Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  “Alderman Desmond Starr?” gonged a deep and somber tone.

  Desmond uncrossed his legs and observed a hulking man with thinning blonde hair and piercing blue eyes growing darker than millstones.

  “Yes, I am Alderman Starr, and if you’re one of my constituents, I am always willing to talk. Why don’t you have a seat, Mister…?”

  “Tepper. Michael Lee Tepper,” the man’s deep voice rumbled as he settled his bulky girth in the adjacent seat. “I’m an assembly manager at Greenview, the food production plant in Columbia. I’d like to speak with you for a moment, if I could?”

  “Ah; yes, “Desmond said. His eyes flashed recognition. “I’ve heard about your son, Bobby, the star quarterback for the Eagles of Columbia Prep whose team is favored to win the city championship over Arcadia this weekend, right?”

  Mister Tepper flashed a brief smile but hung his head as if it were weighed down with the burden of a torturous wooden stock.

  “Yeah; both me and his mother are very proud of Bobby. He’s a good kid, if a little full of himself sometimes, just like I was when I was running around on the school’s gridiron and scoring touchdowns for the good old Eagles. In fact, the other afternoon, I helped Bobby and his two friends from Columbia Prep, Lucius and Boudica, build their science project. It was a lot of fun, and with Bobby, who is a real leader, directing the whole thing, it didn’t take more than an hour. I think he’s going to follow in your footsteps, maybe someday become alderman of Columbia. Yeah, it’s funny; he’s a great athlete and real idealistic, just like me when I was at that age. You know, when I dated Bobby’s mom before we got married, I was a pretty good athlete as a youngster, but she was an amateur magician, doing these tricks of illusion she learned from this old and rare book. She’s handed it down to Bobby, and he promises me he’s going to use some of what he’s learned from that book as part of his science project to put on a show for the class and get a better grade. Yeah, it’s funny how you see yourself in your kids, and Bobby is, as they used to say, a chip off the old block. I used to think I was really something – you know?”

  Desmond noticed how Tepper’s eyes began to soften, how they seemed enlivened by fond reminiscences of the glory of youth, before his somber voice added in reflection.

  “That is,” he said, his eyes growing dark again, “before life reached out with a big black boot and kicked me square in the head.”

  “I guess the fleeting beauty and power of youth never lasts forever, Mister Tepper.” Desmond’s sympathetic reply tinged with regret, “Though we might all wish otherwise.”

  “At any rate,” Tepper replied, lifting his head. “Everyone knows you’re a bit of a maverick and big on getting the commission to allow citizens in Sky Parlor to plant their own vegetable gardens, so they won’t be so reliant on the green food package hand-outs. I got to tell you, Alderman – I don’t know where to start.”

  “Please, Mister Tepper, now that we’ve been introduced,” Desmond’s molasses hued skin sparkled with the inner light of sympathetic compassion, “let’s operate on a first name basis. From here on out, you can call me Desmond, or better still – Dez.”

  Tepper molded his stern lips into a dire frown and as he went on, his gruff baritone adopted the tone of a paternal warning.

  “Listen Dez, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you; you’re up against a brick wall with that. The other managers of the plant, some who are close to members on the sustainability council, are working against you and have pull with the president’s commission Ulysses just appointed.”

  Subtle parallel lines etched upon the black velvet canvas of Desmond’s forehead.

  “Well, it may be true – as you say, Mister Tepper – they may have pull, some measure of influence with the sustainability councilors. But the president’s word is the most influential of all and, I happen to know firsthand, he has given his personal assurances of support in this matter.”

  Tepper’s fingers idly drummed on his elephantine thighs while considering Columbia’s young alderman. He came to observe that perhaps, just like with his son, life’s bleaker tragedies hadn’t yet quite managed to trump Starr’s stubborn attachment to youthful idealism.

  “Look, Dez, I never bothered to even think about this before and, while even in the back of my mind I suspected something like this, I managed to keep my mouth shut and just do my job, making sure my section of the plant was running right,” Tepper said while pleading with an upturned palm. “You’ve found out, and every manager at the plant has always known, the artificial ingredients they put in the food packages contains some pretty damned harmful stuff. The difference is, they want to keep it quiet, but you’ve been making noise about it, noise which they and the sustainability council don’t want to listen to. And even though the president’s playing politics and said you’ve got his support – my guess is they’re all looking to continue with business as usual. But you should know, their resistance stems from something else that goes into the food packages, something they don’t want to get out. Something if it did get out to everyone in Sky Parlor, I don’t think it would be just a matter of politics anymore,” Tepper speculated.

  Tepper’s words dropped with the jarring gravity of heavy stones into a rippled pond.

  “They might,” he warned, “even try to kill those who would want to make it public – people like you, Dez.”

  “Well,” Desmond admitted as his brows molded into an arch, “You’re probably right about that. But, as much as anyone on the council would want to kill me,” Desmond said while marinating every syllable in gallantry, “you’ve got my word, Mister Tepper, I’m going to continue to fight for this with everything I’ve got. The health and welfare of everyone in Sky Parlor is too big an issue to ignore.”

  Tepper leaned closer, and while Desmond observed the burly man’s eyes burning with undaunted sincerity, an unsettling tingle began to creep along the length of his spine.

  “Having said that, Mister Tepper, what else,” Desmond wondered, “other than some carcinogenic artificial ingredients, could be in the food packages they’re so absolutely desperate to keep quiet about, desperate enough to even threaten the alderman of Columbia and perhaps even you with death?”

  “Like I was telling my boy when he came home from school the other day,” Tepper revealed, “and mind you, he’s the only other one I’ve told this to. There was an inspection at the plant. Every once and a while,” he emphasized with expressive hands, “one of these big wigs representing the sustainability council comes around, and this time,” he said, pointing a thick finger like a derringer, “since the section manager of the production facility had just been transferred to a plant in neighboring Arcadia,” Tepper added, Desmond detected with feint disgust, “it was my job to give them the grand tour of not just my section but the production section of the plant too. Well…”

  Desmond noticed, perhaps in a fit of temporary paranoia, Tepper whirled his head around. Though they were the only ones riding in the coach, save a pair of kids utterly consumed with playing games on their floating holo-screens, an eerie electric current seemed to charge the air inside the monorail coach, indicating perhaps they were being watched.

  “One of the sections of the plant being inspected that day was the room where they keep all of the synthetic food production vats.”

  Tepper went on, quieting his rough baritone to a solemn hush that barely registered over the hum of the monorail’s forward progress.

  “The production facilities – where everything’s assembled before being sent to my section where I’m in charge of the final packaging process – are filled with these big rooms with temperature-controlled vats where they mix all of the ingredients that go into the final products. When the inspector wasn’t looking, and he was scribbling something on his holo-screen, I happened to investigate one of the smaller vats and saw something that made my bones rattle, you know what I mean, Dez?”

  Desmond straightened his posture. Folding his hands, he sensed his h
eart beginning to thump like an agitated piston.

  “What exactly, did you see, Mister Tepper?”

  Once again, Tepper turned to view the zombie-faced kids seated towards the middle of the monorail coach, who were still thoroughly preoccupied with their holo-screens.

  “Blood and severed body parts, Dez,” Tepper declared, poking his starch-white nose forth as if to dot an invisible exclamation point. “Body parts that looked like they came from infants, toddlers, maybe even teenaged kids and what not.”

  Desmond felt his stomach begin to gurgle with a foul liquid.

  “I’ve often wondered about this – what they do with the bodies of those that choose to make the bio-transfer into saint models – since there don’t seem to be many incinerators or crematoriums in the city,” Desmond replied. “I never imagined though – you are certain about this, Mister Tepper? Though keeping in mind, of course” he qualified, casting his hand in a sympathetic gesture, “I would never doubt your observations or expertise as one of Greenview’s most veteran and reliable assembly managers.”

  Tepper poked forth an acerbic finger.

  “Though after twenty-five years it may seem crazy that I never even knew or heard about this before, I would stake my life on it, Dez,” he affirmed. “Sure enough, I found out – told by someone who has worked there longer than me, if it got back to him what was said he’d flatly deny it. Every worker and manager assigned to the production facilities are made to sign strict confidentiality agreements they’re not ever permitted to talk about what ingredients go into the food.”

  “I want you to contact me at my office, as soon as possible, where we can talk further, and in private, about this matter,” Desmond suggested. “Although, on the other hand, considering, beyond shadow of doubt, you’re absolutely adamant about your claims - the city trade commission hearing convenes in a few days – would you be willing to testify about what you’ve seen?”

  Tepper’s mind began to reel. Though torn, he wanted to do the right thing. Then again, he didn’t wish to do anything that would put his job or worse yet, his life, in jeopardy. Drawing in a deep breath, he took a moment to contemplate what further consequences may befall his family. Then, Tepper felt stricken with the lightning charge of epiphany. There’s an even bigger picture here, he thought.

  “You’ve got my word, Dez,” Tepper said, shoving forth a decisive hand. “I’ll do it…testify before the commission.”

  Desmond reached out to grasp Tepper’s rough-hewn grip.

  “You’re a good and courageous man, and a rare specimen, Mister Tepper,” Desmond said. “To find someone in Sky Parlor in a position of management responsibility with a moral compass – other than Mister Pembroke – is like discovering a dying and nearly extinct breed.”

  A thought flamed, and Desmond felt perhaps it would be better to amend his suggestions.

  “Better yet, Mister Tepper,” Columbia’s new alderman began to suggest, “It would be better to have a clandestine meeting in a not so clandestine place,” Desmond said, rubbing his chin. “Why don’t we meet at your son’s championship game this weekend – and we can talk then? Besides, the trade commission building, and my office are under constant surveillance – this way, the suspicions – especially those of the Chief Praetorian and the council – can be minimized or even mitigated.”

  The monorail slowed as it approached the next stop.

  “Well, I’d better catch the next train in the other direction, back towards MU-21,” Tepper said, rising from his seat. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me,” he said as the sheen of his blue eyes sparkled with sincerity. “I’m sorry we had to meet like this, but because of the nature of the situation, I didn’t want to put it in writing through a zap-com to your office. Like you said, the commission building, and your office is being watched, and we both know their council’s techs collect and conduct constant surveillance on all the holo-web data.”

  “I’m aware of that. You needn’t apologize. But I thank you, for bringing this to my attention, Mister Tepper,” Desmond replied. “And, convey my congratulations to your son – winning the big game this Saturday night will be quite something, won’t it? If they do win, I hear the eagles will now have a dynasty thanks to Bobby Lee Tepper? You know, in fact, I’m looking forward to going to the game and helping you and everyone in Columbia to cheer him and the team on.”

  A slight trace of a smile appeared under the sculpted ivory of Tepper’s cheeks.

  “I’ll tell my son; the new Alderman from Columbia is a new fan. He’ll appreciate it.”

  The monorail came to a complete stop and Desmond drew a deliberate sigh as he watched Tepper debark onto the platform and disappear into an envelope of darkness. As the monorail sped away, amiable chatter sprang up between the two kids seated behind him and his mind began to churn. A cloud of hectic images from the last few days began to invade his thoughts. He slumped forward as if an albatross had burdened his shoulders. Outside the window, the last glints of golden twilight faded, and the evening’s impenetrable cloak settled over the city landscape. The monorail sped smoothly over the elevated tracks for a few more miles before again slowing to a reptilian crawl.

  “We are approaching MU-38 for the next stop in the region of Columbia AND DON’T FORGET,” Desmond heard the mild scold of the androgynous voice, “SUSTAINABILITY IS EXTRAORDINARY.”

  With a subtle roll of his eyes, Desmond stepped out on to the platform, noticing the two kids following close behind. While standing under the spill of green, blue and yellow lights illuminating the bland gray concrete of the platform, Desmond saw them briskly walk in the opposite direction towards the far descending stairs.

  “Hey, did you see Chief Blythe on ZEN?” he heard one of the fresh-faced kids say.

  “Those three the troopers found out near the buffer zones were all from Columbia Prep and on the varsity squad with Bobby Lee Tepper. They got kidnapped and slaughtered by some saint that worked at the Paramount,” he heard the high-pitched reply of the other kid.

  With his curiosity strangely piqued, Desmond watched them until the echoing clatter of chattering voices gave way to the clamoring thud of fleet footsteps descending the stairs’ long flight to the main thoroughfare below.

  A recollection from the reception gala at the presidential palace flashed in rainbow colored array.

  “Three precious gifts…”

  Had he and Tepper been watched the entire time, he wondered?

  Despite the troubled contemplations plaguing him that evening, Desmond found the pursuit of restful sleep to be a welcomed reprieve. To help calm his throbbing nerves, he gulped from a fresh glass of ice water, and before settling himself beneath a sea of blankets neatly arranged on his bed, he rested the glass on the dark-wooded nightstand. While adjusting his pillow, Desmond’s peripheral glance glimpsed his distorted face reflected upon the half-filled glass. After hours of dreamless slumber, a disturbing convulsion to his naked shoulder disturbed him. His body tossed as if under remote control, and he found his perspiring torso propped up against the bed’s cold headboard. His eyes squinted for clarity through the darkness to discover a solitary figure with an inviting face and long tresses of dark hair – was it a ghost, a hologram perhaps, he wondered – had invaded the space of his spartan bedroom from out of a swirling column of spangled light. While his limbs vibrated with a numbing electricity, he blinked to adjust to the light’s blinding corona encompassing the silent figure as she stood at the foot of the disheveled bed with a majestic arm outstretched, donned in angelic white silk. Though its presence was inexplicable, rather than imminent danger, he felt a rush of serenity wash over him like a waterfall’s benevolent cascade.

  “Do you remember me, Desmond? Do you recall we met in a former life long ago, when you were known to history under the name of a slain martyr?” He heard the soft voice echo into his brain.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” He heard his own reply croak from his constricted throat.

>   “I’m Apollonia, or as you knew me more familiarly in a former lifetime – Mistress Abigail de Orleans.”

  Wrestling with the plethora of blankets covering the bed, Desmond rose from the mattress and while hastily reaching for the half-filled glass of water on the adjacent nightstand to quench his parched throat, it spilled over and crashed to the floor, shattering into watery fragments. Wiping at his brow drenched with beads of perspiration, he shuffled his feet around the calamity of shattered glass and quickly donned his red bathrobe slung over a nearby chair.

  “If you’re willing to come with me,” he heard the velvet voice float like a gentle gush of fresh spring air, “I shall prove to you what I say is true. What I’m about to show you, may help to calm your troubled mind.”

  Furrowing his brows, Desmond bent at the waist to reach beneath the chair, and his shaking fingers searched for his black slippers.

  “Where are we going, and what is it, exactly,” he enquired while placing his feet into his slippers, “you plan to show me, Abigail or whomever you are?”

  “I plan to show you the true nature of things,” her calm voice informed. “To show you it is no accident you’ve been incarnated to live in this era of time, a time when the future of humanity totters on a precarious precipice,” she said. “After tonight, perhaps you shall see, you and those who travel along with you on the path of this incarnation, can also be the ones to bring humanity back from the brink – to bring forth a new heaven, and a new earth.”

  While Desmond tightened the sash of his bathrobe more securely about his thin waist, he felt his clouded mind beginning to be invigorated with clearer recognition.

  “Wait one minute,” he said, “I know I’m still dreaming, but I’ve seen you before in other dreams. I just never saw your face, right?”