Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  “Nevertheless, they’ll be plenty of time for such talk tonight at dinner,” the president said. “In the meantime, do you shoot much, Desmond? You know, Chief Blythe was champion marksman when he was still at the Praetorian Academy.”

  “I suppose, Mister President, but I, well…”

  Though he tried to appear eager, something, perhaps a vague expression or gesture, broadcast reticence.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Ulysses said, much to Desmond’s relief. “Young Mister Starr is here,” the president said, gesturing toward Icarus, “because, he’s sharpened his mind into a weapon, right, Chief? Please, Chief Blythe, why don’t you show everyone here how it’s done – show everyone the true capabilities of the praetorian’s disrupter – the weapon that has kept order in Sky Parlor for more than a century.”

  “I’d be happy to, Mister President,” Icarus replied, drawing an intense expression while jutting forth his resolute chin.

  Icarus strode forward and took the president’s disrupter from one of his subordinate praetorians. While guiding Marissa by the arm, Desmond retreated far behind the president and the troopers. He watched the Chief Praetorian handle the fearsome black weapon with great reverence, as if it were some holy relic. From out of some invisible realm appeared three drones that hovered then fled like speedy hummingbirds in divergent directions. Desmond’s breath caught in his lungs. With the aplomb of robotic precision, Icarus swept the disrupter’s barrel left and then right. Searing spears of fire were cast several hundred yards. Desmond winced as Marissa clutched at his hand. Thunderous cacophony ruptured the air. Smoking fragments from each of the tiny drones streamed from the sky like fiery confetti shimmering within beams of sunlight and once grounded, singed the green meadowed grass with embers of black soot.

  “Tell me,” Desmond whispered to Marissa, “is this the usual form of recreation here at the presidential palace?”

  “Well, will you look at that,” Desmond heard the president chortle. “It appears your skills at marksmanship remain formidable, Chief Blythe,” Ulysses said while his hands thundered with applause.

  Looking out over the meadow, Desmond noticed the trunks of entire trees in full bloom had been charred black from the praetorian weapon’s cruel assault. Why was it, he wondered, what nature took a lifetime to enrich and nurture took but only a mere moment to destroy?

  “Thank you, Mister President,” Icarus replied.

  Desmond caught Icarus studying him with a peripheral glance.

  “I shall do whatever it takes to keep order in Sky Parlor.”

  “You know, I remember reading in some long-forgotten archive hidden in the basement of the city’s trade commission building,” Ulysses said accentuating with his hands, “that centuries ago, soldiers used to march into battle with only a single-shot musket, armed with a bayonet. But,” the president raised an incredulous chuckle, “since the damned things jammed half the time, the opposing forces would drop their weapons and charge into the fray, engaged in hand-to-hand combat. You know, unlike politics today,” Ulysses said, waxing historical, “back then, I guess they had the advantage of looking their enemy straight in the eye.”

  “In politics or war,” Desmond quipped, “I suppose it’s an advantage knowing who your enemy is and, when he might be coming for you, Mister President.”

  Desmond could see Icarus stifling a scowl in reaction to his quip. Another throaty chuckle sprang forth from the president. Ulysses’ eyes reflected paternal admiration as he strode over to Desmond and again, patted his shoulder.

  “You know, I think you just might be on to something there, Son,” Ulysses said. “Why don’t you and I take a walk together for a bit, huh?” the president gestured toward the winding brick-laid path. “There’s some things I’d like to say to you,” he suggested, softening his strident tone, “before you join us all again, for dinner tonight at the palace.”

  The president clapped his hands together as if he were summoning mystical forces.

  “And Marissa,” he said, turning to Icarus, “Why don’t you head back to the palace with Chief Blythe and the boys and make sure the palace staff will have everything properly prepared for this evening’s gala affair. I can assure everyone,” the president said, spreading out his long arms, “this is going to be a special occasion.”

  As Icarus escorted Marissa and his pair of troopers toward the nearest teleportal perched at the edge of the meadow, he found his mind troubled with a surreal but nagging impression that pricked like an insistent thorn. Who was this Desmond Starr, and, why did the stubborn notion persist he seemed somehow familiar? Furthermore, what true purpose had the president in mind when he decided this unknown upstart merited ‘a special occasion’?

  “I apologize for bringing you here on such short notice,” Desmond heard the president say, thinking he was making a genuine effort to be sincere as they sauntered along the brick-laid path. “And, allow me to express regret, if the display with the disrupter disturbed you,” the president added.

  With deliberation, the president folded his hands into the shape of a pyramid while tapping the ends of his fingertips together.

  “But safety and security are the bedrock upon which Sky Parlor was founded. Given such prevailing circumstances, men such as Chief Icarus Blythe are a necessity.”

  “I may be young, Mister President,” Desmond began, “and forgive me, but I’ve learned and experienced enough to arrive at the conclusion that, historically speaking, all hierarchical societies are predicated on the basis of a struggle for the dominance of resources, and when those resources are dominated by a single, monopolizing faction that shows its ruling authority to be powerful but unjust, backed only by force of arms rather than resting on an appeal to higher-moral authority and demonstrative competence, then that society is bound to be torn apart with division and ultimately, collapses.”

  Ulysses halted and his brows knotted together. He understood why the chief high-commissioner and his board at the transportation and trade commission voted to nominate Desmond for alderman of Columbia. Observing he had the president’s full attention; Desmond acknowledged the secret to politics; powerful and decisive men placed in positions of great power and responsibility often abhor appearing weak and indecisive.

  “Please go on. I’m intrigued, Mister Starr,” Ulysses encouraged, “and I do, forgive you,” he added, donning a subtle grin, “even though, you’ve just now implied, the rule of the sitting president and that of his sustainability council could be construed as tyrannical.”

  Ulysses realized there could now be little doubt, the young man before him was inhabited by the familiar soul of a martyred and legendary leader from centuries ago. The brain’s synapse crackled with a carillons’ dooming harbinger. Now, Ulysses knew every precaution must be taken to preclude Desmond’s epiphany. The implications were indeed too terrible to contemplate.

  “However, Mister President,” Desmond went on, “rebellion against tyranny with force of arms only replaces one dictatorship with another, leading to more tyranny rather than freedom. But throughout history, it seems to me, governments only represent the illusion of freedom, safety, and security, and their dominance relies not only on force of arms, but on keeping the people ignorant of the fact they needn’t surrender their free will to any authority whatsoever, that they can rule themselves based on mutual self-interest tempered by the higher mind of reason. But, being practical, we all must live in the world as we find it, and not in the ideal one we could wish for. I want you to know, therefore,” Desmond said as he peered straight into the dark but attentive eyes of the president, “though you and I, and the council may find ourselves in opposition on one thing or another, I seek nothing other than to peacefully represent the interests of not just those in Columbia, but in all Sky Parlor.”

  A soft wind rustled through the wall of hedges that lined the winding brick-laid path. Whistling in a wild crescendo it spiraled skyward, disturbing the still serenity of the surrounding legions of oaks and t
heir towering boughs.

  “Well, Mister Starr,” the president declared while Desmond returned Ulysses intense gaze, “that is why, tonight,” he saw the president’s face come alive with ecstatic delight, “I’m going to announce to everyone at dinner and to the citizens of Sky Parlor an inspiring proposal. And, that is also why you’ve been brought here, so that you will serve as a witness to the making of history. Oh, by the way, you’re not only going to be seated at the head table next to me, with Icarus and Plato, my chief of the sustainability council, but with Marissa, my lovely executive secretary,” the president declared as Desmond felt his limbs tingle with growing expectancy. “So, would it please you, Mister Starr,” an intrigued Desmond heard the president proclaim, “to learn I’ve now officially decreed the youngest candidate to have ever held such an office, should be appointed Columbia’s new alderman?”

  Desmond’s eyes sparkled with intrigue’s dawning sunlight.

  “I would be pleased, Mister President,” he said in gracious acceptance, “both pleased and honored.”

  *

  As dusk’s dark curtain encroached upon the grounds of the presidential palace, Desmond stood amid a sparkling ballroom, at the foot of a spiraling marbled staircase. While ornate music from a string quartet plumed to the apex of the soaring stone archways and chandeliered oak ceiling, Desmond watched the mesmerizing array of flowing gowns and crisp black formal wear whirling in time to the strains of a centuries old Viennese waltz.

  “Good evening, Mister Starr; or should I say Alderman Starr?” he heard the airy greeting.

  Turning, his eyes widened while witnessing the stunning figure descending the winding staircase in an elegant green chiffon evening dress.

  “Good evening, Marissa,” Desmond greeted. “You definitely look stunning,” he complimented, chuckling as he felt every organ fidget with a sensual tingle.

  Marissa pulled at the fabric of her long gown and he held out a gallant hand to help usher her down the last flight of winding steps. He noticed her eyes dazzle under the spill of the chandelier’s glow.

  “Thank you, Mister Starr,” Marissa replied, sweeping back a strand of her hair with delicate fingers. “And allow me to offer my congratulations.”

  Gazing at her, he wondered what mysteries remained hidden behind the misty wilderness of her bright hazel eyes. As she drew closer, his flaring nostrils filled with her honeyed fragrance.

  “Well, I guess everyone at the commission, including Mister Pembroke, and those I wish to consider as friends, call me simply – Dez,” he added. “I guess too, that the president has decided to endorse my candidacy, and he’s ready to make it official with tonight’s announcement.”

  He saw Marissa’s full red lips bloom into a radiant smile and Desmond felt his blood race.

  “Would you like to escort me on to the dance floor – Dez?” she asked as a stream of the chandelier’s light haloed the symmetry of her auburn hair.

  Desmond nodded with an uneasy grin.

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very good dancer,” he said, his senses sizzled like the wick of a sparking stick of dynamite.

  “Well, I’m going to be candid with you - Dez,” Marissa related, her eyes rimmed with a hint of vulnerability, “I’m sort of rhythmically challenged too.”

  Desmond’s unease melted away and his face brightened.

  “Well then, if you’re game, Marissa,” he agreed, taking her hand to lead her away, “I guess I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  From across the room, the president remained aloof standing in observation of the festive gala while holding court with some members of the sustainability council.

  “I see the man of the hour has arrived, Garth,” Plato said, sipping from a flute of champagne. “I must confess, however,” he said, “I can’t decide whether your intentions with this young upstart are drawn from – you must forgive me – political foolishness, or you’ve got another brilliant scheme up your sleeve.”

  Ulysses chuckled and stroked the neatly trimmed brown strands of his mustache.

  “You may not be aware, Plato,” the president said, shooting a wink, “but I believe, considering the duration of time we’ve known one another extends beyond even this life, I think it’s fair to say I know you rather well,” the president joked. “But until now, however, I’m surprised to learn that I never realized your penchant for cynicism.”

  Stymied with confusion over the president’s cryptic remark about having known him ‘beyond even this life’, Plato found himself always stricken with amusement whenever Ulysses seemed prone to such grandiosity. Though knowing he enjoyed the president’s confidence, Plato felt it would be wise to stifle what Ulysses would likely consider an impertinent snigger. As he smothered his rising bout of laughter with another gulp of champagne, the string quartet plucked forth a rousing rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers.

  “You don’t actually plan,” Plato scoffed, “to entertain this upstart’s dubious plan of planting organic vegetable gardens out on the buffer zones near the wall, do you, Garth – along with his proposal of increases to sustainable water rations and UIC credits? If many of the citizens in Columbia get to have their own plot, along with more water rations to maintain them, how do you propose the council will retain oversight? Surely you can see the problem inherent here. What happens when they start to sell the produce harvested from these plots to the populations in the other twelve regions, creating an open market of unregulated barter, thus eliminating the need for their monthly allotment of UIC credits or the need for our synthesized food packages? Furthermore, once this neophyte alderman gains a foothold, he’ll only become emboldened to propose further measures – to say nothing of the newfound economic independence his constituents will begin to enjoy - and what that will entail? And Ulysses, when citizens from the other twelve borough regions start to see there’s a growing profit to be made, won’t that begin to endanger our governing hegemony over all Sky Parlor?”

  Admiration brightened Garth Ulysses’ face.

  “You’re absolutely right, as usual, Plato,” the president replied. “While Desmond Starr has demonstrated himself to be an idealist,” he added, glancing toward the ballroom floor, “he’s also young and impressionable. Therefore, with proper and incremental guidance, he can be molded into our desired image or, at the very least, he can be developed into a controlled opposition agent that unwittingly works for us, rather than against, at least for a time. Understand this too, Plato,” the president said, settling a hand on his chief councilor’s shoulder, “history has taught, that when it comes to politics, the only way to neutralize one’s potential enemies is to treat them like a friend or better yet, appeal to their ego and make them into some sort of symbolic or mythical hero. History is filled with such figures, who provide the people with the illusion of progress in the striving for freedom’s transcendent empowerment. But all the while, the power of the status quo is maintained.”

  Plato narrowed his thin brows and more deliberately sipped his champagne.

  “You don’t mean to say,” Plato wished to clarify, “you plan on making a symbolic hero or perhaps even a genuine martyr out of this ambitious upstart, do you Garth?”

  “Certainly not a martyr, at least not yet,” the president replied.

  A formally dressed servant appeared and offered the president a full flute of golden champagne from a silver tray and a choice cigar.

  “The people aren’t deep thinkers and shall always remain prone to mistaking a symbolic hero for a literal one, Plato,” the president pointed out. “The key to the maintenance of power is to always provide those over which you rule only the promise of hope, while also providing them with the illusion you’ve delivered on that promise. While he was still working directly for the council as a tech, Doctor Zoe’s psychological studies, complied from algorithmic data drawn from the holo-web, clearly demonstrated human nature harbors a deep-seated and dramatic yearning for the individual to become part of something bigger
than the self. Rather than the pursuit of liberty and personal freedom, they truly seek personal identity, validation and affirmation through becoming part of a vibrant collective.”

  Ulysses held the cigar up to his nose and his flaring nostrils savored the rich bouquet.

  Plato swished the champagne around his palette before offering the president a reply.

  “I guess what you’re saying, Garth, is that people don’t discover ideas, ideas discover people, and that our propaganda is always more effective when it is emotionally based rather than appealing to the intellect?”

  The president stuck out the tip of his hand-rolled cigar.

  “Precisely, Plato,” he said. “In that sense, the people are always content to collectively but vicariously imagine the accomplishments of a brave heroic figure as their own. Historical precedent and Doctor Zoe’s findings have demonstrated they are apt to do this, to shield themselves from ever attempting to face the great risk of transcending their individual insecurities, weaknesses, and cowardice out of fear of being ostracized from friends and family. For it is this deep-seated fear that keeps them from ever discovering their true individual identity – the transcendence of the higher mind’s divine vibration. But this is the job of government, to exploit those frailties,” the president added as he sipped his champagne and the servant lit his dark log of a cigar. “Our job is to keep the governed dependent upon the government and preoccupied with the consensus of what is perceived to be truth manufactured and engineered by our experts such as Doctor Zoe. The masses must be kept from ever becoming truly empowered, empowered enough to eschew the consensus of government sponsored experts. It is the sole function of government to see that the masses never transcend the debilitating influence of social conditioning to one day begin to think for themselves or even worse, begin to govern their own affairs. That is why, men like Desmond Starr – a potentially brave leader lacking these insecurities and its accompanying fear, and with his own ideas and ambition – are ultimately dangerous and yet on the other hand, useful at the same time.”