes them.”

  Abraham offered his first smile since their reunion. “Naturally, Father. I am completely yours. Whatever you ask of the jihadeen, I’m sure we’ll discuss in a fair and reasonable …”

  Hadeed stepped on a piece of shrapnel that crunched beneath his boots. The sunlight reflected off a window at the end of the street and into his eyes. He shielded his face and turned to his son, whose eyes he caught for an instant. He saw nothing inside them.

  The sunlight flashed twice in rapid succession. He and Abraham both realized what it meant – too late. Abraham lifted his blast rifle at the very instant the tracer caught him in the neck. He flew backward as if pulled by a wire. Instantly, automatic fire erupted from the building at the end of the street. The ground rattled, and Hadeed fell to the shrapnel-laced hard pack, two of his primary guards having jumped upon him, screaming for him to stay down.

  The other guardsmen opened fire on the rogue sniper. Warriors atop the Tumbler turned their heavy guns upon the building and unleashed a roaring barrage of high-gauge flash pegs and rocket-propelled incendiary bombs. The upper level of the sniper’s hideout blew apart, first as splintering glass and then in an envelope of flame.

  Warriors shouted in panic. “Honor, quickly! Go, go, go! We have to get you out of here.”

  They grabbed Hadeed by both arms, firing toward the sniper’s location as they raced to the first open portal on the Tumbler. Hadeed went limp in their arms when he saw his son.

  The high-gauge tracer had torn through Abraham’s neck like a sword, and his head lay on its side in a red puddle, only partially connected at the neck. The young general’s soulless eyes were unchanged. His black shomba had rolled away, exposing his shaven, blood-splattered head.

  Hadeed visibly trembled as the warriors tossed him into the Tumbler. Every ounce of his being demanded that he scream, forcing a well-spring of unnatural anger and grief from his gut. He screamed repeatedly, his body heaving, but no sound crossed his lips. He tried over and over, but nothing would come. His guards, who were also in shock, muttered one word, “Faisel.”

  Soon, Hadeed lost all sense of where he was. His guards asked him if he had been wounded, but Hadeed stared through them as if they were specters. Their words formed background noise that meshed with the roar of the Tumbler and the continued firing of heavy guns from above. His nerves deadened and his mind closed down but for the last image of the son who one day would have ruled Hiebimini at his side.

  The Tumbler retreated, although Hadeed begged the warriors to return for Abraham. They vowed they would, but only after the jihadeen made certain to secure the street. Again. Hadeed could not remove Abraham’s deathly stare from his mind, or his son’s contorted body that now lay amid the ruins with all the rest of the defeated.

  Hadeed said nothing all the way back to the observation post. When the portal opened to sunlight, he left the Tumbler on his own power, but he walked on wobbly legs. A grave Gen. Fergus greeted him, and Hadeed might have said something along the lines of being fine, but he had no idea of what mattered, of what was real or fantasy until he at last he saw Fayed Omar.

  The boy was already within two inches of his father’s height and would undoubtedly surpass anyone in his family. He greeted his father without his shomba. His cheeks were red and his eyes watery, but he stood strong, his shoulders firm. Per custom, he did not advance to his father, allowing Hadeed to initiate their shared grief. Yet as much as Hadeed wanted to wrap himself around his only surviving boy, his feet froze. He saw not Omar but Abraham. He saw his eldest through those piercing, passionate eyes, one of the few common threads between his sons. He saw Omar’s wisdom and moderation and wished Abraham had been given more of this gift. He wanted to regret how he raised Abraham, how early he indoctrinated the boy into his teachings, and how he ever thought that killers could live without compassion so long as they had purpose. However, Hadeed knew he could afford no room for regret.

  He could not hug his son. Rather, Hadeed came as close as he could, cupped a hand against Omar’s cheek, and struggled to look into his boy’s eyes.

  “He was a great warrior,” Omar said. “I loved him.”

  “They said the city was secure. They told me …”

  His voice fell away. Hadeed sensed the room falling darker. He turned from Omar and found Gen. Fergus, who insisted upon a quiet counsel. Hadeed’s right hand trembled.

  “They’re gone, Willem,” he said, barely above a mumble. “All of them. Miriam, Damon, Abraham. The ones I needed and trusted. Believed in me. You are the last. You have been with me almost from the beginning. I cannot trust another general. Do you understand?”

  “Honor … Hadeed … you are in shock. You need to process what has happened.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. But something has changed, Willem. I cannot lead anymore. I can’t even think. This should not have happened, Willem.” He wheezed. “I could have reasoned with him. I could have … No, it doesn’t matter anymore. His death will not be meaningless. Do you understand? I appoint you supreme commander. Do whatever you need to take us to victory.”

  “Of course, Hadeed. We’ll step up our campaign and make you proud. I’ll start with your plan to reassign the jihadeen …”

  Hadeed raised his voice. “No. No, Willem. They have to stay together, in Abraham’s name. They will be more determined than ever. Perhaps we can use their passion to our advantage. Adair. Give the jihadeen to Adair. She is as bloodthirsty as they are, and she is Abraham’s mother. They will follow her.”

  “Are you sure this is a wise …?”

  “No, but neither was giving them to Abraham. You tell her, the jihadeen are free to do whatever they desire, so long as they do not kill unarmed enemy combatants or refugees. If she violates those terms, I will take her head off myself.” He looked up. “Do you understand, Willem? We have to move forward. We have to be resolute. For Abraham.”

  “I do. I assume we will pause our campaign to honor a fallen general? I can assign my personal aide to look after the details of …”

  “Yes. A ceremony. His … his body will need …”

  “Please, Honor. We will handle all the logistics. Return to the mountains with Omar. I know what Abraham meant to both of you.”

  No, Hadeed thought, you cannot begin to imagine.

  As Hadeed left the post that morning for a waiting Scram, he transfixed his eyes on the decimated remains of Asra. The last time he left here, he searched for truth and a purpose; he found both and promised never to
return here. Now, as a cloak of darkness settled upon him, Hadeed realized the true folly of promises, kept or broken.

  Seven weeks later

  The vortex consumed him. If he dared to listen to his inner world, to acknowledge what horror he had unleashed on his own people, the sacrifices made by so many for no apparent purpose, he would have drowned in madness. With each passing week, Hadeed felt the darkness push in around him. He wanted to open his soul to Omar, just to feel the embrace of his son’s arms. However, Hadeed knew he had long since passed the point of redemption, where hope could be found in the solace of those closest to him. He looked instead to a new path.

  Then, on the seventh week of his grief, he began to see a possibility. It emerged through a haze in his dreams, and it came to him four nights in a row. On the final night, Hadeed rose.

  The sunlight blinded him. It flowed through a small, round portal in a focused beam. He tried to look away, but the light carried a whisper. It told him where to look for the answer. Soon, another portal opened, and a narrow flood of equally powerful sunlight suggested he was looking in the wrong place, that only it could point to the truth. Other portals followed, and he turned to face each one. The voices competed for his attention, and he could not make sense of what he thought to be a common message in different forms.

  When the final portal opened, he realized he was back to where he started, and the whisper within the first beam of sunlight was no less confounding. Suddenly, the light of the individual beams merged into a single glow. He looked down and could no longer see his feet. Hadeed knew he was literally standing upon the answer.

  “Truth,” he would always say when he awoke from the dream. “A new vision.”

  He reached for paper and drew twelve round portals exactly as he remembered. He drew them on the cave floor, etched them in the walls, and even tried to paint them. People brought him meals, but he drew his ovals while paying his visitors little mind. Occasionally he ate.

  Once, Gen. Baqqari burst in and insisted she be allowed to have unfettered use of the jihadeen, just as Abraham did.

  “You are disturbing my father,” Omar said. “He made his decision long ago.”

  “This is your fault,” she told her son. “You are poisoning his weak, grieving heart.”

  They argued onward, but Hadeed offered no response. He continued to draw.

  More than three weeks after the first dreams, Hadeed came the closest he could manage to a full illustration of the portals and their tracks of sunlight beaming onto a central spot.

  “Where is the truth?” He begged. “What are you showing me?”

  Seconds later, Omar entered with a summary of the daily briefing. Hadeed put down his drawing, looked up to his son, and smiled, for his heart was warm.

  “We are going to make this right, Abraham. I promise.”

  TWENTY EIGHT

  DISCOVERIES

  Presidium Lease Station XF-41

  SY 5317

  SHE WAS SIXTY-SIX, BARELY BEGINNING HER MIDDLE YEARS, but she displayed all the attributes of a woman forty years younger. Her augmented breasts screamed for immediate attention from lotharios; her tight curves, muscular undulations, and form-fitting body-dress radiated the athletic discipline of a former peacekeeper; and her hair of flaming-red tinsel said she did not play by conventional rules. The woman known as Evita Salamone drew a command audience whenever she walked into a room. The offers came quickly, usually from men, but she also had to fend off a fair number of women who loved playing all positions. In truth, women simply were not her type. Of greater truth: She found the entire façade a deathly bore.

  After a fashion, the regulars learned to leave her alone when she entered the dining lounge and claimed her favorite table, on the center of which was a glass vase with a lavender rose. She ate her dinner in silence, rarely scanning the lounge to observe the uncouth collection of wealthy, decadent, and remarkably insecure Chancellors who came here to Finnion’s Universe trying to become what they were not. They paid at least 1.2 million credits each to have their blood temporarily replaced by a synthetic fluid that gave them traits and physical characteristics necessary for the personality type they chose to adopt. They would put their overhauled persona to work during holo-adventures set on each of the colonies. She wasn’t like them, of course. Her needs were more far-ranging but subject to consequences the other guests could never imagine. She played this game the only way she could.

  She was not pleased, therefore, when a man wearing white gloves and a horribly out-of-place, triple-vested seersucker jacket joined her at the table. He wore a fedora that she suspected was supposed to coordinate somehow with the jacket. However, these elements did not bother her to the extent of his posture, which involved an elbow on the table and legs crossed in a decidedly ladylike fashion. She did not receive the repulsive offer she was sure was coming.

  “I say this as the greatest compliment,” he told her. “Your choice in dessert is impeccable. You see, I am somewhat a connoisseur of space-station cuisine, being a frequent traveler. In fact, I would dare say I spend more time between the colonies than on them. I particularly adore your compote of raspberries, blueberries, and coconut. The toasted cake beneath the syrup balances the fruit mélange to create a soothing effect. Agree?”

  She placed her fork on the dessert plate. “You’re a prickly bastard. And your angle is?”

  “Ah. Perhaps I was a tad forward. Your beauty disarmed me. My name is Andreas Ivanovic, a master of many trades but especially the art of information-gathering.”

  She wiped her lips with a lavender cloth napkin. “Wonderful, Mr. Ivanovic. Find someone else to play detective with you today.”

  “You misunderstand. My actual identity is Andreas Ivanovic. I have no inclination to undergo a blood mask like these fine, upstanding citizens. No, I’m afraid my business has brought me here in search of you, Mrs. Hollander.”

  She flinched and looked away. “Hollander? You’re not much of a detective, Mr. Ivanovic. You have the wrong …”

  He tapped the table and wagged his finger.

  “Please, Mrs. Hollander. I am not here to cause great difficulty. But you must realize, I would never reveal myself to a target unless I was certain of my information. I am very thorough. I can generate a CVid of testimonials if you care. My client base is quite satisfied.”

  Genevieve Hollander pushed her chair back and tossed the napkin onto the table. Her cheeks, once a vibrant cherry, turned pallid. “How?”

  “I would think the logistics are hardly germane at this point.” He slid a small green entry crystal across the table and smiled. “Suite Nine-Three-Five. Level Seven. North wing.”

  “Why should I go there?”

  “Because no one has a desire to harm you in any way, especially my client.”

  She took a moment to gather herself, massaging her temples, allowing her color to return. Finally, she grabbed the entry crystal. As she left the table, Andreas grabbed the fork.

  Genevieve had half expected this day would come, sooner rather than later. Yet, she had not prepared herself, never bothered to rehearse what to say or how much to reveal. She took the lift to Level Seven anyway, seeing little point in delaying the inevitable. She stood outside Suite 935 and almost broke into nervous laughter. She pressed the entry crystal against the auto-lock slot, and the door slid open.

  She entered a cavernous room offering a spectacular vista from its upper level. Long, spiraling stairs led down to a plush central habitation unit. The suite included a thirty-square-meter view port into space, providing a dramatic panorama of the Enfidi Horse Nebula on the far edge of this long-dead planetary system. A Sibelius violin concerto filled the room. She groaned then descended the staircase. Only as she neared the bottom did she smell poltash weed.

  Sir Ephraim Hollander removed the pipe from between his lips. A smoke cloud hovered above him as he sat comfortably in a brown leather recliner.

  “Red is not your color, Gen,” he said. “However, y
our breasts are remarkable. Yes?”

  “You, on the other hand, haven’t changed a wit. Why are you here, Ephraim?”

  “Direct as always. Thirteen years since you abandoned your family, and you return to form as if time had stopped.”

  “Family?” She laughed. “Was that what we had?”

  “In the technical sense of the word, I believe so. Yes.”

  Genevieve could not look Ephraim square in the eyes. She turned toward the view port.

  “Family,” she muttered.

  “I trust you heard about our son.”

  “Yes. About a year after he was declared KIC. I am sorry, Ephraim. I truly am. Whatever else I could say about you, I do believe Ilya was the one person you actually loved.”

  Ephraim set his pipe on a side table. He rose slowly and readjusted his beige cape.

  “You may be amazed to learn that I have loved many people in my time. Yes?”

  “Current company excluded.”

  “True. However, our arrangement benefited both of us immeasurably, so I see no point to be gained from a much-delayed postmortem.”

  She turned her back and focused on the nebula. “Agreed. Why are you here, Ephraim?”

  “The irony, of course, is that I intended that very question of you. Gen, I have spent more than half my fortune to find you. Most men who commit such an outrageous sum are pursuing an unrequited and remarkably obsessive love, or they are desperate to kill someone. My purpose is neither. I want to know what happened on your mission, why your return was kept off the register all these years, and why you are living at Finnion’s behind a blood mask.”

  She shrugged. “I am surprised, Ephraim. You don’t have the answers already?”

  “A humbling notion, I assure you. In the past few years, I have learned many things about the limits to my power. I am sure you won’t appreciate this, but I have been a lonely man.”