The Father Unbound

by Frank Kennedy

  “Why? Because as much as you wish to dismantle the weapon, you also want to leave your career and the Presidium behind. You certainly paid Ivanovic enough to disappear forever.” Ephraim smirked at their raised brows. “Remember who I am. I consider every contingency, even the most farfetched. Yes? I do not care when or how often you slept with him, or how much you paid for his services …”

  “Five million,” Andreas interrupted.

  “… the bottom line is that I am being magnanimous. I am allowing you to live, even though my common sense suggests otherwise. We are close enough to the Nexus for you to take the uplift inside the Fulcrum and relay a distress signal. I feel quite certain you will reach a port and arrange passage to whatever destination you desire long before any suspicions are raised.”

  Andreas nodded. “All things considered, I believe you offer a fair deal, Mr. Hollander. Especially since we were going to deposit you out an airlock.”

  “Yes, I know. Time for you to leave.”

  Andreas tried to nudge Genevieve toward the docking tube, but she refused to move.

  “Ephraim, I need you to listen. If whatever … civility … we had in our marriage meant anything to you … Ilya, our son … please do not do this. That weapon could destroy us all. You cannot be this inhuman.”

  “No, Gen, I’m not. I am, however, a practical man. Yes? I could explain myself, but I would be talking for days, and even then I doubt you would believe me. Go on now. Have an adventure with Ivanovic. I suspect he is about to retire a very content and wealthy man.”

  Andreas nodded with enthusiasm, whispered into Genevieve’s ear, and successfully nudged her into the docking tube. Tears lined her cheeks as she begged Ephraim to reconsider. Finally, as she reached the transport’s bay door, Genevieve leveled threats and vowed to expose Ephraim publicly, to hunt him, and to make him pay. Ephraim sighed.

  “You will never say a word,” Ephraim shouted across the tube. “And neither will I. Goodbye, Gen. No one will ever accuse us of having a predictable marriage.”

  He closed the docking port and watched as the transport broke seal. When the ship achieved sufficient separation, Ephraim remote-programmed the engines for entry into the Fulcrum. Leggett would reach the Nexus three times faster than the transport. He breathed easy for the first time in months and turned his attention to the open container, where Eternal waited.

  His hands trembled as he beheld the glowing plasma wonders within each cylinder. He could almost feel them, hear them. He wondered whether they knew who he was, that he had come to their rescue. In all his life, Ephraim never imagined being this close to the Jewels, even if these were but a tiny piece of the entire construct.

  “You are safe with me,” he said. “I will protect and …”

  Their glow intensified; Ephraim could feel their warmth. For an instant, he returned to the link, to that dark, circular room where twelve rays of sunlight beamed bright onto a center point. He had been here before. Stood in this place, talked to crowds.

  “Messalina,” he said. “It’s in Messalina.”

  THIRTY ONE

  THE MIDDLE ROAD

  Rashadii ruins, Hiebimini

  SY 5320

  NO ONE CAME HERE ANYMORE. The few who spoke of it did so in whispers. They talked of the legend of what happened here almost nine hundred years ago, when settlers dissatisfied with the first provisional government tried to create their own independent nation of pure Arabis. They talked of a fort carved into a great escarpment, protecting two hundred families, all of whom refused to be injected with the mandatory new drug Genysen. Within two months, all died of an outbreak of a disease not seen before or since. Ten years later, a second surge of eighty settlers arrived, protected by Genysen. Unidentified attackers slaughtered them seven weeks later and left no evidence of their identity behind. Caravan traders who came upon the carnage found a note: “You are not wanted here.” The legend of the Rashadii Settlement took many forms through the generations, but it grew in stature as scientists noticed an anomaly: More dust storms formed at the base of the plains facing Rashadii than anywhere else on the planet. They burst into life as surface whirlpools and spread out in random directions across the southern continents.

  Rashadii’s ruins, battered by centuries of erosion and neglect, rested six hundred kilometers from the nearest enclave, far from prying eyes and an appropriate location for a few Hiebim who wanted their secret work to go unnoticed. They arrived in two Scrams, landing at predetermined coordinates a kilometer north and south of Rashadii respectively. They approached in threesomes walking far abreast, their weapons visible at their sides. They walked with caution toward an open canopy installed above a long table, at the end of which sat two Chancellors who arrived an hour earlier and scouted the region for interlopers. When the Hiebim came within fifty meters of the canopy, the Chancellors raised their hands. Immediately, the threesomes stopped and laid their weapons on the ground. When the Chancellors were satisfied, they motioned the Hiebim forward. From the north, the Hiebim approached in white shombas. From the south, they arrived in black shombas. They did not shake hands when they reached the table; rather, they stood behind their chairs and stared quietly.

  Fayed Omar kept his trembling hands beneath his robe as the full measure of his actions weighed upon him. Each of the seven men beneath this canopy was at least thirty years older than Omar. The negotiators for the Patriots, their beards long and full, carried the scars of battle and the beleaguered eyes of men who knew no respite from the endless dirge of war. Omar thought they carried themselves with honor but were as hardened and exhausted as his father. Omar did not want to look at the Chancellors. They were a foot taller than the Hiebim, one clean-shaven and wearing costumed finery from Earth, with the other wearing a simple, brown double-breasted tunic carrying an unfamiliar insignia on each shoulder.

  The costumed Chancellor asked all participants to take their seats, but only Omar – who stood between Gen. Benazir Asiah and Field Lt. Assam Azul – and his counterpart from the Patriots stepped forward and did as requested. The other four remained standing, their arms behind their backs and their eyes trained suspiciously upon each other. Omar swallowed hard as he sat and prepared to negotiate not just with the most powerful man in the largest clan on Hiebimini, but one whose three children were killed when the People’s Union collapsed on Declaration Day. He wondered whether his opposite was laughing inside, thinking Omar to be a pathetic representative of the Messengers. I am sixteen, Omar told himself during the long walk from the Scram. I am sixteen, and I am a man.

  “Gentlemen,” the costumed Chancellor said, “my name is Jonathan Levitt, sub-counsel to the Prime Regent. I am witness to these negotiations, per your request. Next to me is Oliver Maxwell, administrative officer of the Northeast Ashkinar Sanctum. He will enter CV glyphs of the terms of this agreement as they are reached and will organize the document for your approval. Each of you will be provided a data chip before you depart. Our objective today is to create a draft document that is the basis for a potential end of hostilities. It is not a formal treaty; such an undertaking would only be possible once an armistice has been declared. Therefore, I strongly encourage you to limit your focus to the major issues at hand. We have two hours of sunlight, and I rather suspect none of you wishes to be reported missing.”

  Omar wanted to speak first, but he did not know what to say. He had spent six months uncovering allies among the Messengers. When he was not at his father’s side, Omar spent much of his time in clandestine meetings. He learned the names of potential contacts among the enemy and sent low-level emissaries on dangerous missions across the lines. Each day, he expected his alliance to unravel and a fanatic among his people to shoot him between the eyes. He made little progress until winning the support of Gen. Benazir, long the most moderate of Hadeed’s generals. Now, as he sat beneath this canopy on the brink of making history, Omar was terrified. Were these men a collection of traitors? Worse, were they cowards? How could such men be
trusted at their word?

  Gen. Hussein Shalik, who carried a one-inch scar above his right eye, went first.

  “Fayed Omar, I am struck by your resemblance to your father when he was your age.” Gen. Hussein spoke with a guttural, rough-hewn voice, the product of a throat injury during battle. “He was a great rival and truly remarkable on the pack. His team defeated mine for the continental championship. I find your resemblance unsettling. My intelligence reports have suggested you are of a different mind than your father or especially your brother.”

  Omar found a kernel of confidence. “Your intelligence is weak, General. I am the same man as my father, who I love and admire. Like my father, I believe Hiebim are entitled to better. I want to end this war because it is the only way we will ever be able to claim what is rightfully ours. We have killed too many of our own people while the true enemy watches.” Omar did not take his eyes off Gen. Hussein, but he knew the Chancellors could not have been pleased. Their presence was a necessary evil, for they were the only possible mediators in the system. Omar understood the irony; for that choice alone, many Messengers would never forgive him.

  “‘The true enemy?’” Gen. Hussein tapped the table. “Yes, the old battle cry. Omar, if you are planning to inject your father’s original lost cause into these negotiations, then we should disband at once.”

  “No, General. Not lost. Delayed. He has a vision that will come true one day. Maybe not in his lifetime, but …”

  Gen. Hussein turned his eyes toward the man behind Omar’s right shoulder. “Gen. Benazir Asiah, another member of that championship team. Not as aggressive and passionate a player as Hadeed, but efficient and durable. I was expecting to negotiate with a man of your stature today. Perhaps our talks would be more fruitful if …”

  Gen. Benazir did not budge. “Shalik, your indignant behavior on the pack never served you well, and I would advise against it now. Fayed Omar is the son of our honored leader. He is the highest authority here today, and I take my orders from him. If not for Omar, there would be no chance for peace.”

  Omar’s heart accelerated with new confidence. He did not mind that Gen. Hussein’s disgust was evident; the lines beneath his eyes suggested Hussein was demeaned by having to negotiate with a “boy.” Omar never looked away, not even for a blink. You must show him you are unswerving, Asiah had said en route by Scram. He will try to break you at first opportunity.

  “I am prepared to discuss terms,” Omar said. “I want a resolution that is fair for everyone. We want the fighting to end.”

  Gen. Hussein crossed his hands upon the edge of the table and studied Omar in silence. At last, he nodded. Omar saw no change in emotion or disposition.

  “No,” Hussein said. “You are definitely not your father. I mean that with all respect.” He turned to Jonathan Levitt. “Our first order of business is weapons?” The Chancellor nodded. “Good. It is the firm desire of the Patriots that any armistice be accompanied by full disarmament of enemy combatants. We expect this process to be supervised by peacekeeper teams under the direct supervision of the Sanctums.”

  Omar knew this was coming. Asiah said Hussein would open negotiations with an unreasonable demand.

  “General, you are proposing we hand over our weapons to the very people who supplied your forces throughout this war.” The Chancellors squirmed, which suited Omar. “Everyone here knows they altered the Constitution in order to arm the enemies of the Messengers. They could have given you enough firepower to have destroyed us within a year. Instead, they gave you just enough to keep either side from victory. You can deny this to your death, but they have played us against each other for nine years. And now they sit here proving their good intent.”

  “Back to that old stick, are you? Omar, our forces – and the thirty million Hiebim living in free zones under the protection of peacekeepers – will not feel comfortable unless those who started this war are without the ability to make more.”

  “Understandable. After all, we have won more battles and suffered fewer casualties in the past year. But if we disarm, you and your ‘partners’ will be free to violate the armistice and overrun us. My father and his generals will never agree to those terms. I have not come here today to surrender.”

  The general pondered Omar’s pronouncement, made eye contact with everyone present, and finally said, “I believe the two of us should have a few moments alone. Omar?”

  He did not have a chance to respond before Gen. Benazir and Lt. Assam objected. The Chancellors chimed in as well.

  “I recommend against such a course,” Levitt said. “We agreed all dialogue would be placed into the official record.”

  “True,” Hussein said. “But I believe we can reach an amenable agreement more quickly if Omar and I have a better understanding of each other. We will not make any final decisions, Mr. Levitt. Omar?”

  Omar could sense a change in Hussein’s tone; the general realized he would not be able to bully his way to an agreement. If his father were present, Hadeed would have said this was the moment when Omar stepped out of his brother’s shadow. “They fear you when they know they cannot defeat you,” Hadeed told his sons in the early months of the war. Omar remembered the moment because it was the first time Abraham revealed the man he would become. The firstborn of Hadeed who had just turned ten reared up and pronounced, “Then we’ll kill them so fast they won’t even sleep. They’ll be afraid we’ll find them in their dreams and slit their throats.” Abraham sported a salacious smile and madness in his eyes when he turned to Omar. The older boy wanted his brother to second the motion, and Omar tried his best. Yet his stomach was uneasy, the blood-stained images of Declaration Day still weighing on his mind.

  Years later, as the chaos mounted, and battles of attrition stymied the war effort, Omar asked his father for permission to observe the conflict up close. His father resisted even though Omar was well-trained and as combat-ready as any of the child warriors kidnapped and forced into service. He was assigned to ride along with the jihadeen, newly under Abraham’s command. Hadeed believed Omar would be safer there than with a front-line unit. Abraham vowed to look after “The O,” as he often referred to his little brother.

  He rode with the jihadeen for three weeks. Typically, they hunted during the day and attacked at night. They reveled in the shedding of blood. If the sun rose following a night without a successful kill, their dispositions were decidedly negative. Omar saw the pure love of human butchery in his brother’s ever-present glow. Abraham belittled the soldiers and innocent civilians he slaughtered; he and his comrades envisioned winning this war on their own, punching holes through the enemy’s defenses by terrifying the Patriots to death.

  Omar came to know the sickly sweet odor of rotting flesh, the giant pools of blood created by a perfectly wielded blade across a man’s neck, and how long a prisoner could survive after being disemboweled. The aftermath of the nighttime attacks sickened him, but Omar discovered how his brother’s passion for butchery could be infectious. To hear Abraham speak of it, a boy might believe such killing was not only acceptable but a sign of greatness, even artistry. Abraham entranced his warriors with oral polemics about the need for all men to unleash the natural fire in their bellies and through such action find their true selves.

  On the final day of the visit, hours before a Scram was scheduled to extricate Omar, Abraham trotted out three Patriots who survived an overnight attack on a village. They were bound and gagged and forced to their knees. Abraham handed his little brother a plasma pistol.

  “Time for The O to show what’s he worth,” Abraham said, winking as half the jihadeen stood by. Omar knew this was coming; the day he arrived, Abraham had promised his little brother would not leave without “becoming one of us.” Omar stepped forward but did not raise the pistol right away. Abraham smiled. “Just so you know, these scum have been supplying the Patriots with weapons bought from Chancellor trash. They kill our people to fill their pockets.”

  It all made sens
e. For one moment, Omar fell under his brother’s spell. These scum were the same as Chancellors, robbing the planet of what rightfully belonged to Hiebim, just as his father always preached. Omar did not hesitate. He executed the first two men, shooting them through the center of the forehead point-blank. As he turned the pistol to the third man, his hand twitched. He saw hopelessness in his would-be victim’s eyes, and he imagined the man not even having the strength to beg for his life should the gag be removed. He lowered his aim and shot the man in the chest. The victim jerked as a wound opened beneath the left collarbone. Abraham kicked the man over and told Omar not to waste plasma pegs. Then he unveiled a foot-long knife from beneath his robe, grabbed the prisoner by the hair, and sliced through the man’s neck with the ease of a veteran who knew precisely where and how to cut. Abraham tossed the head into a hole where the bodies were going to be dropped and turned to Omar.

  “Keep it simple,” Abraham said. “Head shots. That scum could have lived for hours where you shot him.”

  Abraham made butchery seem so effortless, even mundane, and his jihadeen loved him all the more for it. Omar knew he could never live up to his brother’s image, a notion reinforced by the jihadeen’s madness following Abraham’s death. He decided to create a different image. Only now, as he walked away from the canopy side-by-side with a general of the enemy, did Omar realize he had become the older brother at last.

  He convinced Benazir and Assam to stay behind, that Hussein meant no harm, that sunlight was indeed a precious commodity. Omar stood almost shoulder to shoulder with the general, who waited until they were twenty meters from the canopy before speaking.

  “You must understand,” Hussein said, “I cannot afford to show weakness, even the slightest concession, in front of my men. Their support is tenuous at best. What you accuse the Chancellors of doing is not a new idea to me, and it may even have a certain credibility, but it is unproductive to speak of such things today.” He stopped and turned to Omar. “I have nothing other than complete respect for what you have accomplished, Omar. By bringing us together, you have displayed a form of courage beyond what a man requires when he takes the field of battle. You have committed yourself to peace when all those around you are willing to fight and die. I am under no illusions about our chance for success. We could both be dead by the morning. But we have to try. The middle road may be our only way out.”