Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  Desmond felt every limb tingle with his blood’s tidal rush.

  “You mean the president,” he began. For a moment, he found his lips too sluggish to express the tidal wash of words flooding his brain. “But I’m merely up for alderman, Mister Pembroke, not the sustainability council – seems rather irregular?”

  The High Commissioner merely nodded, then, uncrossing his spindly legs, leaned his stick-figure frame forward. He gestured with his tightly folded hands as if reverently offering a papal blessing.

  “Although I can’t speak with authority as to what the president’s ultimate intentions are, I think it’s fair to conclude, he may wish to take an active role in the future advancement of your political career.”

  For a moment, with senses whipsawed, incredulity clawed at Desmond’s brain like the talons of some nocturnal beast.

  Desmond threw back his head and, drawing in a deep breath, began to savor ecstasy’s thoroughbred gallop of blood.

  “I’m truly and deeply honored, Mister Pembroke,” he replied and, while still incredulous, a chuckle escaped his lips.

  Again, his brain whirled like a wild carousel. His stunned lips struggled for articulation.

  “But, I mean, when…” Desmond stammered, throwing up his long-fingered hands.

  “As soon as possible,” Pembroke replied. “In fact, the president’s Chief Praetorian is waiting at the nearest secure teleportal to take you to the palace immediately.”

  The commissioner rose from the couch and his pale lips spread into an expression which seemed to reflect paternal pride. While his limbs felt alive with maelstrom births of galaxies, Desmond sprang to his agile heels to grasp Pembroke’s sawdust dry hand with a celebratory handshake.

  Desmond now recalled his vivid dreams, those times of when, during the early morning hours, after an invisible hand rousted him awake, he was transported to alternative dimensions while noticing his body remained inert on the bed. As if through a colorful veil, he would then emerge, awestruck, wading amid the golden tares of rolling meadows that stretched to the far horizons, bathed in the luminous showers of sunlight that speared from the cloudless blue sky’s soaring apex. He remembered glimpsing the distant and dark silhouette of a strange but alluring figure, a welcoming and dark-haired apparition that oddly spoke to him while silent and posed in nun-like stillness, a familiar voice that shimmered within his skull like the clear waters of a brook streaming over mossy rocks and jagged stones.

  “You shall soon be with me to learn the secret of who you really are,” he recalled the honeyed voice whisper. “You shall soon be with me, be with me…”

  “I can’t help but think, you may have had something to do with this, Mister Pembroke,” Desmond said, thinking he and the commissioner shared identical principles. Mister Pembroke appeared to always value the worth of human souls over the mere data of statistics. “You’ve always seemed to be my most ardent advocate.”

  Pembroke nodded, and a reflected trace of humility softened the brown coronas of his eyes.

  “Well, I don’t think anyone deserves this opportunity more than you, Dez. I’m certain the council told the president about your dedicated work ethic to better the lives of those in Columbia.”

  Desmond felt pride’s untamed surge like water bursting through the wall of a dam.

  “Well, since the president wants to see me as soon as possible,” he replied, attempting to slow his adrenalized lips, “I guess it wouldn’t look good if I kept him waiting – it’s just not every day,” Desmond began to point out while his molasses colored skin alighted with fascination, “anyone but the Praetorian troopers and members of the council get access to the secure teleportals around the city. I guess, I’m more nervous about the prospect of that, than even meeting with President Ulysses.”

  “You needn’t worry,” Pembroke reassured, “I hear it’s just like riding the monorail,” he added with a warm pat to Desmond’s broad shoulder, “only you may feel a little light-headed afterwards.”

  With the brisk gait of a wing-footed Achilles, Desmond hurried along the long hallway from Pembroke’s office, down the steep alabaster steps guarded by a pair of white marble lion’s heads and, onto the adjacent walkway, halting only when he observed a tall black-uniformed praetorian surrounded by a squadron of disrupter wielding troopers.

  “Commissioner Starr; I’m Chief Praetorian, Icarus Blythe,” Desmond heard the grave baritone greet, “I’m charged with escorting you this afternoon, to the presidential palace to see the president.”

  The hulking Chief Praetorian swept a commanding hand toward the cubed black teleportal that seemed to dwarf even his gaggle of musclebound troopers. Desmond’s eyes swept over the teleportal’s mirrored onyx surface as it loomed like a pitiless behemoth, wondering how mankind had come to build such things. He felt his limbs tingle with uncertainty and, with his throat grown arid, he gulped. Icarus’s finger stabbed a code onto his floating holo-screen. The smooth surface of the teleportal began to part like the biblical Red Sea. Looking into the interior, Desmond glimpsed the emergence of a rainbow lit tunnel. Fascination brimmed as one by one, he watched the troopers step forth and, in an instant, were swallowed up and disappeared.

  Again, with an outstretched hand, Icarus gestured toward the cubed teleportal.

  “Don’t worry, it will be over in the blink of an eye,” Desmond heard Icarus reassure.

  At last able to quell his trepidation, Desmond followed the Chief Praetorian into the tunnel of blinding light. While a plethora of colors swarmed like mad flocks of birds, he closed his eyes.

  11

  The Presidential Palace

  The horrid croak of a cast iron door gave way to a blast of white light.

  Deliberate footsteps tapped across the illuminated aperture.

  A dooming echo sounded from the soaring puddingstone archways as the plethora of flickering candle’s glow pierced the foreboding darkness. The tall figure donned in flowing robes of cotton white linen approached the dais of an altar.

  He paused to study the three youthful figures prone in black marble tubs bathed in virtual reservoirs of shimmering crimson. His gaze roamed over their lifeless limbs spackled in blood, hanging in resigned repose like shorn stalks of wheat.

  He contemplated the translucent texture of their lily-white skin, and the angelic calm fixed upon their placid faces.

  A ghoulish smile crept upon his lips.

  His eyes gaped liked a starving nocturnal beast at the jeweled chalice offered from the still white hand that jutted from a long arm wrapped in dark silk.

  In earnest, he took the cup in both hands and savored every drop of the precious elixir, rich with adrenochrome, as it tumbled down his insatiable throat.

  *

  Cast out from the chaotic storm of colors, Desmond felt his feet firmly planted upon the vast grounds of a lush courtyard set before the imposing marbled edifice of the presidential palace. While surrounded by a sprawling garden, he observed it was filled with all manner of exotic flower and fauna. Tapping his foot upon the manicured blades of jade grass, Desmond glanced back at the teleportal cube from which he had just emerged, situated on the edge of a mountainous, rocky cliff. Catching his breath, his awed vision beheld the city panorama that far below, stretched to the observable horizon in all directions.

  Apparently, Desmond marveled, he had been sent through the air, from one teleportal to the other, separated by perhaps tens of miles, in the magic of an instant. While his dazed mind still struggled to gather its wits, he began to delight at the sweet odors of the garden that filled his nostrils and, to feel charmed by the chirping choruses of colorful songbirds. Mister Pembroke’s second-hand impressions of the teleportals did not seem entirely correct, he thought. Though he was a bit overcome with dizziness, the experience, Desmond was certain, had been incomparable and, much different than that of a passenger accustomed to the city monorail system.

  “Mister Starr, Desmond Starr,” he turned toward the comely feminine
vision. “Allow me to welcome you, to the presidential palace.”

  Icarus drew a brief smile.

  “This is Marissa Cassidy,” the chief praetorian stepped forth to make an introduction. “She is the president’s personal secretary.”

  Desmond’s eyes panned over the young girl’s pleasing shape, which seemed tastefully accentuated by the tight-knit material of her blue dress. As a welcoming grin spread upon the peach-toned complexion of Marissa’s face, Desmond observed her hazel eyes shone with a quiet dignity, how the brilliant sun cast an angelic luster upon her shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair.

  “The president is very anxious to meet with you and exchange ideas,” she said. “If you’ll follow me, he’d like you to join him as he enjoys a bit of late afternoon recreation here on the grounds of the palace.”

  Stepping closer, Desmond began to become enraptured by the allure of Marissa’s perfumed fragrance but, though he could feel his mind beginning to swoon, his placid demeanor managed to belie his excited senses.

  “I’m very happy to meet you, Marissa,” Desmond replied. “Though unexpected, this is quite an honor to have been invited here to see the president,” he added, flashing an effervescent smile. “Commissioner Pembroke told me; it certainly is rare that a candidate for Alderman of Columbia should be so honored.”

  “All of us here at the palace, including all twelve members of the council,” Marissa said, “feel that the president’s attention toward you has certainly been well-deserved.”

  The Chief Praetorian followed them beyond a soaring marble archway to a wide path lined with manicured hedges and sculpted edifices frozen in regal majesty. From a distance, the ornate columns and imposing steps of the immense palace grew from their alabaster foundations to tower over the surrounding gardens.

  “The president tells me he was impressed with the fortitude exhibited by your recent proposals before the city transportation and trade commission,” Marissa said.

  Desmond noted Marissa’s voice seemed to float like a weightless feather on rarified air.

  “I owe that fortitude to Mister Pembroke, the Chief Commissioner,” Desmond replied. “From the beginning of my time on the commission, he’s been my most ardent supporter.”

  As Pembroke’s comforting visage flashed in his mind, Desmond began to consider that, in the absence of his parents who had been taken from him before his graduation from the city’s trade academy, the Chief High-Commissioner had served as a surrogate father.

  “Because of your proposal to establish organic food plots among the city’s buffer zones,” Marissa began to reveal, “The president has said he will consider convening a blue-ribbon panel to investigate your charges, to see if the sustainable food packages distributed to all city boroughs contain a high level of dangerous additives.”

  “While it is my hope the president or anyone on the council hasn’t been led to think those claims are baseless,” Desmond replied, “I’m glad to hear he feels compelled to action in this matter.”

  “I’ve been told the president thinks you demonstrated great courage and for doing so. He wishes to reward you,” Marissa said.

  Ruminating on this for a moment, Desmond loosened the stifling knot of his red tie and, while stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dark pleated trousers, he began to attune his political senses. Though he hadn’t served the commission as an administrator for more than one year since graduation from the trade academy, he began to speculate – having observed similar tactics used before by the commission’s board members who sought reelection – the president may be using Marissa as a proxy to flatter him into becoming an ally. Catching a mere glimpse of Marissa’s comely profile, he began to hope his speculation may yet prove false.

  “I was sorry to hear about your parents,” Marissa said, her soft voice lilting with sincerity. “My own mother perished in the same monorail collision – she was everything to me.”

  Desmond bowed his head as the melancholy memory sprang into his mind.

  “I’m sorry for you too,” he replied. “I still miss them sometimes,” Desmond said while considering that it might be wise – given the uncertain nature of the political circumstances – to guard his candid nature.

  Together, they turned towards one another. While they exchanged sorrowful glances, Desmond observed a purity of spirit reflected in Marissa’s bright emerald eyes.

  “Which is why,” Desmond said, hoping not to sound too earnest, “I also proposed the upgrades to the monorail system in Columbia. From what Mister Pembroke made me to understand, the investigative committee concluded the operator at the fusion center mistakenly redirected both monorails toward one another on the same track while preoccupied with gaming on his personal holo-screen. But,” he added with a touch of wistfulness, “I believe someone a long time ago once said – ‘to err is uniquely human’.”

  Through a winding brick-laden path that meandered through clusters of majestic oaks, dark cedars, and skyward elms, Desmond’s senses began to tremble with alarm. He heard a series of concussive explosions. He felt a jolt of terror assault his limbs. The explosions grew ever louder as they approached the end of the path that opened to a wide meadow’s brilliant green vista. Desmond halted at the edge of the stone path. He observed a tall and distinguished man whom he presumed to be the president – donned in a beige hunting jacket and khaki trousers while surrounded by a pair of praetorian troopers – white-knuckling a long-barreled black weapon.

  From the far edge of the meadow, packs of tiny, silver metallic drones, like a swarm of locusts, emerged over the crests of treetops. With cat-like reflexes, the president pulled the weapon to eye level and aimed. Angry bursts of orange rays, and flickering charges of lightning, spat from the fearsome weapon’s barrel towards the speeding targets. Ripples of bellowing roars, like the warring thrust of a providential sword, slashed the air into fragments. Desmond swept his hands over his ears. He felt the locomotive force of blood race through his palpitating heart. Hails of searing fire and horrific peals of black smoke mushroomed towards the sky and, for a moment, blotted out the sun.

  He heard a terrified squeal unleash from Marissa’s lips. As she retreated from the horrid spectacle, her misplaced foot tripped on a protruding mound of grass just beyond the brick-laden path’s end. Desmond’s arms lunged around her svelte waste to prevent her injurious fall. Icarus rushed forward, grabbing Marissa’s arm to help steady her. Before she fell to her knees, Desmond pulled her upright. While her shaking arms clasped about his neck, Desmond saw a flash of terror darken her face.

  “Marissa, I uh, hope you’re okay,” he whispered while her arms still clung to him.

  Terror’s darkness fled from the emerald green of her vibrant eyes. Relieved, he sensed the dawn of a smile like the sun’s triumphant emergence from a black cloud’s stormy threat.

  “Well how about that,” Desmond heard Ulysses’ bellowing baritone resonate across the meadow. “Cleary, gentlemen,” the president said, turning to the two applauding praetorian troopers, “my aim is on its game today.”

  “I don’t think even our Chief – good as he is – could shoot that well, Sir,” one of the troopers complimented the president.

  While turning to hand the disrupter to the trooper, Ulysses noticed the approaching trio from across the meadow.

  “Well – speak of the devil,” Desmond heard Ulysses’ booming voice once again resonate from several yards away. “Your Chief Praetorian never fails to get his man,” he said to the pair of troopers while his arms outstretched in greeting. “Thank you once again Chief Blythe,” the president called out to Icarus. “I’ll tell you,” Ulysses’ voice softened to speak in confidence to the pair of troopers, “never have I known – other than Plato, my Chief Sustainability Councilor – a more diligent or efficient servant than Icarus Blythe.”

  “Mister President,” Marissa began her formal introduction while still regaining her composure, “May I introduce Desmond Starr, candidate for Alderman of Sky Parlo
r’s region of Columbia.”

  “You certainly may, Marissa. Not only are you as intelligent and competent as you are beautiful, but you’re right on top of things as usual,” the president said, offering his outstretched hand toward Desmond.

  The president’s handshake, he thought, resembled that of an iron-willed and decisive man.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet with you for quite some time, Mister Starr,” the president said, adding a convivial smile.

  “I am indeed flattered, Mister President,” Desmond replied, displaying his most winning smile. “In fact, I was just telling Mister Pembroke, that this is a once in a lifetime honor, especially for a mere candidate for alderman.”

  Ulysses drew closer and Desmond felt the president’s ursine hands pat his shoulders.

  For a moment, the president fixed Desmond with a scrutinizing gaze. Ulysses’ memory groped for precise recognition. Had his intuition, upon observing the distinctive face of Columbia’s candidate for alderman while reflected upon the holo-screen during the recent meeting with the council, been proved correct?

  Looking closer, his mind began to keen.

  Yes, indeed!

  Though the martyr from centuries ago may have returned in an incarnation that wasn’t readily acknowledgeable, he now recognized his soul’s unmistakable auric resonance.

  Behind his concealing mask of smiles, Desmond began to conclude, perhaps his first impression had been correct. Either the president, in seeking to make him into a political ally, wished to endorse his candidacy or was there something else to which he was not yet privy or aware?

  “Oh, don’t sell yourself short, young man,” the president replied, softening his tone. “Because, I have a feeling you’re the sort whose horizons will never be limited.”

  Ulysses gave Desmond’s shoulders another reassuring pat. While his eyes brightened like burnished opals, the president offered a stunned Desmond a genuine invitation.