Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  He feared her combustible revenge could spark an omen’s flaming pyre. Would Sky Parlor see the denouement of their earthly and spiritual battle?

  “We have two items for your consideration, Mister President. The first concerns Doctor Gregor Zoe, who has been nominated for the position of head administrator of Sky Parlor’s space agency, SAGAN.”

  “There is also a young man from the borough region of Columbia who is up for Alderman, Mister President,” another of the councilman said.

  “We’re merely waiting for your approval on the items before we can move ahead with a vote, sir,” affirmed yet another.

  A majestic image, the radiant brown face of a noble-browed young man, appeared on a hovering holographic screen and reflected in the black marble of the roundtable’s surface.

  The president turned to face the twelve counselors seated at the roundtable. Of the thirteen, representing each of Sky Parlor’s regions or ‘boroughs’, he recognized a pair of familiar auric resonances emanating from his Chief Counselor and Chief Praetorian. Though they were certainly not aware, they had been his conspirators – Edwin Stanton and John Wilkes Booth – from a bygone age, when America was still young. Turning his attention to the screen’s holographic projection, Ulysses felt stricken with a distinct impression. Could this image of the candidate for Alderman of Columbia represent another perilous omen, or the gift of a solemn blessing?

  “What is the name of the candidate,” Ulysses enquired, “and what do we know of him?”

  “His name is Desmond Starr,” said Icarus, Chief of Sky Parlor’s Praetorian Troopers. “Both his late father and mother served on the city’s transportation committee. A short while ago, he was active in getting the new sustainable monorail system upgraded in the borough of Columbia. He’s also lobbied for an increase to the universal income credit rate.”

  “But we just approved nominal increases for the UIC, and for the ‘green’ food package distributions to all thirteen boroughs. I say he’s just a troublemaker, a nobody, with little or no political experience, Mister President,” the distinguished Plato punctuated his vehement dismissal. “An obscure administrator from the city transportation commission.”

  While his well-favored features - the sharp cheekbones, blazing eyes like twin fireballs and a high-set forehead – molded with reflective contemplation, Ulysses began circling the roundtable. His footsteps tapped like an urgent heartbeat on the pastel white floor.

  “Is he a nobody, as you say,” the president said.

  As he approached the head of the roundtable, his dark eyes focused on something far away, as if he were entertaining a private vision.

  “He’s also been making noise that the residents of Columbia should start growing their own organic foods, Mister President,” Icarus elaborated. “He says, the green food packages from our production facilities are manufactured with carcinogens and other harmful chemicals.”

  “Well, how else would this young upstart suppose the lifespan of the remaining breeders here in Sky Parlor be controlled,” Plato scoffed, raising chuckles from the other councilmembers.

  The president halted his pacing and replied in a soft, but declarative tone.

  “Nevertheless,” Ulysses said, “I say this ambitious young man merits our overwhelming approval. Anyone who can coax those useless breeders on the city’s transportation and trade commission to executive action obviously lacks no talent when it comes to the powers of persuasion. History has taught that such persuasive men are leaders, capable of disrupting the status quo. In drawing him close to us with an important title and public prestige, his considerable energies will work for us, rather than for the cause of rebellion.”

  Plato gulped, sensing the president’s commanding figure looming behind him.

  “And after all,” the president’s voice modulated as he spread his long arms like an eagle’s majestic wingspan, “surely the appointment of a nobody won’t inflict any discernable political harm to this august body or to me?”

  The president’s twelve councilors exchanged affirmative glances.

  “However, though he is a minor administrator,” Ulysses added, “I want to meet this young man before giving my final approval. For some reason, he seems intriguing. I’d like to observe, firsthand, just what kind of man he is.”

  The Chief of Praetorian Troopers sprang from his chair. Tall and stolid, like the ageless oaks anchored deep into the rich soil of the golden meadows entombed in mist far outside the hulking city walls, rumors of which had become merely a myth in the minds of those inhabiting the city, Icarus snapped his monument-carved frame to attention and jutted his lantern-shaped chin forward. Other than Plato, the Chief of the Supreme Council, Icarus represented perhaps the rarest of specimens among the councilmen, in that he had gained the complete and implicit trust of the president.

  As Ulysses panned his eyes toward his Chief Praetorian, he found himself wondering what it was that should compel such a man, a breeder, to assume the position of chief city gendarme, a position for which he was licensed and given free rein to crush any one of his own breed underneath his polished boots, if he wished it so.

  Ulysses recalled observing Icarus’s official profile before he appointed Blythe to the council. Though it was said he often demonstrated a short-tempered demeanor while placed under stress during the psychological testing trials, he was also shown to be decisive, a trait that had won the absolute loyalty of the praetorian patrols under his charge, staffed with both breeders and saints.

  “My men and I will be in Columbia for an inspection of Doctor Gregor Zoe’s Paramount VR complex at MU-13, tomorrow afternoon. I shall be honored to bring this Desmond Starr here for you, if, I’m I so charged, Mister President,” he said.

  The other council members straightened in their chairs, as if the vibrational force of the Praetorian’s resonant voice had stirred them.

  “By all reports, Doctor Zoe’s VR narco-cube has developed into the most effective tool of social control ever devised,” Plato said. “Millions all over Sky Parlor are now more interested in indulging their fantasies and could care less about what their government is doing. Of course, he more than enjoys his fame as Sky Parlor’s most eminent expert on all scientific matters. He’s a good man and he’s been a loyal servant of the council,” Plato related while his furtive eyes scanned the reactions of his fellow council members. “He’s got his own popular channel on the holo-web. Most recently,” Plato related while attempting to stifle a smirk, “he told his vast audience of both breeders and saints, spread throughout all thirteen boroughs, he has discovered evidence of water and a life-sustaining atmosphere on Enceladus, one of Saturn’s moons. Says it could be inhabitable and a target for future exploration and possible settlement. Since he’s been a good servant of the council, Mister President,” Plato proposed, “I say we put him charge of SAGAN, Sky Parlor’s space agency.”

  The president’s raucous chuckle belied his mind’s spark of intrigue as he considered the political possibilities of his chief councilor’s newly related information.

  “Yes indeed, Doctor Zoe’s propaganda is effective,” the president agreed. “Such propaganda concerning so-called outer space has kept several generations of Sky Parlor’s citizens from ever discovering the first settlers of Sky Parlor migrated under a holographic sky projected upon the crystalline dome which – unknown to the successive generations born here such conditions in Sky Parlor were designed to keep anyone from escaping – for more than three-hundred years has been deluged under the artificially risen tides of the Atlantic. I think your proposal is sound, Plato,” the president suggested. “Why not reward Doctor Zoe, perhaps Sky Parlor’s most preeminent scientist?”

  “Does everyone here agree?” Plato said, addressing the other sustainability councilors.

  “Aye,” agreed the first of the council’s thirteen representatives.

  “Aye, Mister Chairman,” agreed another, as did each of the remaining councilors.

  “There, th
e aye’s have it, and the motion is carried,” Plato announced.

  Ulysses’ brow seemed burdened with faint apprehension as he issued his Chief Praetorian a subtle – what he considered advice drawn from the wisdom of his many life incarnations – but insightful warning.

  “While you’re in Columbia to bring the young Desmond Starr back to the palace, you may also tell Doctor Zoe of his good fortune. But you had better bring an extra patrol with you, Icarus,” Ulysses warned. “The boroughs of Columbia and neighboring Arcadia are still filled with mostly breeders who’ve refused to make the sustainable bio-transfer. As you know – despite our considerable efforts – their behavior is still prone to remarkable unpredictability.”

  Icarus’s posture grew more resolute.

  “I will do as you wisely suggest, sir,” he replied while again jutting forward his clefted chin.

  Snapping together the heels of his black boots, in haste, Icarus stepped through the holographic walls of the nearby teleportal cube which returned him to Praetorian Troop headquarters in the city. Once back in his office suite, Icarus felt hounded by curiosity. Flashing out his arm, he tapped his palm to activate the triangular Nano-chip embedded just under the skin. As he watched a plethora of colors spin in mid-air, Icarus poked his index finger, enlarging a rectangular, holographic screen to several inches in width.

  “Oracle,” Icarus addressed the screen’s automated voice command system, “pull up any known images along with existing pedigree ID records on a sustainable transportation commissioner named Desmond Starr, please.”

  Icarus again tapped his finger at the screen to illuminate the holographic pages. With an intense gaze, his hazel eyes focused upon the smiling image of the youthful face, the features of which seemed marked with equal traces of barely concealed rage and defiant nobility. As his determined jaw flexed, Icarus felt a spike of familiarity splinter within his turning mind and yet he felt perplexed in placing the precise memory. Studying another image more closely, one taken some time ago during the subject’s speech before the city transportation committee, an impression struck with percussive force: had the president and his colleague, Plato, been correct in their cautious estimations? Did there, submerged beneath the benign smile’s hopeful facade – Icarus found himself becoming convinced – exist desires to foment rebellion?

  Deciding to investigate further, Icarus tapped the screen to activate footage of the subject’s address before the transportation committee:

  “I hereby and most sincerely propose this legal measure, which shall upgrade and expand the monorail system in Sky Parlor’s region of Columbia, making it accessible to all of its citizens. Long ago, before the time of the ‘Great Rapture’, when the legend of the holy Constitution was once held sacred rather than forbidden, there existed a right to the freedom of movement, which distinguished this land; an overt expression in demonstrating mankind’s inherent liberty. This liberty was once symbolic of mankind’s free will, the will to decide the direction of his own life and that of his own self-determination. I say to you today, I believe that the great and unlimited potential inherent in every man, is limited only by those external restrictions forced upon him, those restrictions which have, over time, conditioned him to believe his untamed free will must ultimately be governed, limited by the arbitrary enslavements known as laws; laws and restrictions set forth to solely benefit governments, those self-appointed authorities backed only by the fearful might of destructive armaments rather than the force of moral virtue. I say to you, here today, there is no man, woman or saint in Columbia, or Sky Parlor, who was meant to be enslaved by the notion they are common, but all were born to be comets, streaking across space and time in the eternal search for the triumphant sunrise of self-discovery.”

  The speech concluded and with a violent sweep of his hand, Icarus watched as the screen collapsed into a tornado of colors that swirled back into the chip embedded just beneath his skin. He felt visited by some indefinable spirit, the echo of a memory’s faint drumbeat which conjured up an opaque impression from the distant past. Though his mind groped in desperation for clarity – the charismatic voice, its rumbling cadence, its symphonic resonance – and yet, with a final exhalation of frustrated breath, he still could not place it.

  8

  One day later, the end of the school day

  (Columbia Sustainability Preparedness Academy)

  As the monorail quietly streaked along on its rails, he peered out the window to view the campus of Columbia Prep fade into a blur of bland and monochrome colors. Fourteen-year-old Lucius then saw the zap-com icon flashing on his holo-screen, and noticed there was a message:

  ALL FRESHMAN SAINTS ARE FREAKS

  Though his stomach felt like a melting block of ice as he stared at the message written in bold letters, when he heard the peals of laughter from the seat directly aft of him, he could very well guess who it was had sent the message: Bobby Lee Tepper, the captain of Columbia Prep’s football squad.

  This was a long-running feud that went all the way back to his earliest childhood memories of when everyone his age, between the permissible daytime hours of ten and three A.M., would gather in the long and wide rectangular courtyard set between the surrounding blocks of towering MU buildings to climb what few trees there were and to play kickball.

  Bobby, even then, seemed to be the self-proclaimed ‘king’ of the playground.

  “Go home robot boy, and play with your chemistry set,” he remembered Bobby jeering, every time he would ask to join his kickball team.

  Bobby’s father worked as a package assembling manager at Greenview, one of Sky Parlor’s many ‘green’ foods packaging and distribution centers, which on numerous occasions, Bobby and his friends would use as a threat.

  “What do you say we send robot boy here to the plant?” Bobby used to taunt as he and his friends would chase him from the courtyard. “My dad’s assemblers can take him apart, package him up, and send him back to the scrapyard,”

  Then he began to fondly recall the day he met his best friend, Boudica, who had since become, in many ways, an older, wiser, and protective surrogate sibling.

  A euphoric smile swept across Lucius’s face, thinking about the brave seven-year old, while having climbed high up to sit on a thick branch of one of the few oak trees rising from the concrete, challenged Bobby and his team to a game with some of her friends who lived together at Columbia’s MU-30 at the very end of the courtyard playground.

  “Are you kidding me, silly tomboy?” an overconfident Bobby gloated. “You and whatever team don’t stand a chance against us.”

  Boudica jumped out of the tree and, as her blue canvas sneakers planted firmly on the cracked pavement, she swished back the wild strands of fiery red hair fallen over her evanescent green eyes.

  “Oh yeah, Bobby: not if I have Lucius on my team,” she said.

  Laughing quietly to himself, Lucius recalled how she stood chin to chin with Bobby, and while standing nearby in meek anonymity, he became awestruck at Boudica’s defiant fortitude.

  “With just one pitch, Bobby,” he recalled her bold declaration, “I’ll bet you three credits, Lucius can kick that ball all the way to the moon.”

  Lucius remembered the scowl on Bobby’s face and his vicious sneer as he shot him a dismissive glance.

  “Are you kidding,” he scoffed. “That uncoordinated hunk of coiled wires couldn’t kick the ball three feet, even if I threw him one-hundred pitches.”

  “C’mon Lucius,” he recalled Boudica’s determined reply, “Let’s show this knuckle dragging dimwit what you can do.”

  He remembered standing in front of Bobby’s friends as they scattered out all over the courtyard around the makeshift bases scrawled upon the pavement with white chalk. He remembered his knees wobbling unsteadily as Bobby stood glaring at him from several yards away while he clutched the red rubber ball in his white knuckled hands.

  “Here we go boys,” Bobby hollered over his shoulder to his laughing teammates,
“Watch me as I strike out this pathetic synthetic sucker and take the tomboy’s money. We’ll be three credits richer.”

  Lucius now remembered how he glanced at Boudica as if pleading for moral support.

  “Don’t listen to that ape,” she encouraged. “Kick it right back in his stupid face and over the roof of my MU building.”

  Bobby donned a sinister grin and, with the ball tightly clasped, swirled his hand in mid-air in a deliberate motion like a snake’s head emerging above a field’s tall blades of grass to survey its prospective prey. Lucius gulped as Bobby slowly bent at the waist to deliver the ball while he stood motionless behind the home plate drawn in dusty white chalk. Lucius recalled the ball zigzagging along on the pavement in a deceptive spin as if it were under some warlock’s cruel spell.

  Somehow though, he steadied his limbs and intensely focused his vision.

  The ball seemed to grow larger as it zipped toward the cusp of his foot, glowing like a galaxy’s red dwarf.

  With the accuracy of a precise pendulum, Lucius recalled how the methodical swing of his leg struck the ball flush. His smile grew wider as he reminisced about Boudica’s unbridled cheer when the ball launched like a rocket and sailed on a direct path toward Bobby, smashing against his forehead and knocking him to the pavement. He remembered how the faces of Bobby’s playmates riddled with awe as they watched the wild ball deflect and, as if under strange supernatural guidance, soar like a majestic eagle more than two-hundred yards, where it finally landed on the roof of Boudica’s residence at MU-30.

  “You owe me three credits, Bobby,” he recalled a jubilant Boudica declaring. Lucius chuckled again, remembering how Boudica stood over Bobby like a conquering warrior, while he groaned in pain, prone on the playground pavement, grasping his aching head with both hands.

  Still, even with that minor victory from the past, and considering the grand scheme of things, Lucius pondered, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea his parents decided to allow his bio-essence transfer before the age of three. Nor, he thought further, was it perhaps such a good idea to score so well on Columbia’s entrance exams, which meant he was promoted three grades ahead to the graduating senior class. Then again, his only friend and science lab partner, Boudica, had tried to warn him on his very first day of school at Columbia Prep, about how cruel some of the breeders could be towards saints.