Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  17

  Press Room Auditorium, SAGAN space agency complex

  (Sky Parlor’s borough region of Sardinia)

  Doctor Gregor Zoe stood on the raised dais before the immense gathering of ZEN news correspondents, an assortment of his management staff and teleport engineers from Sky Parlor’s space agency, SAGAN. As smatterings of idle chatter echoed off the vaulted swan-white ceiling of the press room’s vast auditorium gilded with golden points of light, his senses dazzled with mixtures of tense excitement and nagging gloom. Having just received a formal summons from the sustainability council concerning his outstanding tributes, he began to contemplate that the profits from his Paramount Gaming Complex as well his newfound prestige and even fame among those in Sky Parlor’s scientific community had begun to resemble more of a damning curse rather than a glorious blessing.

  Chief Blythe, Plato Charlemagne and the sustainability council are leeches… blood sucking ticks.

  Though basking in the showering glimmer of the auditorium’s pastel lights, he felt haunted by grief’s dark cloud – the loss of one of his best employees in Cassiopeia Craft, most likely at the hands of the morally bankrupt Chief Praetorian – a haunting specter he sensed could only be exorcised by revenge’s impulsive, though visceral satisfaction.

  It won’t be long now before Icarus Blythe feels my wrath for what he has done…not long now.

  The rumble of Zoe’s clearing throat struck the feedbacking microphone, and as the murmurs of the crowd subsided and he adjusted his gold rimmed spectacles, his forlorn eyes brightened.

  “If I may have your undivided attentions please,” his arid voice wobbled out over the throngs facing him. “Today, is a momentous occasion.” Zoe began his address, raising his stick figured arms, adorned with the shiny fabric of a newly custom-tailored blue suit. “Very soon, SAGAN shall embark upon another exciting journey to another world; a world filled with great possibilities for the future of mankind.”

  A rush of applause rose and, as his crooked mouth filled with hen’s teeth flashed a smile, Zoe waved his hand to quiet the crowd.

  “In the remote past there existed legends,” he continued. “Tales of heroic danger and the thrill of exploration to world’s unknown, intrepid explorations that served to fire humanity’s imagination, inspiring the creation of technological achievements once believed beyond mankind’s creative scope, those bountiful fruits yielded from the past’s scientific developments we enjoy and perhaps take for granted today. The world of Enceladus awaits our arrival, and I am here today to announce, in cooperation with the final approval of the sustainability council and Sky Parlor’s president, the honorable Garth Ulysses, the five citizens of Sky Parlor compiled from the list of a slew of hopeful candidates who have been chosen to make this historic journey beginning in just three days. These five heroic citizens shall be teleported to a distant world we are certain is bountiful with the ideal elements – water, air, habitable environment – to well sustain both human life and permanent colony settlements going forward into the next century – and beyond.”

  Again, Zoe basked in the applause, but with his mind revolving, he began to observe these were the same hypocritical horde of vainglorious humans who hid their gaping insecurities behind the superficial gloss of whatever socially acceptable façade would garner mass acceptance from the herd. In that sense, Zoe observed, as his fingers fiddled with the rims of his spectacles, they were nothing more than vain animals with only the requisite intelligence to cover up the stench of their rotting souls with the superficial and thin façades of scented perfumes, tailored finery and the mimicking of conditioned behaviors. The only thing that could save them from the inevitable apocalypse of emotional impulse, he pondered, was to be reprogrammed with the logical and rational order inherent to the efficient machine. Otherwise left to their own petty devices, he concluded as the applause once again subsided, they would surely plunge headlong over the cusp of extinction’s rocky ledge.

  “I am happy to inform, with approval from both the chief of the sustainability council and the president, that in three days the following citizens of Sky Parlor have hereby been chosen to embark upon SAGAN’s latest and most magical mission to the stars, they are – Alderman from the borough region of Columbia, Desmond Starr, the president’s executive secretary, Marissa Cassidy, and three students from Columbia’s Sustainability Preparatory Academy, Robert Lee Tepper, Lucius Holden, and Boudica Murphy. It is my understanding, the latter three were the creators of a most recent and intriguing science project involving the principles of electromagnetism, and all were chosen for not only their interests in the progress of technology and the societal advancements those developments could bring to Sky Parlor, but because of their youthful curiosity, idealism and considerable vigor. Indeed,” Zoe remarked, extending his arms towards those gathered in the auditorium in a gesture of symbolic embrace, “may we all wish them god speed and commend them for their intrepid bravery.”

  Applause once more erupted throughout the auditorium, and Zoe’s covert gaze drifted towards his hand, hidden beneath the walnut podium positioned in the center of the raised dais. On the holo-screen spread flat over the plane of his palm, he glimpsed the rogue praetorian drone his techs had taken pains to reprogram, on route towards praetorian headquarters’ complex located near the city’s buffer zones. The best revenge was not only served cold but – relishing the percolating thought – Zoe began to imagine the psychological damage and overt aggression wrought from such an unexpected source could be infinitely more effective.

  It won’t be long now before I shall have my revenge…then escape beyond Sky Parlor’s walls, he thought.

  *

  Praetorian headquarters near Sky Parlor’s buffer zones

  While ensconced in his private office, Icarus was disturbed by a curious message from one of his praetorian techs.

  “I’m reporting that one of our drone patrols seems to have broken with established navigation protocols, Sir,” the tech informed in a dry tone, belying the frantic nature of what could possibly be construed as a developing emergency or even crisis scenario.

  “Can you not reprogram the drone and set it back onto its established protocols?” Icarus replied while peering at the image of the rogue drone on one of the giant holo-screens floating near the far wall of his spacious office.

  “We’ve tried that, Sir. But there seem to be mitigating circumstances,” Icarus heard the tech report. “The rogue is moving at a faster rate of speed than normal, and away from its established patrol coordinates and straight toward the city’s buffer zones,” and Icarus heard a frustrated exhalation of breath, “in fact, it seems to be headed straight towards this location. We’ve tried to run a remote diagnostic, Sir, but it is refusing to respond. The opinion here is that the rogue could have somehow been infected by a virus of unknown origin and is now officially a bogy that could possibly represent a clear and present danger.”

  Icarus pursed his lips and as his facial muscles clenched, he shuffled closer to the myriad of holo-screens.

  “Scan for at least two patrols in the immediate vicinity, reprogram from normal surveillance protocols, and re-navigate them to this location for defensive purposes,” Icarus commanded. “Do so immediately.”

  “We’re doing so now, Sir. We have a pair of patrols now on the borders of Columbia, Arcadia and Sardinia. They’re being diverted now, and their ETA will be two minutes. However,” the tech qualified as his voice began to quaver, sounding as if his throat were being tightened within a pincer grasp, “the rogue bogy seems to now be gaining an unprecedented velocity, and it – it seems to be arming its primary weapons.”

  Studying the holo-screen, Icarus’s eyes slivered into crescents, and as he felt his pulse surge with molten fury, his pupils shrank into blackened pinheads.

  “Sound the level red emergency claxon and double the guards stationed at all possible insertion points around the complex with orders to attempt to shoot down the bogy on sight,�
� Icarus ordered, “do it NOW.”

  Icarus saw some of the large holo-screens displayed directly in front of him flicker and then wink out. Craning his neck around, he stumbled as the walls of his office were stricken with a concussive force and began to vibrate. Steadying himself against his office desk, his hand sprang forth and, striking his palm, he began to tap out a code on the holo-screen. A portion of the far wall receded, revealing an arsenal of black and sleek disrupter weapons.

  “Sir, the bogy has fired its primary weapons and we have reports of explosions and casualties in section C of the complex,” Icarus heard the frantic voice slice through a squawk of ear-splitting static.

  Icarus glimpsed the columns of billowing smoke streaked with tridents of spitting fire upon one of the office’s floating holo-screens.

  “What is the ETA of those damned interceptor drones,” Icarus bellowed as he reached for two of the disrupter weapons. “How long before they get here?”

  “Estimated time of arrival is…wait, they’ve, it appears…”

  “Oracle,” Icarus commanded the remote voice activation system, “SHUT DOWN.”

  The tech’s quavering voice waned under another onslaught of static and with a decisive wave of his hand, Icarus cut off the garbled audio and the office holo-screens turned to blank black slates.

  The ear drum rupturing din of yet another explosion sounded, and the walls of Icarus’s office shuttered more violently. Gripping the disrupters within his white-knuckled fists, his face molded into a determined grimace. With a shouted command his office’s virtual holo-door evaporated and Icarus’s steady gait broke into an agile sprint. Icarus churned down a slim black hallway choked with pluming gray smoke and into an open courtyard scattered with manicured bushes and trees charred with searing tongues of flames. A slew of armed praetorians swarmed to his side. Like a predatory thunderbird, the menacing black and silver rogue drone hovered above. Rays of blue lightning shot from its underbelly and entire sections of the complex’s walls cracked, fissured, and began to crumble, scattering debris in fierce tornados of scorching fire and belching smoke.

  “Defensive formations,” Icarus shouted, taking command of his men, “let’s get some shots on this damned thing – TAKE IT DOWN.”

  The praetorians hoisted their disrupters to fire, but the rogue drone underwent evasive maneuvers. Icarus dropped to one knee and took careful aim, anticipating the drone’s agile movements. Several volleys burst from Icarus’s disrupter, firing in a precise geometric pattern. With smoke and flames threatening to engulf, Icarus inhaled a determined breath, aiming and firing again at the elusive target. A lethal volley sliced through the rogue vehicle’s silvered starboard panel, and its flight trajectory began to waver and plummet. Icarus’s praetorians took careful aim. A luminous flash like a white-hot supernova spread across the arcing sky. Bits of torn, shattered, and burning debris scattered to the landscaped fields of jade green lawns surrounding the damaged complex in meteorite streams. Icarus lowered his weapon and nodded at his fellow praetorians, a single thought’s sharp scalpel carved an impression into his mind and he could not ignore raw terror’s feral talons clawing at his disturbed senses:

  I have made for myself an enemy…underestimated and unexpectedly formidable…

  Another armed praetorian trooper strode before Icarus and with a brief salutation, began to issue an alarming report.

  “Sir, we’ve just received word from the techs that entry to one of our secure teleportals in proximity to SAGAN’s headquarters complex in Sardinia has just undergone an unauthorized sustainability breach.”

  Icarus’s intuition spun. A keen speculation began to germinate.

  “What about the surveillance camera logs? Don’t they know who was responsible?” Chief Blythe demanded.

  “From cursory examination, they’ve determined it was SAGAN’s executive director, Doctor Zoe. What’s strange however; they haven’t been able to determine yet the teleportal’s destination coordinates.”

  Before issuing orders to the trooper, Icarus’s mind revolted in a bout of frustration. Perhaps Doctor’s Zoe’s penchant for cunning calculations equaled even that of President Ulysses, he considered.

  “What do you mean?” Icarus scowled. “They don’t know where he went, to where might have escaped…this is absurd,” he groused.

  The praetorian messenger straightened his posture as Icarus’s fingers tightened a strangulating grip on his disrupter.

  “Scramble the fire security units and have the techs drop the threat level to blue,” he instructed. “Make sure they also perform a quick but thorough system’ analysis to determine if any other of our drone patrols throughout the city have been possibly infected with a virus. In the meantime,” he added as the skin of his face became a granite-textured slab, “I also want the techs to run a complete diagnostic on that unsustainable breach of the teleportal to determine the destination coordinates. When they can determine Doctor Zoe’s whereabouts, I want him brought to me for immediate questioning – It’s time he and I had a heart-to-heart chat.”

  *

  Private Laboratory of Doctor Zoe (Beyond Sky Parlor’s walls)

  Teleported far beyond Sky Parlor’s immense city walls and towering dome, Doctor Zoe arrived at his private underground laboratory.

  “Good to see you have come all the way out here to see us, Doctor,” his chief lab assistant greeted. “We have completed the prototype of the latest and most sophisticated saint model upgrade, called Venus – and upon your personal inspection, your team and I are certain you will find her ready for bio-transfer.”

  “I am eager to see her, for as you know, this model shall represent the next evolutionary step, the capstone of our great work. Her model will be the Venus that shall give birth to a new race of saints.”

  A sly grin of amusement grafted onto the doctor’s face as the assistant’s hands flew forth like a disturbed pair of wild geese.

  “Then please Doctor, by all means, follow me – right this way,” the assistant replied.

  Zoe was led into a cavernous room and for a moment, perused with great interest the score of his lab assistants assembled in reverent array around a solitary female figure laid upon an inclined and long black table positioned beneath the ceiling’s honeycombed plethora of lights.

  As his slim fingers jostled with the silver wired rims of his spectacles, Zoe gazed in awe at the ultra-model’s flawless alabaster white skin. The circle of his lab assistants bowed their heads and withdrew from around the table as in deliberation, Zoe maneuvered closer to examine the emerald allure of the eyes yet to come alive from the awaited bio-transfer.

  “She is truly magnificent,” Zoe exclaimed while running his fingers through the cascade of red hair. “My compliments to every one of you, for such exquisite work in having followed the exact specifications of my blueprints, gentlemen,” he complimented his laboratory assistants.

  “As you can see doctor, once a positive determination and confirmation the biological breeder host has engaged in coital conjunction with the young saint model and has been impregnated, the fetal material shall be carefully extracted prior to the bio-transfer and incubated in our especially constructed chamber, designed to accurately simulate the ideal conditions of the biological female uterus,” Zoe’s chief assistant explained. “As you can see, its right over here,” the assistant thrust forth a rotund finger.

  Doctor Zoe’s attention was drawn away from the magnetic stare of the motionless ultra-saint model. He pointed to a pyramid shaped object constructed from opaque glass situated in the far corner of the laboratory.

  “Is that our bio-incubator?” he enquired of the assistant.

  “It contains, Doctor,” the assistant hastily replied, “an especially concocted simulation of well-balanced and biologically optimized amniotic fluid. While the fetal sample is enclosed, we will be able – before it is re-inseminated into the Venus model after the bio-transfer has completed and she is fully activated – to especially mod
ify it to whatever specifications are necessary and desired.”

  “Yes, I can see,” Zoe replied, rubbing his pointed chin. “And after the fetal sample has been especially programmed and then re-inseminated, what is the expected duration period before she will be ready to conceive?”

  “The expected duration is up to two weeks until conception, perhaps accelerated to even less with certain specified modifications, of course,” Zoe’s faithful assistant affirmed.

  “Excellent,” a beaming Zoe replied.

  Zoe turned toward the ultra-saint model and with his thin arms clasped about his back, he stuck out his conical chin and loomed over the ultra-saint model.

  “And because more Venus models will be programmed for the accelerated incubation process, we could incrementally but very quickly repopulate Sky Parlor in less than one generation,” Zoe speculated. The elation coloring the face of Zoe’s laboratory assistant vanished and he began to stammer while unsure of how to broach something he secretly considered distasteful.

  “But doctor,” he gently urged, “what of the bio-carbon unit after the transfer and incubation process is completed – should it be cremated, or do you wish it to be preserved for further study?”

  Zoe’s eyes fell upon the assistant and, considering his predicament, both with Chief Blythe and the council, quickly came upon what he felt to be a most propitious solution, to extend a gesture of appeasement to those in positions of power in Sky Parlor – especially regarding President Garth Ulysses.

  “After the Venus model has been activated, draw a generous blood sample from the bio-unit before disposing of it in the crematorium’s incinerator. Analysis will undoubtedly avail that the bio-unit’s sample is rich with especially potent adrenochrome. Immediately teleport the sample to President Ulysses who I happen to know treasures the gift of such eccentric libations.”

  “That shall be done, as you wish, Doctor,” the assistant simpered while still attempting to conceal his distaste.