Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  Before Bobby could enquire anymore of the strange phantom, she had vanished. Now upon his bed, and with his yawning fatigue drifting off into slumber, Bobby held the odd object in his hands. As he examined it while turning it over with his fingers, he felt the pulsing tingle of electric charge upon his skin, and wondered – is what I’ve been given good…or evil?

  Bobby felt the lids of his fatigued eyes grow heavy and, as they began to involuntarily flutter before he surrendered to sleep, he could still hear the faint echo of the phantom’s calming voice – or was she, this Abigail, something else, maybe even a god, he pondered? – ‘If you can dream, it shall come true, and everyone will believe it’.

  12

  Region of Columbia

  (Alderman’s office at Sky Parlor’s trade and transportation commission building)

  During the three days since his rather adventurous experience at the presidential palace, Desmond reported to the city trade and transportation commission building, in earnest, to begin his new position as alderman of Columbia. Though at first, he was delighted to learn the new job came with his own corner office that offered a panoramic view of the city from the highest floor of the eighteen-story building, his excitation was soon tempered, when he began to observe the almost insurmountable administrative workload.

  Already, he mused with growing regret, there were those who – while in most cases, with greater ambition than qualifications – were beginning to hound him in seeking his patronage for administrative appointments.

  He noticed too, with some degree of levity, the president’s announcement of SAGAN’s mission to deep space had become the holo-web’s main topic of interest and, with even greater amusement, noticed he had become somewhat of a celebrity.

  Standing before his floating holo-screen, he noticed there was an incoming message, a report from ZEN, Zenith News, Sky Parlor’s state-owned news network. With a sigh, he poked his finger at the screen, and the vivacious face of a blue-eyed female news correspondent began to gush in a lively cadence.

  “According to our most excellent leader, President Garth Ulysses, Columbia’s new alderman, Desmond Starr, will travel to the stars with some other lucky citizens, soon to be chosen by the president’s sustainability council from among the finest of Sky Parlor’s youth. We here at ZEN think Desmond Starr is an inspirational role model, and a hero to our youth, and to everyone in Sky Parlor. Shoot us a zap-com here at ZEN and let us know what you think. Whose destiny will it be to go to the stars with Desmond?”

  With a gurgling laugh that soon dissolved into a frown, Desmond jabbed the screen and in a shower of sparkling colors, the bubbly smile of Zenith’s news anchor evaporated.

  “If ever there was a time, I should think about legally changing my name,” he lamented with a weary chuckle.

  With a sweep of his hand, he dissolved the screen and turned toward his office window behind his pristine glass desk.

  It was near noon, and the bright rays of the sun transformed the spiderwebbed monorail tracks spanning toward the clear horizon into spun strands of gold. As he pushed his balled fists deep into the pockets of his dark slacks, Desmond found the gruesome visions from his encounter with the praetorian trooper, no matter how he tried to exorcise them, would not relent from his memory. Perhaps they never would, Desmond thought. Stranger still, that there had been no reports from ZEN or any signs of widespread talk of the incident on the holo-web, as if an official information moratorium had been declared.

  He now recalled the even stranger reaction of Chief Blythe while sternly reprimanding him, his troopers, and Marissa not to say anything about what had happened to anyone until an ‘official’ investigation and report had been completed. He now recalled too, the Chief’s odd facial expression while he poked his finger into the crisp night air like a lethal rapier for emphasis, as if straining to bury the guilt-ridden conscience he seemed to have harbored. Had the chief, Desmond wondered, ever bothered to report what truly happened, to the president or anyone on the council – was there something he was trying to hide?

  The office door, while cracking open, croaked upon its hinges.

  “Knowing how busy you’re likely to be,” Desmond heard the voice of his mentor, Mister Pembroke, “I should have shot you a zap-com, but then I decided, it would be better to congratulate you in person. I see they gave you a nice office,” Pembroke said, his eyes shining with sincere admiration. “Almost as attractive as mine.”

  “Well, I’m not so vain to display its power, but when it comes to the things I believe in, I won’t be afraid to use it. And yes, it’s true, I’m busier now than I’ve ever been,” Desmond admitted, “but,” he brightened, grinning, “I’m never too busy to talk to you, Mister Pembroke. Come on in,” he welcomed as Pembroke’s thin face peeked into the door’s wide aperture.

  “How was your visit to the presidential palace?” Pembroke began, perching himself in a chair before Desmond’s desk and crossing his long legs. “I hear that, not only is the food excellent, but the accommodations are incomparable to anything here in the city.”

  “Well, the food is excellent if you’re the president and,” Desmond joked, “I got the general impression, the president nor anyone on his sustainability council would ever dare sink their teeth into the artificial ‘green’ food packages everyone else in Sky Parlor gets.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I think many of the sustainable package selections have become rather tasty over the years.” Pembroke’s thin mouth broke into a smile. “They’re almost like the real thing; so, we’ve always been told anyway. Oh, by the way, Desmond,” Pembroke went on to relate.

  He folded his hands into the shape of a diamond and his fingertips tapped together in a staccato rhythm.

  “The president has proved true to his word and appointed some members of the council to work with the trade commission to look into your proposal concerning the establishment of organic garden plots along the city’s ten-mile buffer zones,” Pembroke said.

  Desmond settled in behind his desk and leaned back in his office chair. While his finger subtly tapped his protruding bottom lip, he thought he detected a sliver of intuition’s sun ray dawning. Was President Ulysses playing a political bluff for the sake of appearances?

  “Well, as we both know,” Desmond joked again, “in the case of politics, there is always hope. Right, Mister Pembroke?”

  The pastel hue of Pembroke’s thin face brightened; his thin lips unfolded into a grin like the fragile petals of a sun kissed flower.

  “Without the hope of survival in the face of adversity, especially during the time of the ‘Great Rapture’ centuries ago,” he replied, “perhaps humanity would have even perished, Dez.”

  Desmond beamed in acknowledgement before the deep pools of his irises rippled with introspection. His gaze wandered toward the panoramic window view. The sun had begun to dim behind an obscuring cloud, casting long shadows across entire swaths of the city’s panorama.

  “You know, Mister Pembroke, before my visit at the palace, I’d never realized,” Desmond began, careful to resist the temptation to confide to his mentor what had occurred with the mysterious trooper, “how on the one hand, though human life is precious, but on the other, how frail and tenuous it all is. Like no matter how secure everything might seem, everything could end – just like that,” he supposed, snapping his fingers. “Which is why I’m going to see to it this organic garden program proposal goes through and gets approved by the president’s council. I think it’s time the citizens of Sky Parlor gained some autonomy without having to solely rely on the sustainability council for green food package handouts that, given the evidence I’ve seen, are probably detrimental to their health.”

  “After everything is said and done, Dez,” Pembroke replied while leaning forward and uncrossing his long legs, “that could be your legacy, to not only Sky Parlor, but to human history. And,” he added, standing and offering his hand, “you’ve got my word.” Desmond reached out over his desk’s glass
top with a firm grip, “I will try to gain as many supporters as I can with those who have greater influence on the commission.”

  Pembroke saw Desmond’s appreciative smile appear then, just as quickly, vanish.

  Pembroke shifted his weight in the chair as he observed a streak of introspection color the young alderman’s deep brown eyes.

  “What do you know about Chief Praetorian trooper Icarus Blythe, Mister Pembroke?” Desmond enquired.

  The pale folds of Pembroke’s face seemed to contract like an accordion.

  “Chief Blythe – from what I’ve been told, he’s a good man,” Pembroke began.

  Feeling caught off guard, his expression reflected solemn contemplation.

  “I also happen to know he’s the president’s right-hand man and, as they used to say once upon a time, they’re thick as thieves,” Pembroke said. “But,” he said with a coaxing grin, “why do you ask, Dez?”

  “Well,” Desmond replied, unsure at first how he should respond without betraying anything. “It’s just that, out of all the people I met that night at the palace – the president’s councilors, dignitaries from the other regions – I kind of have to admit, he kind of scared me – hard man, I guess is all.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Dez. Sky Parlor is a big place filled with a population maintained at thirty million per council edict established two centuries ago, and as we know, the numbers of organically reproduced humans – apart from those now inhabiting Columbia and neighboring Arcadia – are in the growing minority. Surviving history tells us those who first moved into Sky Parlor during the ‘Great Rapture’,” Pembroke went on explaining as Desmond’s expression grew intense, “were soon seduced by the great scientific advances with the merging of human and AI, and of course, even better seduced with the idea they may be able to eclipse immortality while still living on earth from just passing their bio-essence from one container to the next. As to what the social implications of this continuing trend will be for fully organic humanity, no one can say.”

  “You know, I remember at school how the sustainability trainers used to try and convince me and other students – some subtly and some not so subtly – how much better life as a saint would be. They tried to put pressure on my parents to get me to transfer into a saint model. Now, a growing number of those families who’ve remained organic for generations since they arrived in Sky Parlor, feel pressured to have their newborns transferred into a saint model right at birth. I’m glad my parents refused though. I like being an organic human, even though the numbers of us that are left are sometimes scorned as breeders.”

  “You know, I suppose that’s true,” Pembroke replied, with a wistful sigh, “But on the other hand, statistics have shown that more aren’t refusing. It seems ever greater numbers have decided to dive headlong into what they’ve been made to believe is the inevitable future of mankind and transfer their bio-essences into recyclable and modifiable synthetic saint models.”

  “I hate to say it Mister Pembroke,” Desmond said, “but I suppose we know each other well enough. It seemed to me, when I was growing up in Columbia, there was always this trend or impression, like being a saint was better than being a so-called breeder – like they were supposed to be special or something and were entitled to special rights. Well, to my mind, just because some might be programmed to have physical or mental advantages depending upon what job they’re designated for soon after they make the bio-transfer, doesn’t make them superior.”

  While opining to Pembroke, Desmond remembered Marissa’s charitable words, and while perhaps wondering what she was likely to think, he began to secretly chide himself.

  “I noticed that too, when I was your age, and still in school, Dez. But, look at it this way,” Pembroke reasoned. “Though it’s been a long time that they’ve been living together here, humans and AI are still working on assimilating. I’ve seen the violent crime statistics, and though the percentage is small considering the total population, what crime exists is mostly the result of tensions between the two. And, considering Chief Blythe, if you found him to be a hard man, I’m certain it’s because he knows he’s got a tough job, at times, of maintaining order and then answering to the president when things don’t always go right. You know, I sense many saints resent the fact that they’re still governed by humans on the sustainability council. That resentment has cooled off though, now that Garth Ulysses has been president for the last twenty years.”

  “Yeah, well,” Desmond felt forced to acknowledge, “I guess you’re right, Mister Pembroke. I guess too,” Desmond said as a warm smile dashed forth, “you’ve always been right, about a lot of things. But, no matter what, I’m happy to be an organic human. It makes life more adventurous and unpredictable; don’t you think?”

  As the chime of a faint bell sounded, and both men noticed the triangular Nano-chips embedded in their palms were glowing bright red, signaling a special alert from the sustainability council, Desmond sensed he was once again being haunted by silent ruminations laced with the cold dread of regret. What would Pembroke’s impressions be if it were known what really happened at the presidential palace, that he had taken someone’s life while in the defense of someone else’s? Worse still, would someone he considered his political mentor become ashamed to learn he had been cowed into silence by the Chief Praetorian?

  Turning over his palm, Desmond gave it a soft tap and, tracing with his finger, spread out the emerging holo-screen to its maximum width.

  “This is Polly Trudeau from ZEN News, with a breaking story out of Praetorian Trooper headquarters. Three children, students at Columbia Preparatory Academy and members of the varsity football Eagles, reportedly between the ages of fifteen and seventeen, were found abandoned by praetorian troopers and drone patrols in an isolated area out near the city’s buffer zones. After recovery, the three children were pronounced dead by the city coroner’s office and were presumed to have been murdered and possibly kidnapped – according to anonymous witnesses – approximately three days ago, near MU-13’s Paramount Gaming Complex in the region of Columbia. Sky Parlor’s Chief of Praetorian Troopers, Icarus Blythe, joins us now for an official statement regarding his ongoing investigation into this heinous crime. Chief Blythe – what do we know at this hour and do you have a suspect at this time?”

  Desmond and Pembroke intently focused on Chief Blyth’s stone-faced image appeared on the screen.

  “You are correct Polly, in characterizing this crime as heinous. In fact, this is the most horrific thing I’ve seen during my tenure as Chief Praetorian of Sky Parlor. At this point in our ongoing investigation, we do believe the children were kidnapped while congregating in an alley adjacent to the Paramount Gaming Complex located in the region of Columbia and taken to a remote area via teleport deep into the ten-mile buffer zones where they were brutally murdered. As for the suspect, we issued a warrant for the arrest of Cassiopeia Craft, an employee at the Paramount Gaming Parlor, who is now in custody at Praetorian headquarters, and is awaiting arraignment. But, as I alluded to, Polly, our investigation into this crime is ongoing, and preliminarily, we are led to believe that the accused may have had an accomplice.”

  “Can you say at this point in your ongoing investigation, Chief Blythe,” the ZEN news anchor queried, “what factors may have led to the belief the accused may have had an accomplice?”

  “Well, as everyone in Sky Parlor knows, the use of teleportals without the express permission of the sustainability council or the acting praetorian chief is an act of unsustainable behavior and subject to appropriate and severe prosecution. We believe the security code was improperly accessed. This fact allows us to whittle our investigations down to only two conclusions: Craft’s accomplice could be someone with either close ties to the sustainability council at present or perhaps the accomplice was a tech, who may have, at one time, been employed by the council.”

  Desmond peered closer at Chief Blythe’s image dominating the holo-screen. Somehow, behind Icarus Bl
ythe’s impenetrable façade of officious calm, he could sense the Chief Praetorian was lying. At that precise moment, he felt compelled to tell Pembroke about his experience at the palace. And yet, he found fear’s hideous ghoul had crept into the mind’s darkest corners and seized the words formulating within his synapse before they could ever fall from his lips. Desmond poked his finger at the holo-screen, and, with a frustrated wag of his clean-shaven chin, he watched it collapse into a beam of light.

  “I guess you’re right about the Chief having a tough job, Mister Pembroke,” he managed to say.

  “Comparatively speaking,” Pembroke replied, “Icarus Blythe’s job makes mine as Commissioner appear to be stress free.” Pembroke warmly gestured, “I’d better let you get back to yours.”

  “It’s always good to see you, Mister Pembroke,” Desmond said. “My door will always be open for you.”

  Just as the afternoon dwindled into dusk’s purpled hues, Desmond left his darkened office, and while standing at the crowded monorail platform, studied the array of blank faces filing through the sliding doors of each sleek white coach. Though Chief Icarus Blythe still dominated his thoughts, his mind began to hark back to his conference with Pembroke. Perusing the sea of surrounding faces, though virtually expressionless, they seemed somehow marked with an unnamable fear, a looming terror though palpable, remained inscrutable to even a whisper’s daring revelation – the revelation they were witness to their own gradual but willing extinction.

  Rather than file in with the huddled masses, Desmond waited for the next monorail, hoping it would be more sparsely populated. Discovering a vacant coach, he slouched into a comfortably upholstered seat colored in antiseptic-white and exhaling a sigh, slowly crossed his spindly legs. The monorail lurched forward, and he felt the silent presence of a lone figure with furtive eyes, watching him from far aft. As the city transformed to an impressionistic blur beneath dusk’s soaring patchwork sky of lavender, pink and faded blue from outside the window, Desmond heard the steady rhythm of approaching footsteps and heard the patter of breath exhaled from heaving lungs.