Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  Turning toward Desmond, Icarus’s mind tumbled with speculation. One thing was certain, he found himself beginning to begrudgingly admit – Columbia’s new alderman had perhaps saved his life. And then, he found himself stricken with a stark realization and perhaps even caught in an uncomfortable quandary:

  New model saint with artificial bio-print…Doctor Zoe’s retaliation for the shake down? Should the president know, or should I…

  “Trooper,” Icarus said to another of his men standing by to secure the scene, “escort Alderman Starr to the teleportal and then, safely, to his residence in Columbia.”

  “But I don’t understand – what the hell is –” Desmond began to protest.

  “It is for your own safety, Alderman Starr,” Icarus related.

  Desmond’s shoulders slumped as he chose to relent, not certain what was more severe, the chief’s uncompromising tone or his expression, which resembled the bloodless plane of an immovable boulder. In this case, he carefully considered, since he was surrounded by Icarus’s well-armed troopers and, perhaps more importantly, he had already surrendered possession of the disrupter, going along with a persuasive and commanding figure such as Chief Blythe may represent the better part of valor.

  “You will be asked to give an official statement for the purposes of an ongoing and official investigation,” Icarus said. “The rest of you, proceed to the palace ballroom and secure the president and the sustainability council in secure quarters until the grounds can be thoroughly searched. This interloper may have had an accomplice. But,” he emphasized while his hand chopped at the night air like a tomahawk, “do so in a manner that doesn’t alarm the other guests, is that clear?”

  One of the troopers nodded and proceeded toward the palace steps.

  “I hope to see you again, soon,” Desmond said to Marissa before the trooper led him away to the teleportal.

  Marissa’s fulsome lips parted to speak, but at first, found uncertainty’s confusion distracting.

  “I too, wish to see you again, Dez,” she whispered. Desmond felt warmed by the touch of her soft skin upon his clammy palm. “And, to your question earlier, the answer is yes,” she said, her reluctance faded in lieu of a blooming smile, “I will tell the president about what we spoke of earlier, that I would like to go with you.”

  “I must warn you, upon pain of severe prosecution,” Icarus said, “you must say nothing to anyone about what may have happened or what you thought you saw here at the palace this evening – no one, do you understand?”

  As Desmond was led away by the armed trooper, he turned to glance over his shoulder to find Marissa’s face piercing the evening gloom like a celestial wonder.

  “I’m going to ask you to join the president and the rest of the council in their secure quarters until further notice, Marissa,” Icarus advised, softening his tone. “It’s for your own safety.”

  A flash of righteous indignance flashed across Marissa’s eyes.

  “I wonder, Chief Blythe,” she replied, “are you doing this for my safety, and the safety of everyone else here this evening or for your own benefit, so that you can look good before the president? After all, no matter what you say to the president or write in your official report, we all know the identity of the real hero; of the man who saved your life, here tonight.”

  “Like you, Marissa,” Icarus replied with eerie calm, “I serve the president. Our first responsibility is to him, and we both do what we can to cultivate his trust,” Icarus added, thrusting his chin forward, “and his good graces, whenever feasible.”

  As he watched a reluctant Marissa ascend the palace steps, Icarus’s mind arrayed into a finely attuned sense of precise order. Now that he had taken control of the scene, Icarus knew it was crucial, his next steps must be meticulously planned. Not only, he thought, must he control the subsequent narrative, but accordingly, he must eliminate any contradicting visual record from the palace security panopticon.

  Transported from a nearby teleportal, Icarus emerged in the center of a circular black console within the security and surveillance panopticon, located deep beneath the foundation of the palace grounds. Like an illusionist he waved his hand over a portion of the console and a series of wide holo-screens floated in mid-air. Icarus’s eyes narrowed into slits. He focused the laser intensity of his examining vision upon the replay of the violent action and its aftermath from various angles. Slashing his hand across the surface of each screen, the rigid tendons of his face relaxed and his thin-lipped mouth upturned at the corners when he observed the swirling rainbow tides of footage from each high-definition screen evaporate. The three-dimensional image of a subordinate trooper whirled from the Nano-chip in the center of his palm, and his face became a placid mask.

  “Every sector of the palace grounds has been searched, Sir,” Icarus heard the monotoned voice of the trooper report, “and there are no indications of any additional intruders.”

  “Very well,” Icarus replied. “Terminate the palace lock-down and please, inform the president and the councilmembers they are free to rejoin the gala.”

  Entering the palace ballroom, Icarus stopped for a moment between a pair of massive marble pillars to observe the gala’s proceedings. The soft strains of Mozart plumed from the string quartet and floated like a benign cloud across the ballroom floor filled with the idle chatter from the milling crowd of the president’s guests, who, while unaware of the emergency lock-down, had carried on as they had for the entire evening. His face froze with a grin reflecting quiet dignity, pleased his men had handled the lock-down with efficient aplomb.

  “Ah, Chief Blythe,” Icarus heard the president’s booming voice resonate above the ambience of the music.

  Icarus strode forward to join the president as he excused himself from a group of gathered dignitaries and councilmembers.

  “Good to hear you’re keeping us all safe this evening,” the president said while still within earshot of his guests, “as well as ensuring your men are kept sharp in carrying out their duties.”

  Icarus settled his interlocked hands behind his back as the president led him away from the madding crowd to an isolated corner of the palace’s ballroom just behind the string quartet.

  Icarus drew in a breath as he observed Ulysses’ smiling mask dissolve into a dark glare.

  “Tell me, Icarus,” Ulysses voice modulated to a grave octave. “What really happened out there – why did you erase the footage from the palace grounds? Surely, you must know, I miss nothing.”

  Icarus’s eyes dilated with surprise. He sensed his cheeks simmering with a rush of hot blood. His thoughts gyrated toward what he felt was a plausible explanation as his jaw tightened like a vice. Had Marissa betrayed his confidence, he speculated, or did the president possess some sort of supernatural sixth sense?

  “There was an assassin, Mister President,” Icarus detailed while careful to choose his words like a meticulous prospector inspecting the flaws of a lode of diamonds. “He was first spotted on the grounds by Alderman Starr, who immediately reported the suspicious intruder to one of my patrols. There was an exchange of fire which resulted in the assassin becoming wounded and subsequently apprehended. The assassin was taken to praetorian headquarters where he awaits interrogation. The Alderman suffered a minor laceration during the fire fight, and he’s been sent back into the city to Columbia General Hospital where he will be administered to.”

  Icarus saw the president’s glare vanish as he began to wag his well-defined chin.

  “I see, Chief Blythe,” he said offering warm affirmation. “Each of your troopers are to be congratulated and commended for their diligence.”

  “However, if I may beg your kind indulgence, Mister President,” Icarus said.

  “Go on, Icarus,” Ulysses said, gesturing with an illustrative hand.

  Icarus’s eyes glanced around the ballroom and, moving closer to the president, leaned forward to better whisper in confidence.

  “I thought, since the latest tech algo
rithms reflected your overwhelming popularity, it wouldn’t be prudent, politically speaking, of course, for it to be widely or generally known there had been a threat on your life, Mister President. I thought, instead,” he explained, moving his lips closer to the president’s lending ear, “we could somehow report that the assassin had a connection to the three children from Columbia Prep, who my men arrested for unsustainable behavior but were delivered to you for your pleasure at the palace earlier. The accused could, instead, be charged with kidnapping, torture and murder. As for the erased footage from the panopticon’s console memory, could it not be meticulously recreated to support that promoted narrative?”

  The president’s cheeks flushed with a beacon’s rich glow and stepping back a pace from Icarus, he flashed a knowing wink. Squaring his burly shoulders, Ulysses thrust out his long arms, and in subtle affection, tapped his chief praetorian’s beefy arms.

  The string quartets strings struck forth with the lively strains of yet another waltz.

  “Ah, Icarus,” he said, beaming. “Not only are you the most loyal servant a leader could ever wish for, but you are among the cleverest.”

  “The preliminary ID scan indicates the suspect is a new model saint equipped with an artificial bio-print,” Icarus reported. “This clearly implicates the involvement of Doctor Zoe, the only one in all Sky Parlor with that sort of technical expertise.”

  Ulysses’ face transformed into an animated portrait.

  “Yes, yes,” the president replied. “I see what you mean. If I’m not mistaken, he was granted a dispensation from the council to retain sole ownership privileges of the popular Paramount gaming complex, which has made him a very rich man; almost as rich as I am.”

  “Which in turn,” Icarus suggested, “makes him politically dangerous. His conviction for not only treason but for conspiracy to commit assassination upon the president would mean the legal seizure of his property through eminent domain by the council – making you, unquestionably the richest man in Sky Parlor, Mister President.”

  Ulysses bobbed his head and with a wide smile leaned closer toward his Chief Praetorian.

  “I’ve got a better plan, Icarus,” the president began to scheme. “Prolong announcing the results of your investigation until after SAGAN’s so-called mission to Enceladus has been launched,” he suggested, his eyes sparkling like the births of twin stars. “For surely you know, that this mission is nothing more than a show to distract the people, eh? It promises to be the biggest show ever broadcast on the holo-web.”

  Remembering his confidential exchange with Plato earlier that evening, Icarus’s nostrils snorted with a burst of air as he attempted to stifle his amusement. When it came to consider his master, the president, there was certainly none better at the game of politics.

  “And for any show to be successful, Icarus,” the president said, his face glowing like a wild beacon, “it must create as much drama and interest as possible – for both breeders and saints.”

  Icarus thrust out his cleft chin. Truly, he considered further, when it came to political maneuvers, there was much to learn from the president.

  Perhaps, one day, when I’ve learned all I can, I will be the one sitting on the throne in the presidential palace.

  “You know, when Clarence Starr, the late father of our new alderman of Columbia began threatening to expose what he knew about the tech’s working for the council and their manipulation of my popularity index statistics, it was you who did my bidding, Icarus,” Ulysses said, “without question, and without hesitation. That is when I decided, this is a good man to serve me as Chief Praetorian.”

  The president spread out his hands as the swirling music began to grow faint and for just a moment, before rising again, gave way to the sound of light applause.

  “Always stay close to me, Icarus,” the president said.

  The ballroom floor swelled with mirthful laughter as the string quartet sprang into a selection with a lively tempo from Mozart.

  “There shall come a time, when I shall call upon you again. And, as for Desmond Starr and the good Doctor Zoe, for now we shall bide our time, until unexpectedly and at last, their time shall also come, We shall slay not just two birds, but a virtual flock with but one stone, Icarus.”

  “Forgive me once again, Mister President,” Icarus said, his chest heaving with a solemn breath. “But there is something else I thought you should become aware. According to my troopers, there were a pair of witnesses who attempted to interfere with the arrests of the trio of youths for unsustainable behavior,” he detailed. “I was told by the arresting sergeant of the trooper detail that one of the witnesses claimed to be a classmate of the three students. This witness had a female companion. They have been identified as Lucius Holden and Boudica Murphy, both who reside at a MU complex not far from Paramount Games. I’ve since ordered their holo-web traffic monitored, but nothing appears to have turned up in relation to the arrest of their three classmates – at least not yet.”

  From out of the flaming purgatory of Ulysses’ mind, what he envisioned as a clever scheme’s full-fledged phoenix sprang forth.

  “Listen, and learn well from me, my dear Icarus,” the president advised.

  Icarus’s dark brows merged, and he grew attentive as words seemed to pour like bittersweet honey from the corner of Ulysses’ mouth, cracked open like a sieve.

  “Whenever, in the face of prospective enemies, first you must draw them close and play to their ego. Rather than rebuke or censure, which only serves to strengthen their resolve, you must publicly reward them. This distracts them from their fear of retribution. This also seduces them with wondrous showers of public acclaim, which most cannot and do not resist. In many cases, especially among the most youthful, placating the ego will cause them to become a friend and even a valuable, if not loyal, ally. Even then, however, having seemingly won your enemy’s allegiance, you must still beware, for among the most cunning, and particularly among those enemies with greater seasoning, this may be an overt but insincere display. If this is so, Icarus, when you are certain that, in your enemy’s mind, all traces of suspicion and fear of retribution have been eliminated, and their observed behavior reflects they have been thoroughly seduced into a false sense of absolute safety – that is the time to strike faster than a deadly cobra’s poisonous bite. You see, I’ve been in communication with someone who’s very close to Alderman Starr, someone who, after the tragic death of his parents,” and Icarus saw Ulysses’ eyes begin to alight like twin quasars, the corners of his mouth hint at a smirk, “while cloaking himself in the guise of a mentor, has become a valuable ally, someone who shall help us achieve our ultimate end game.”

  Icarus’s face became sketched with radiant shades of awe.

  “I can now see, Mister President,” he replied, “that the key to success in politics and maintaining power, implies always remaining a few steps ahead of your enemies; correct?”

  “They never expect the unexpected, Icarus,” Ulysses’ said, “for by the time they realize slavery or worse, death, has sealed their fate, they have been immobilized, and it is far too late for redemption.”

  *

  That evening while cast off into the serenity of a dream, Bobby Lee Tepper felt surrounded by strange cascades of pearl-white light. Looking around, he saw he had been oddly separated from his body, still prone beneath his bedsheets. Have I died, he thought? Then, he felt the soothing vibrations of a soft voice from the crimson lips of a comely face, wreathed in dark tendrils of hair. Inch by inch, his startled feet shuffled backwards, and Bobby’s hands fumbled for balance against the footboard of the bed. Though fear’s immobilizing ether had seized his blood, the silk texture of a single hand reaching out from the slender figure swaddled in the golden hues of a sparkling tunic upon his skin served to calm him.

  “You’ve seen me once before,” the soft voice beseeched. “Though it was long ago, before you were born into this incarnation – do I not seem familiar?”

  F
or a moment, the figure’s sparkling aura strained his eyes, and Bobby snapped them shut. His mind shook with tremors of terror and began to stir with strange visions of a man clad in what appeared to be some sort of formal blue colored uniform, pained and bleeding from mortal wounds, and stretched out on a table, perhaps even on the verge of death. The vision swept over him like reams of flowing water and ebbed away into a plethora of colored mist.

  “I don’t know – but, maybe, I guess,” Bobby heard the odd echo of his tremulous voice.

  “Though you don’t know it now, there will soon be those around you, many souls racked from the pain of loss, and it is upon you, a natural leader, to whom they will look for comfort, and for guidance.”

  Having found his balance, Bobby straightened his wide shoulders and his arms gestured like wind-tossed tree limbs.

  “Why – but why me?” Bobby heard his urgent plea, “what is it that I can do to…?”

  The figure’s rose red lips spread into an effervescent smile, and in his hands, Bobby discovered some sort of slim and portable black device.

  “You were once a brave soldier – centuries ago – during America’s brutal civil conflict,” the comely figure said. “You knew me then as Abigail, when I repaired your leg, injured in that ghastly battle at Gettysburg. And though now, in this incarnation, your body is well-honed to be a championship athlete, you must begin to realize the mind shall be your most powerful asset. With the help of this device – the silver light cube – you will soon find, that with the magic power of mental intention,” Bobby heard the strange but beautiful phantom’s voice envelop him, “and while drawing upon the reservoir of benevolence within, it will be possible to bring your imagination’s glimmer of dreams into material reality. If you can dream, it shall come true, and everyone will believe it. ”

  Peering more deeply into the vision’s eyes, a splinter of recognition fostered.

  “Hey, wait,” Bobby declared, his eyes illuminated with sparkles of epiphany, “I remember my dad telling me about my mom – a nurse – repairing injuries like you just said…you aren’t by any chance…are you?”