Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  Desmond began to imagine the stunned array of faces before the president as empty vessels steadily filled with joy’s magic elixir.

  “And I say to you now,” the president’s voice began to gallop like an unleashed thoroughbred, “if mankind’s long journey on this planet has proved anything, it is that bold moves performed with the intention of a benevolent spirit make triumphant history. I would now like to propose,” the president summarized, holding up his glass of champagne, “that our newly appointed alderman for the region of Columbia, Desmond Starr – pending the final approval of the sustainability council and SAGAN’s head administrator – should be the one to lead this historic expedition.”

  Desmond felt his fingers slick with a film of sweat as they interlocked with Marissa’s. Strange vibrations began to inhabit his limbs. The expectant gaze of the president’s dark eyes seemed to bore into him. He felt the urgent caress of Marissa’s soft fingers, and as he looked out over the sea of faces, his pained expression pled for sympathy.

  “Will you not,” Desmond heard the president urge, “accept this great honor that I have now bestowed upon you, Alderman Starr?”

  Gasping for breath, Desmond sensed the air thrum with apprehension. He began to wince as if stung with a supernatural spell’s electric charge. Ignoring the anvil thump of his heart, Desmond heard his affirmative reply croak from his arid throat. He felt his neck burdened with an albatross’s unbearable weight and for a moment, bowed his head while his brain felt stricken with the notion the political master had outmaneuvered the upstart novice.

  “Yes, Mister President, with all my heart, I indeed, accept.”

  Desmond exhaled a stream of breath and cathartic applause ruptured the profound silence.

  Celebratory music roused from the string quartet.

  “May I have this dance, Dez?” he heard Marissa whisper.

  “Congratulations, Alderman,” the president said, offering his oak textured hand. “I shall see to it your name will echo into posterity with heroic resonance.”

  While he stood still stunned into silence, Desmond’s reticent hand surrendered to the president’s firm grip.

  “I’ve got a better idea, Marissa,” he said as he watched the president retire to the head of the dining table to hold court. “I think I need to get some air.”

  *

  “It’s indeed a shame that Doctor Zoe couldn’t be with us this evening,” Icarus turned to hear Plato say, “but I suppose, he knows just as well the true purpose of such so-called space missions?”

  Icarus’s dark brows wriggled in fascination.

  “As you say Councilor Charlemagne,” Icarus enquired, “what would that true purpose be?”

  Plato tugged at his silver rimmed spectacles.

  “As Chief of the Sustainability Council, I enjoy the president’s confidence, as do you. I hope we can now enjoy each other’s confidence, Chief Blythe,” Plato said.

  He glanced over at Ulysses perched at the head of the main table, entertaining a gaggle of visiting dignitaries.

  “Yes, you have me exactly,” Icarus assured Plato, “I am a man who never betrays confidences.”

  “So I shall tell you, Icarus, the purpose of such ‘space missions’ are for the same reason that centuries ago, weather modification technologies were used to cause the ‘Great Rapture’, which led to the creation of Sky Parlor itself, to better observe the social and cultural interactions and evolutionary process of an eventual merger between organic humans and that of artificially created AI or as we have all come to know both designations – breeders and saints.”

  While Icarus’s expression contorted into a succession of incredulous smiles and sober frowns, his brow darkened with confusion.

  “You mean to say the ‘Great Rapture’ was an artificial manipulation of nature, bringing about the threat of apocalypse, all so that humans and machines could be herded together into a walled habitat – do you mean to say, that Sky Parlor serves as some sort of scientific laboratory?” Icarus enquired.

  The musical strains of the string quartet became strident and while they stood together, the dance floor became ever livelier.

  “Since we are enjoying each other’s confidences,” Icarus enquired further, towering over the wispier Plato. “If Sky Parlor and these ‘space missions’ are merely to observe the interactions between breeders and saints – may I ask, to what end?”

  “Centuries ago, refugee crisis under the cover story of wars, earthquakes, and high-impact storms were deliberately created, to force mass human relocation into enclosed camps, where scientific experimentation and observation could be better conducted. Today, the end game, as it were,” Plato revealed, “is to facilitate the Darwinian evolutionary process of survival of the fittest, to see what species, between AI and human, becomes predominant and eventually, prevails. However, at the same time, it must be considered,” Plato added, “that just in the last century or so, the growing population of saints have been learning from the behaviors of humans. I’ve had the privilege of observing the literature produced from Doctor Zoe’s research team during his employment as chief scientific officer for the council.”

  While his fidgeting fingers remained interlocked behind his back, Icarus’s feet shuffled forward, and he stuck out his cleft chin.

  “And what exactly did Zoe and his scientists find, Plato?” Icarus wondered.

  “They found, quite somewhat unexpectedly, the saints, in observational learning from the humans, were adopting many of their social behaviors, but perhaps even more fascinating, Icarus – the breeders were learning from the saints and becoming more machine-like in their social responses and behaviors. Over the course of several generations, while living within the enclosed habitat of Sky Parlor, both will eventually become mirrored images of one another. So much so, that they will be indistinguishable. That is why it is now considered normal for both breeders and saints to co-exist within the family unit.”

  “Tell me, Plato, would I be correct in assuming, the president seeks to politically benefit from these scientific observations of Doctor Zoe?”

  As he nursed from his flute of sparkling champagne, his expression grew thoughtful.

  “Indeed Icarus,” Plato affirmed. “After all, though humans can be adequately manipulated and shaped through various forms of technological manipulation and psychological warfare, there is still a level of unpredictability that makes governing, despite technological advances, an inexact science. However, no matter what, the behavior of machines, even while inhabited by a human bio-essence, can still be manually and more efficiently programmed. So, the president knows, like all wise leaders, the eventual outcome of a population filled predominantly with saints will, going forward, be much easier to govern. But he also understands, this transition must take place incrementally, to not arouse suspicion among the masses of breeders, who because they are still organic humans, are prone to emotionalism, and thus, more likely prone to violent revolt.”

  Still incredulous, Icarus threw back his head and began to chuckle.

  “May I ask, what does all this mean for the future of humans, Plato?” Icarus said, sobering.

  “It may mean, Icarus,” Plato began to divulge, “the evolution of the organic human spirit, transferred, integrated into and transformed by the bio-machine of AI or saints, may be the only solution to achieving the one dream mankind has always sought since the inception of his species on this planet – UTOPIA or heaven on earth.”

  Icarus’s face became riddled with contemplation.

  “That is all very interesting, Plato, but if you’ll excuse me,” Icarus said, intuiting Plato’s wrinkled brow meant a subtle indication he was entertaining doubts concerning ‘utopia’, “I must perform my rounds and make sure all is secure with the palace security details.”

  Meanwhile, outside on the grounds beyond the thick walls, towering columns and labyrinthine paths that garrisoned the palace and with a silent Marissa in tow, Desmond became relieved to feel warm breath
s of wind caress his skin. Along a stone path that wound through a wild but well-manicured garden, he walked with deliberation, contemplating the bewildering plethora of stars like minute shards scattered against a soaring black velvet canvas.

  A vague but eerie impression began to nag at his senses, that they weren’t alone and perhaps, were even being watched. After walking for several tens of yards, Desmond finally heard Marissa speak. Was she disappointed he chose not to dance with her again, he thought?

  “You seem rather indifferent for someone the president plans on making out to be a future hero, Dez,” Marissa suggested.

  “I must confess, everything seems to be happening so fast, it’s almost surreal,” Desmond admitted. “I suppose, however,” he speculated, “I have a month until I’m sent off to one of those stars up there to sort everything out and put this all into perspective.”

  “Pardon me for saying so,” Marissa observed as golden rays of moonlight streamed upon the path, “but you do seem oddly regretful of your good fortune. Perhaps it’s not my place to say this,” she went on, “but I can only imagine what other ambitious men would do to so readily win the president’s favor.”

  “I’ll tell you something,” Desmond said, jabbing his finger, “I now regret telling the president during dinner – that part about life’s experiences,” Desmond said. “It was exactly what he wanted to hear, to rope me into this space mission. I may be young, Marissa,” he snorted, beginning to fume while balling his fists, “but I know, turning me into some sort of hero is a political stunt, and like all politicians, he’s using me – someone he sees as young, idealistic and easily led – as a political chess piece to further the scope of his own power. Let’s not,” he cajoled in a lighthearted tone, “demean ourselves by trying to pretend otherwise”

  Desmond halted to stand beneath the leafy canopy of a tall walnut tree.

  “Speaking of which,” he began to beseech, “tell me that he’s didn’t use you too – a beautiful young woman around my age – to soften me up, so he could come in with the kill to get what he wanted. Tell me it isn’t true?”

  He saw the streaming gold of moonlight more fully illuminate the pleasing symmetry of Marissa’s face. Torn, Desmond silently admitted, he didn’t know whether he hoped Marissa would betray her loyalty to President Ulysses and offer him some semblance of an honest answer. Maybe, he thought, the fact he had already been outmaneuvered by the president, and fallen into his calculated trap, rendered the significance of her answer moot.

  “Even if that were true,” he heard her reply with a faint trace of righteous indignation.

  Though laced with subtle resentment, still, Desmond imagined, Marissa’s voice resembled a reedy woodwind’s sweet tone muted in the soft texture of mulberry.

  “You must believe me,” she insisted. “The president would never have told me of his true intentions. I am, after all, Dez,” she assured, “merely his personal secretary.”

  Startled, Desmond heard a faint rustling of footsteps from beyond the boundaries of the path. Squinting into the gathered darkness, he could at first detect nothing, other than the rapid patter of a squirrel’s paws, scurrying along the overhanging networks of thick tree branches.

  Silently, he mulled over Marissa. Perhaps despite his misgivings, he had no discernable reason to doubt her veracity; or did he?

  “Is there something wrong, Dez?” Marissa said.

  Again, Desmond strained his eyes into the ink-black darkness of the surrounding forest.

  “No, not really,” he replied, “I just thought I heard something, that’s all.”

  “The truth is, Dez,” Marissa began. Her silky voice modulated into a flat monotone. “Though I am a saint model,” she divulged as Desmond turned to face her, “I find myself somehow, more and more, preferring the company of humans. And I hate how everyone, even my fellow saints employed at the palace, call all humans breeders. I find that derisive, unnecessary and quite frankly, insulting. It was organic humans who created us, and many of the techs and the doctors who run our diagnostics are still breeders from Columbia and Arcadia.”

  With the moonlight still streaming onto her face, Desmond saw the emerald green of her eyes sparkle with a sheen of sincerity.

  “The way you showed such concern for my well-being earlier today,” she said, grasping to take his hand, “well, that only served to renew my affinity and admiration for humans, and for you.”

  Desmond felt a rush of blood and the skin of his cheeks grew humid to the touch.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were… well, I feel so stupid,” he fumbled to explain. “Not knowing or even bothering to notice or consider that you were –.” Desmond began to laugh at himself. “It doesn’t matter, because now that I’m alone with you, I have an idea – why don’t you tell the president you want to go to Enceladus with me?”

  Desmond heard the faint crunch of torn branches and the wild rustling of bushes underfoot. His intuition began to fear that this time, it may not have been a squirrel or any other animal.

  “I don’t know, Dez; I mean…” Marissa began to stammer.

  “That’s okay,” Desmond said. “You’re not obligated to answer. You’ve still got plenty of time to think about it. But, right now,” Desmond’s face sprouted an effulgent grin, “let’s get back to the palace and have another go on the dance floor before this night ends – after all, practice makes perfect, right?”

  Basking in the warmth of Marissa’s smile, he grasped her hand and began to briskly lead her along the path toward the palace that emerged like a bright golden beacon through the thick partition of trees.

  As they approached the end of the winding path, the palace’s towering columns sprang up from behind an impenetrable stone wall. Desmond could see the dark silhouette of a commanding figure walking along the parapet. Focusing his eyes, he thought he could make out the familiar outline and the distinctive face of Chief Icarus Blythe.

  Desmond’s peripheral glance caught a spear of light, thrown from the palace grounds. He saw the glinting shard glance off the crown of a disembodied white helmet that seemed to swiftly bob and weave between the hedges adjacent to the slim path. Halting his brisk gait, Desmond’s grip on Marissa’s hand relented and, focusing his sharp eyes, a breath caught in his lungs. Gusts of wind swayed the tall boughs of the surrounding trees. Into the light’s illuminating swells thrust a disrupter’s black barrel.

  His mind seized with terror.

  “Dez…!” Marissa yelped in protest.

  Desmond plunged headlong, swallowed up by the dark jaws of the forest.

  Bounding over ferns and beds of flowers, he saw a figure uniformed in a praetorian trooper’s bright orange, crouched behind the concealing hedges. Desmond saw the determined weapon trained upon its target, standing tall on the parapet.

  In reckless abandon, he charged.

  *

  Disturbed by the piercing squeal that keened from beyond the palace wall, Icarus froze.

  He heard a guttural cry spring from the mayhem of trampled brambles and severed branches. A projectile’s lethal shock of lightning struck and cratered the palace wall. With volcano force, Icarus felt his veins erupt with wild courses of blood. While flung to the cold stone floor of the parapet, another volley of searing disrupter fire thundered against the palace’s towering columns. His desperate hands clasped about his head, shielding him from the meteoric showers of flaming marble.

  Anguished shrieks shattered the tranquil still of the dark forest.

  *

  Ignoring peril, Desmond lunged.

  Amid the tumultuous mayhem of the ensuing struggle, he knocked the assassin’s disrupter aside. Scrambling upon the damp forest floor, his feverish hand grasped the weapon’s stock. Rising from his dirt smudged knees, Desmond tripped upon an outgrowth of vines snaking along the ground and he fell against the wide trunk of a behemoth oak.

  The snarling assassin recovered his feet and rushed toward him like a rampaging elephant.
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  While merciless adrenaline’s megaton blasts pounded his senses, Desmond found the weapon’s stock welded to his quaking hands. Relentless streams of sweat soaked his forehead, stinging his eyes. His finger twitched and fumbled to find bearing but, somehow, he managed to grasp the compact weapon’s trigger housing.

  Time became a mirrored kaleidoscope; past, present and future seemed to meld into an odd mélange.

  In a moment of surreal clarity, Desmond aimed, and in the wake of blinding light’s tidal explosion, he felt the cold ground give way beneath his shifting feet.

  “Dez: are you alright?” Marissa shouted, “What happened?”

  A scurrying platoon of scowling troopers emerged to secure the area as Icarus recovered and hurried down the palace steps.

  “It appears to be one of ours, Chief,” a trooper said while standing over the mutilated body of the assassin, “but I don’t recognize him. Holo-scan indicates it’s a new saint model with a fabricated bio-print.”

  “Lock down the palace grounds and all the teleportals,” Icarus began ordering his men, taking command, “and start to search the perimeter.”

  Regaining his feet, Desmond slowly emerged from out of the hedges, and though bedraggled with dirt and drenched with perspiration, appeared to be otherwise unharmed.

  “Whoever that was, they tried to kill Chief Blythe, and then me,” he said between gasping breaths as Marissa clutched at his aching arm. “I can’t believe I… I can’t believe I killed…”

  As the long trunk of Desmond’s torso bent, his firm hands grasped his knees, and while panting to catch his breath, he felt his stomach begin to churn, as if some loathsome toxin had poisoned him. An ominous storm cloud of melancholic regret began to surface from the deepest recesses of his conscience. He sensed it hovering, blackened and swollen, while threatening to drench him in hails of torrential sorrow. Though he had acted with the best of intentions, he had taken a life, and perhaps, he thought, a piece of his soul had died with it.