Blinding peels of light showered upon him and the carpeted floor of his bedchamber had oddly transformed to a circular slab of marble surrounded by ionic columns and terraced tiers of limestone benches scaling to near the very top of a soaring dome. Tumult filled his brain; a pure white tunic had replaced his favorite bed clothes and brown leather strapped sandals donned his bare feet.
“Do you remember the Ides of March, Artemis?” a feminine voice echoed.
Limbed with confusion, Ulysses whirled to face a spectral figure shrouded in shadow.
“Julius Caesar, as you called yourself then – a malevolent god come to earth to once more tyrannize those he considered weaker than he,” the voice softly echoed. “But as you know, Artemis,” he heard the voice declare, “Though once I may have been your lover, I have now proved your worthy adversary.”
Ulysses spread his arms as if to curry sympathy from the cruel specter.
The figure stepped from out of the shrouding shadows to reveal her identity.
“Oh no, Apollonia,” Ulysses tried to demand, “You will not do this to me – NEVER.”
Shards of showering light materialized into five figures who were also donned in dove-white tunics.
“I said that one way or the other I shall convince you to atone for the centuries of pain you’ve caused, Artemis. In the next spans of time and very quickly, Artemis, you shall die thrice, only to be resurrected each time to relive another painful death. And then, if wisdom hasn’t failed, once back at your private estate outside the walls of Sky Parlor, you shall repent for the centuries of your numberless sins and agree to never return to earth’s material plane – ever again.”
“No, Apollonia, No; I beg of you,” Ulysses blubbered.
“You remember Brutus, Cassius, and his trio of senatorial cohorts who conspired long ago to act against the brutal tyranny of your insatiable warmongering?”
He saw the five menacing figures reach beneath their tunics to unsheathe sharp daggers. The silver blades shimmered like streaking comets.
“You would know them still, Artemis,” Apollonia’s echoing voice reminded, “for they are the identical souls reincarnated to live in Sky Parlor, some of whom you partook of their blood. But now, it is they who shall spill yours.”
Surveying their grimacing faces, Ulysses indeed recognized each one – Michael Lee Tepper, his son Bobby Lee, and his three friends from Columbia’s varsity football squad.
In unison, they crept closer with their blades drawn to strike.
“No, you mustn’t,” Ulysses said. “I was only…AHH!”
In vicious strokes, each blade plunged beneath his flesh again and again. When finally, his tunic was soaked red, one last stroke of each blade hacked forth before Ulysses fell lifeless within the center of the Roman senate’s white marbled circle.
The past was wiped away as if with the whisk of a single sponge and Ulysses then found himself hoisted upon a sharp pointed wooden spike amid the smoky forests of medieval Romania.
“Remember when you were known as the dastardly warlord, Count Vlad,” he heard the soft voice echo once more. “The Impaler, I believe history came to call you?”
Despite feeling as if he were racked with unbearable torment, Ulysses looked down at his spiritual nemesis standing calmly at the foot of the enormous spike.
“Let me down, Apollonia you witch,” he screeched as the sharp spike penetrated his bowels. “You’re a witch – A WITCH, APOLLONIA.”
A bright sun flash blinded him, and once again, the scenery transformed to nineteenth century war torn America, when Artemis was then known as the ruthless Union Army General, Grant.
Ulysses now stood upon Ford Theater’s lighted stage before a howling and unruly mob.
Shaking his head to regain his senses, Ulysses shielded his squinting eyes from the blinding footlights of the stage.
“This is madness,” he protested to Apollonia, standing at the wing of the stage. “What does this rabble want of me?”
“They want you to die,” Ulysses heard a theatrical baritone boom over the din of the crowd.
Spinning himself around, he recognized the face of Icarus Blythe, who was then known as his assassinating conspirator, John Wilkes Booth.
“No Icarus, you can’t kill me,” he begged. “Please, after all I’ve…”
Ulysses saw the assassin’s deliberate hand reach within his tailored jacket and slowly produce a mahogany handled pistol.
“I can, and I must, Ulysses,” Icarus said. “There is simply no other way to atone.”
Ulysses closed his eyes and the shot rang out louder than a bomb’s detonation. As Ulysses fell prone to the stage, the crowd, for a moment, became silenced, then, with one accord, broke into gleeful applause.
A dimensionless frame of darkness appeared and, spinning through a swirling tunnel of light, a disoriented Ulysses arrived back at his private estate, seated at a long dining table with Marissa, donned in his favorite black silken dinner jacket. Marissa watched as Ulysses’ loyal valet skillfully carved the bloody shank of prime rib and with care, placed the silver trayed feast at the very center of the table. She peered at the carving knife drowning in a pool of fresh blood and secretly winced. The valet went to the head of the table with a carafe filled with a blood red liquid and began to pour.
“Forgive me,” the valet informed Marissa, “I’ve chosen something else for your palate,” he winked, “a fine Zinfandel that I’m sure you’ll most enjoy.”
With a curt bow to both his master and Marissa, the valet retired to the nearby kitchen.
“Are you alright, Ulysses?” she wondered. “You appear a little piqued. Did you have difficulty sleeping last night?”
Ulysses reached for the dimpled wine flask and proposed a toast.
“I’m quite fine, my dear,” he assured. “Quite so indeed. And, here’s to the future of Sky Parlor, and to the future of all humanity.”
Marissa eyed Ulysses flask filled with the dark red ragu and reluctantly, her hand grasped the stem of the glass placed before her dinner setting.
Anticipating the invigorating quench of adrenochrome upon his thirsting palate, Ulysses tipped the wine glass to his lips and hungrily swallowed.
Instead, his eyes flooded with alarm. His throat felt singed as if set aflame. Ulysses began to cough and gag while his hands clutched at his tortured throat. His buckling torso fell forward and, plummeting from the plush dinner chair, he violently wretched while kneeling on the dining room’s floor fashioned from sparkling Spanish Yellow Gold.
“Help me, Marissa,” Ulysses implored, eyes pleading.
Marissa rose from the table. Once again, she eyed the shank of bloody prime rib and reached out for the carving knife left by the valet.
“Yes, I shall help you, Mister President,” she said in a flat tone. “Help you to DIE.”
With the knife in hand, Marissa circled around to the head of the table. Lifting it above her head the blade plunged through the vulnerable flesh of Ulysses’ neck. A final gasp accompanied by a copious gush of crimson, and Ulysses lifeless head smacked upon the ice-cold marbled floor. In the sky above the presidential estate, the moon shook and winking like a dying star, forever faded.
*
After a long trek, Desmond had reached the end of the secret undersea tunnel leading away from Sky Parlor’s submerged city. Behind him spanned a trail of tens of thousands who had patiently followed him to what they now believed – rather than a land ravaged by environmental degradation and unsustainable to human settlement – existed as some long forgotten mythical Valhalla.
A bright light sparkled from the gaping tunnel’s exit.
Desmond drew a wide smile. Amid the light, as if waiting for his arrival, stood Abigail, his immortal guiding spirit, the goddess Apollonia.
“I knew you would make it here,” she said in congratulation. “And, I see you’ve brought many new settlers with you?”
“Will you be joining us, I hope?” Desmond said.
Abigail’s eyes hinted at regret as she kissed his cheek.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. For you see, my rightful place is elsewhere,” she said, pointing toward the heavens.
As the first of the thousands of other refugees from Sky Parlor emerged from the dark tunnel, Abigail transformed to a cyclonic vortex of golden light that, in an instant, shot into the sky and toward the sun breaking from behind a pillar of clouds. Desmond and everyone cast their eyes skyward. To their joyous amazement, the sun began to shimmer, circled by an uncommon golden aura.
“She will be our eternal protector and our guide as we settle this new land,” Desmond told the others.
The ocean began to roar and seethe, receding away from the shore to reveal the barnacle ridden concrete walls of the secret tunnel. Desmond sprinted onto the vast sandy shore and while standing amid the growing crowd of gathered refugees, watched in awe as the immense dome soaring over Sky Parlor emerged from the receding tides and began to sparkle like a fresh cut diamond beneath the glorious sun.
EPILOGUE
Lucius examined the sample of rich black soil held in the palm of his hand. He was amazed at the readings and measurements from his holo-chip, demonstrating traces of rare mineral and metal deposits and, as well, evidence that deeper down beneath the surface, there may even exist an oasis of oil and natural gas. Though his thoughts at times drifted from his fascination with pure science toward wondering about Boudica, his excitement over these recent discoveries made within the past few days caused him to begin to regret he was soon scheduled to teleport back to Sky Parlor.
Stowing the valuable soil sample away within a specially lined pouch stitched into his orange SAGAN coveralls, he again tapped his palm to report his findings to Doctor Zoe.
“You are turning into quite the scientific prodigy,” the doctor complimented. “And I see you’ve made yet more exciting discoveries, young Lucius,” a smiling Zoe said. “I must remind myself to add you to my staff here at my private laboratory which is located well…” and Zoe stopped short.
“You don’t have to keep the secret anymore, Doctor,” Lucius said. “I know this isn’t Enceladus, it’s merely a portion of land deemed unsustainable outside of Sky Parlor. And, I happened to have surmised that you knew sending me here to this specific geographical parcel would help estimate or even verify the land’s commercial value for future settlement, correct?”
Lucius saw the doctor tip back his head and loudly chuckle.
“I knew from the testing I was shown that your science teacher, Mister Kaiser from Columbia Preparatory, kindly provided for us here at SAGAN, you would figure that out. That is why, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’ve ordered the astral-simulation holo-program deactivated and the temporary silicone dome encompassing the one-mile explorer zone retracted. I don’t suppose, however,” the doctor suggested, “that before coming here to permanently join my staff, you would like to remain a while longer,” the doctor cajoled, “rather than going back to Sky Parlor. I can send out whatever it is you need with supplies, organic seeds to grow your own food, fresh vegetables and such. We can even have your cabin refurbished and enlarged to make it more comfortable, of course.”
Lucius nodded his head at the doctor’s smiling image from the holo-screen.
“Now that you’ve made me an official member of your prestigious staff, I can remain here performing in the field for as long as you require, doctor,” Lucius agreed. “But if you could, along with those additional supplies,” Lucius attempted levity, “send over some bug repellent, that would be greatly appreciated.”
“I promise that will be done,” Zoe replied, still chuckling. “There is one other thing you should know, Lucius,” the doctor related. “You shall have an assistant, and she should be arriving anytime soon. Well,” Zoe added, “her and perhaps one other.”
Lucius watched his holo-screen dissolve and before him stood Boudica, hand in hand with a small child. As he moved a few steps closer, he soon realized she had changed and there was something different about her. But as his gaze centered on her small companion, Lucius saw himself reflected in the child’s eyes and, he began to beam brighter than the sun.
END
Sky Parlor: A NOVEL Page 35