A Shadow Passed Over the Son

by Ryan Schneider

An hour later, Parker stepped out of the elevator. He walked past Sky Gift and Shop, its sparkling, garish windows full of sentimental junk like jars of fake clouds and hideous gold sweatshirts that made the tourists who purchased them look like walking solar arrays.

  He walked across the scuffed and dingy black-and-white imitation-marble floor, an aging symbol of the classic cosmopolitan elegance for which Sky City South was once well-known.

  At the entrance to The Cloud Deck Restaurant and Sky-Lounge, a line of people waited to be seated. Other people roamed through the foyer, excited people speaking quickly and pointing impressive cameras at the strange summer fog on the other side of the glass. Mostly tourists.

  Above the restaurant’s white noise din, Parker heard traces of Japanese, Arabic, Chinese, Spanish, and of course a lot of Hebrew and a lot of French, all languages of allies of the United States. Many people wore uniforms with berets and combat boots. Near the window he saw a young couple holding hands, both in U.S. uniform. Special Forces, wearing green berets, the same color his dad wore. Maybe green was the new black. Tears rolled down the young man’s face. The young woman wiped the tears away.

  A row of towering artificial palm trees hugged the wall leading to the hostess station. Strands of lights spiraled up their furry trunks. Many of the little lights were burned out, their tips blackened, much like the lawn at the park was unkempt. Parker ducked behind the row of trees and squeezed his way to the front of the line, hurrying from pot to pot, glancing at one pot in particular, suppressing a smile.

  He looked up and saw Sandy’s heavily-sprayed, wavy bouffant red hair. Her sharp suit and shining gold name tag declared she was the manager. Her tall heels elevated her above most of the tourists, though the shoes were scuffed and dingy, like the black-and-white tiled floor. One of the silver-dollar-sized buttons on her coat was missing. She looked down at Parker. Deep lines of worry etched the skin around her eyes like crow’s feet, adding depth to her beautiful face. Sandy winked.

  Parker crept past her. There was a slight bulge under the back of her coat. Her nickel-plated .9 millimeter semi-automatic pistol was nestled there, resting against the small of her back in its leopard-print holster. Sandy had shown him the gun one night when she was closing and they were the only ones in the restaurant. She said she began carrying it after The Attack, said the gun’s name was John Thomas. Parker had no idea who that was. Sandy had handed the gun to him, letting him feel its weight. That was the first time he held a real firearm. The weapon was heavy, cold. In a silky, crisp French accent more Parisienne than New Zealander, Sandy said the weapon was la protection. Protection from what exactly, she never said. Though Parker suspected Sandy carried her gun for the same reason the Greeters from Unity Up! carried theirs.

  He proceeded into the restaurant, hoping the tourists hadn’t seen him. He didn’t want them to get the wrong idea about restaurants in America.

  Once inside the restaurant, he stood and weaved his way through the dozens of people and scores of tables, making his way toward the corner. Bubba sat in their usual spot, surrounded by tall windows and gray sheets of fog. The white tableclothed table in front of him was rife with overloaded plates: a mountain of scrambled eggs, a perfect six-inch-high stack of pancakes standing in a moat of steaming syrup, a rope of shining Italian sausage links, a pyramid of chocolate, cranberry, and blueberry muffins stacked with care, and a rainbow of dew-dropped slices of green and orange melon and blue and red berries.

  Parker dropped into the chair opposite his friend.

  “Where you been?” Bubba downed a swig of orange juice from a tiny glass. “It’s been almost an hour. Plus, it’s tourist season so they’re real busy today. But I saved you some bacon, just in case.”

  There was indeed a plate piled quite high with long strips of bacon.

  “I think it’s cold now,” said Bubba. “Sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He appreciated Bubba’s effort.

  “I’m just about to start round two,” said Bubba, motioning to the feast before him. “So? You think I’m up here stuffing my face just for the heck of it? This is supposed to be your birthday breakfast. Oh! They have two new flavors of Go-Boy Ice Cream: Galactic Raspberry Mint Monkey and Neopolitan Pulsar Praline Parfait. And of course, the go-to flavor and my personal favorite: Chocolate Galaxy. Sandy said Chef ordered an extra drum just for me.” Bubba grinned, triumphant and proud. “What took you so long, anyway?”

  “You were right.”

  “About what?” Bubba peeled the corrugated paper cup away from the base of a chocolate muffin and eased the whole thing into his mouth.

  “My dad’s not coming.” Parker stared at the mess of cold bacon.

  “Whuh habben?” asked Bubba, his voice muffled by muffin. He packed the muffin into the sides of his mouth and his cheeks bulged like a trumpet player. “Did he call from some undisclosed location and give you some line about having to answer the call of duty? Or that his men were counting on him? And that helming a nuclear submarine in a time of war requires selflessness? And that he’d be home ay-sap?”

  Parker was confused.

  “My dad’s been deployed even longer than yours,” said Bubba. “He’s missed quite a few of my birthdays. Not to mention soccer games, football games, swim meets, wrestling matches, sword fights, ballet recitals . . . .”

  “Ballet recitals?”

  “Absolutely. If I’m going to be a Gamer I’ve got to be light on my feet. Glorious Shepherd takes ballet. He’s the favorite in this year’s Games, you know.” Bubba scooped eggs into his mouth and swigged more orange juice. The glass looked small in his big hand. “Anyway, that’s the kind of stuff my dad always says. After a while you catch on and learn not to count your chicks until they’ve hatched, not to put all your eggs in one basket, not to roll all your gibbers with one gripper, not to— ”

  “Alright, I get the point!” Mrs. Black was indeed fond of her many expressions and Parker couldn’t blame Bubba if they’d rubbed off on him. He was sorry he’d snapped at his friend. “But it wasn’t a phone call. It was a couple military guys. One guy was a colonel in full dress uniform and the other was a chaplain.”

  Bubba lowered his fork. “Full dress? And a chaplain? Is your dad . . . dead?”

  “They don’t know. They lost contact with him and don’t know where he is, said he didn’t check in at his last rally point. They don’t know where he is or if he’s alive or . . . not.”

  “Oh, man, Park. I’m sorry.” Bubba set down his fork and it rattled against the plate. He stopped eating and stared down at his food.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Parker turned to the window next to him and stared at the fog. On clear days when he came here to do his homework, he sometimes thought he could see all the way to Washington, D.C., where the White House was, and that he could see President Chase standing in the Oval Office, looking out. If he waved, maybe President Chase would wave back and they could be friends and the President would offer to bring his dad home from the war, because you always do what you can to help your friends. But the thick fog obstructed the normally amazing view and even if President Chase did want to bring his dad home, it now seemed impossible.

  “What a crummy birthday.” Bubba spoke mostly to himself, but Parker heard him and felt a little better. “Well,” Bubba perked up, “we’re here now and there’s nothing we can do about the situation, so do you want some breakfast? They have blueberry waffles. They even have pizza. Oh, and I was thinking the Galactic Raspberry Mint Monkey would taste really good drowned in hot fudge.” Bubba pointed to a group of girls devouring boats of ice cream smothered in warm, gooey chocolate, despite the fact that it was barely 9:00 a.m.

  “No,” said Parker. “Besides, we’re having pizza for lunch. At least, we were.”

  “I can have Chef whip you up some jellybean sandwiches with all the toppings, even colored sprinkles. They’re your favorite.”

  “No. I think I just wanna go home.”

  “Okay, le
t’s go.” Bubba wiped his mouth and hands with his napkin, folded it neatly, placed it on the table beside his plate and stood up. He placed three fifty-dollar bills on the table and set his empty orange juice glass on them.

  Parker slouched in front of the plate of cold, greasy bacon. He felt like being alone, but Bubba obviously intended to accompany him back to his apartment, showed no hesitation in leaving the fancy buffet. They were in this together. Again, Parker realized how greatly he appreciated his friend.

  “You wanna take this to go?” asked Parker, motioning to the food on the table.

  “It’s against the law. Health codes and whatnot.”

  “Never stopped us before.” Parker suddenly remembered the poster he’d stolen yesterday, when he’d broken the law. Thou Shalt Not Steal.

  “Sandy already said no doggie bags,” said Bubba. “Too many people today.”

  Parker stood and he and Bubba walked through the restaurant, past the line of hungry tourists peering through the windows at the fog.

  They boarded a waiting elevator, Bubba pushed the button for Parker’s floor, and a few seconds later a chime dinged and the doors glided silently open. “One hundred forty-seventh floor,” cooed the elevator.

  “Thanks,” said Bubba.

  “You’re welcome,” said the elevator.

  The boys walked down the hall and Parker opened the door with his I.D. card. He flopped on the couch and Bubba sat in the big padded chair.

  Neither of them spoke.

  On the other side of the big glass wall lay the ominous gray fog. A helicopter was flying somewhere in the mist. The distinctive whomp-whomp-whomp of the rotor blades filled the air as the chopper passed by. Parker wished it was Marine One, the sleek, fast, heavily armed Choctaw helicopter operated by the U.S. Marines, designated Marine One whenever the President was on board. He wished President Chase and his dad were on it now, about to land on the roof, and his dad had come home after all.

  “Wanna watch SuperVision?” said Bubba. He pointed at the projector centered in the wall.

  “No.”

  “Wanna go to my place and play Pigskin IX? I’ll let you win since it’s your birthday.” Bubba grinned. They both knew this was highly unlikely.

  “No.”

  “Wanna . . . go look at the counterweight? You can teach me more geography.”

  “We always look at the counterweight.”

  “That’s because I loathe geography.”

  “Don’t Gamers need to know their geography?”

  “Momma says that in today’s uncertain geopolitical climate, and with the war at home going as badly as it is, everybody needs to know geography. I read in the paper that two-thirds of Americans who look at a globe don’t know where the United States is.”

  “How can that be?” The massive round counterweight suspended from the basement floor of The Cloud Deck prevented the south tower from swaying in the wind or during earthquakes. It was painted like the Earth and used as a tourist attraction and a teaching tool. If people couldn’t look at the enormous globe and identify the United States of America, their own home, perhaps the country didn’t deserve to exist.

  “And I heard Sky City West doesn’t even have a counterweight,” said Bubba. “Apparently they used some new engineering technique.”

  “They better hope it works.”

  “If it doesn’t, the people on the top floors will find themselves sitting in their living rooms swaying back and forth about ten feet every time a stiff wind comes in off the ocean.”

  Parker imaged Colby Max strutting around his penthouse apartment in Sky City West, wearing an expensive robe woven entirely from exotic silk, spilling his own cereal on himself and falling down when the wind blew. He hoped the same thing wouldn’t happen to Tal. “I was up there a couple days ago looking at the counterweight and Sheila Tubman was there.”

  Bubba raised his eyebrows. “Were you nice to her?”

  “I let her follow me around for an hour.”

  Bubba tilted his head. “Did you say, ‘Hello?’ You know your mom would’ve wanted you to say, ‘Hello.’ ”

  “Yes, I said, ‘Hello.’ ” He disliked when people mentioned his mom. What business was it of theirs? But he didn’t mind Bubba doing so. Bubba never seemed . . . what was the word Sunny had used? Patronizing. That was it.

  “What happened? Did Sheila try to kiss you again?”

  “Yes. Then she squeaked like a mouse and ran away like she always does.”

  Bubba laughed. “Poor Sheila. Give her a few years, though, and the boys will be chasing her.”

  Parker raised his eyebrows. It was cruel to think it, but he doubted anyone would ever chase Sheila.

  “What’d you do yesterday?” asked Bubba.

  “I went to the park.”

  “You went to the park? By yourself?”

  Parker nodded. “Remember the night we went there and those French pilots almost shot us?”

  Bubba grinned. “Of course I remember. You should’ve called me yesterday. I would’ve gone with you. We could’ve taken my dad’s gun, maybe played some ball. What did you do at the park?”

  “I . . . .” Parker considered his words. He hated lying to Bubba. “I took a nap.”

  “You took a nap? And you woke up alive?”

  “It’s not that bad. The bomb squad truck did drive by. I thought we were under attack again.”

  “Momma says the park is no-man’s land. Full of those vigilante Unity people with guns, and other crazy people.”

  Parker remembered the veteran collecting cigarette butts. He hadn’t looked crazy. A bit dirty, maybe, but mostly just hungry. “It’s not that bad. There were kids there and a pizza delivery boy and a guy selling ice cream. I even slept. I think.”

  “Nice.”

  Parker cringed. His nap in the park had been anything but nice.

  “Any women?” asked Bubba.

  Parker thought of Tal, of the advertisement on the ice cream vendor’s cart and the stolen poster tacked to the ceiling above his bed less than twenty feet away. “A few.”

  “Nice. Speaking of women, you kiss Sunny yet?”

  Parker was suddenly horribly embarrassed. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I dunno.” Despite the many times he could have kissed Sunny, he had always hesitated. Then the moment seemed to pass and it was too late. He sensed Sunny knew this as well.

  They sat in silence.

  Finally, Bubba let out a long sigh. He got up and wandered into the kitchen.

  Parker stared at the nothingness on the other side of the glass wall, the gray fog. The sounds of the helicopter had long since faded away and his dad hadn’t arrived.

  Bubba came back into the living room carrying the box of Astr-O’s cereal. He leaned his head back and shoveled a fistful of cereal into his mouth, crunching it loudly as he chewed. The hologram of Colby Max on the front of the box was still and silent.

  “Your box doesn’t talk?” Bits of green and black cereal flew out of his mouth. Bubba carefully picked them up and held them in his hand.

  “I took the power cell out when those government guys were here. He wouldn’t shut up. It was getting on my nerves.”

  “Hey,” said Bubba, “I’ve got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “The perfect solution to your birthday sorrow.”

  “Birthday sorrow?”

  “Shut up and listen. Let’s go to the skycade . . . and play Go-Boy!” Bubba stomped one foot forward and held out his hands like a vaudevillian expecting applause.

  “Nah.”

  “Nah? Whaddya mean ‘nah?’ You never say no to the sim. You practically live in that thing. Momma says you’re going to wind up becoming part of it, that one day we’ll all look around and say, ‘Where’s Parker?’ and the police will find you in there half-alive with wires in your veins and electrodes in your spine. You’ll turn evil, just like the mean lady in that really old movie where Richard Pryor had to save Superman from
the bad computer.”

  “She might be right. I do spend beaucoup time in there. Still, I can think of worse ways to go.”

  “So let’s go play.”

  “You sure you want to? You spent almost sixty bucks last time trying to beat me.”

  “I was just getting warmed up when I ran out of money.”

  “Right.”

  Bubba smiled and shoveled more Astro-O’s into his mouth.

  Parker didn’t move.

  “Well? You ain’t gettin’ any younger,” said Bubba. “Get it? You’re not getting any younger, since today’s your birthday?”

  “You’re very funny. Poodle Raw would be proud.”

  “That overly-exuberant white boy ain’t funny.”

  “ ‘Overly-exuberant white boy?’ ”

  “That’s what momma calls him. She laughs when she sees his ads, though. She likes his white afro. I actually like him just fine.”

  Parker had to agree, Poo was pretty funny. He seemed to recall hearing something about Poo performing soon at The Garden, quite a venue for a stand-up comedian. Parker suspected Mrs. Black would never let them attend such a performance; Poo’s act wasn’t exactly, as Mrs. Black put it, sanitary for young, impressionable minds.

  “Come on, get up,” said Bubba. He wasn’t smiling.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been spending too much time in the sim lately.” He couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his own mouth.

  Bubba set the box of Astr-O’s on the chair and folded his arms across the vastness of his chest in disbelief. His arched eyebrows punctuated his stance, demanding an explanation.

  “In my dad’s last letter he said I should be something that will make a lot of money, like a doctor or a hospital administrator, or an agent in the FBI. That way I won’t have to fight. Since then I’ve been spending less time in the sim. My heart doesn’t seem to be in it anymore.”

  “You’re probably the greatest pilot who ever lived.”

  “I’m not a pilot. I’m a warphan who escapes through a dumb game.”

  “You’re not a warphan yet. Until you see your dad’s dead body, you have to believe he is still alive and fighting for you, fighting for all of us. Momma says that’s the only way we can get through this. In a few years we’ll be old enough to fight. I’ll be a Gamer, like Glorious Shepherd, and you can enlist in the Air Force. We’ll kick some serious plasma.”

  “I don’t want to think about my dad’s dead body, or you training for the Games or me joining the Air Force, just to get shot down two weeks later.” Parker snatched the SuperVision controller off the coffee table and turned it on. An enormous, three-dimensional holographic image popped up in the center of the room, projected from the control unit mounted in the wall. Parker sat glumly and Bubba stood with arms still folded.

  The ad showed a beautiful rainforest glowing green, full of towering trees and lush ferns. Bright shafts of afternoon sunlight slanted through the canopy and illuminated the forest floor. Red parrots and blue macaws perched on branches, holding nuts in their black bird feet and using their pointed black beaks to crack them like peanut shells. A group of gorillas sat at the base of a tree, lounging in the sun and grooming one another. Above them, a jaguar slept on a wide branch. Its tawny coat and black spots glowed in the sun and its tail dangled like a snake.

  Nearby, a fern swayed and a stick snapped. Only the jaguar heard it. One black-tipped ear shifted toward the sound, found only silence, and the big cat dozed on.

  On the ground, a man in military fatigues slithered across the forest floor. Green and brown paint streaked his face. He carried a rifle, also disguised in green camouflage.

  “There he is! There he is!” said Bubba, pointing at the ad. “It’s Glory! This is his new ad! I’ve been waiting to see this!”

  The camouflaged Glory slithered through the forest, quiet and invisible. The birds sounded no alarm. The gorillas saw and smelled nothing. The jaguar heard only the rustling of a twig, probably a dung beetle, hardly worth opening an eye.

  Glory moved down an embankment, away from the predators. He emerged near the wall of a great city, where he found an open pipe. He crawled inside and disappeared.

  Night fell and Glory entered a marbled courtyard lit by hundreds of torches. Mighty angels lay in the courtyard, wrapped in their great feathered wings, all fast asleep. A white mouse appeared, exploring the stone floor in search of crumbs. The white mouse sniffed around the sandaled feet of the largest angel, a beautiful, fierce-looking man with blonde hair.

  “That’s the Archangel Michael,” Bubba whispered. “The Warrior.”

  Glory crept toward the sleeping angel Michael. He stood next to Michael and the white mouse scurried over to him and stood on its little legs, with one tiny pink hand on the toe of Glory’s black combat boot. The white mouse looked up, sniffed the air, and let out the smallest of squeaks.

  Michael’s hand shot from beneath the warmth of his folded wings. He seized the white mouse in his fist and drew it toward him, snuggling again beneath the soft feathers of his wings, without so much as opening an eye. The white mouse poked his head out of Michael’s fist, licked Michael’s hand with a tiny pink tongue, then curled up and went immediately to sleep.

  Glory seemed to float out of the courtyard, away from the sleeping angels. He entered a vast temple. The walls and floor and ceiling gleamed with pure gold. Gold light covered him, reflecting in his dark eyes.

  At the far end of the temple stood an altar. Glory crept silently toward it. On the altar sat a gleaming, round silver tray. On the silver tray sat the most perfect, most delicious-looking pizza ever made.

  Glory shouldered his rifle and reached toward the pizza like a fortune-and-glory-seeking archaeologist about to seize a gold idol. He pinched the floury golden crust between his fingers and removed a slice. Delicate strings of melted cheese stretched and broke. Golden mozzarella rested on a bed of vibrant red tomato sauce. “It’s glorious,” said Glory. “It’s glorious!” Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his painted face. He brought the slice to his nose and inhaled the aroma. He aimed the slice toward his mouth and opened his lips.

  “Ahem!” A thundering voice boomed.

  Glory spun around and looked up, hiding the slice of pizza behind his back. He realized he was caught and brought the slice from behind his back. He offered it up with both hands. He grinned like a sheepish child.

  “Shepherd’s Pie,” said the deep, rumbling voice, “over one thousand locations to serve you! A slice of pure heaven.”

  Then the commercial ended.

  “I love it!” said Bubba. “Did you see how Glory snuck past the angels?” Bubba looked like he might walk up to Glory and give him a kiss.

  Parker felt funny knowing he had walked directly past Shepherd’s Pie at the mall yesterday but Bubba didn’t know anything about it. He changed the ad.

  A vast sky with purple sunset clouds stretched on forever. Sounds of wind blowing filled the living room. A dark figure emerged from the clouds, difficult to see from so far away. It moved closer, looming larger as it came. It approached faster and faster until it exploded into view, dizzy with speed. It passed overhead with a cutting roar and blackened the purple sky for an instant. A flash of pointed blue fire, and it was gone.

  Down they flew, through the clouds and toward a grid of lights sparkling in the darkness, surrounding three enormous lighted towers, the unmistakable skyline of Kingdom City. The dark figure appeared. It rocketed low over the street, surrounded by a sprawling urban jungle choked with scaffolding.

  Bubba pointed. “It’s Colby Max!”

  Colby swooped through the air in his Battle-Suit, dodged enemy airplanes and missiles, sprayed bullets out of the cannons mounted on his arms and destroyed a score of enemy aircraft in a spectacular series of explosions. He landed with an impressive pavement-cracking thud on a street in the middle of the city. The Battle-Suit stood in Parker’s living ro
om with Colby Max smiling his trademark grin inside his helmet. “Colby Max is . . . the Wizard of the Sky . . . in . . . Go-Boy . . . Unleashed! Starts today!” Parker switched the SuperVision off.

  “Wow,” said Bubba. He looked at Parker, waiting.

  Parker wanted to think the ad was as impressive as Bubba found it, but he couldn’t. He had only halfway paid attention. He looked out the window.

  Bubba sat in the big chair, close to Parker. “Hey, Park?”

  “Yeah?” Parker went on staring at the fog.

  “You trust me, right?”

  This caught Parker’s attention. He turned toward Bubba. “Of course.”

  “Then let’s get up off our derrieres and go see Colby Max at the toy store like you and your dad had planned.”

  Parker didn’t say anything. A monorail whipped past outside. Vibrations rippled through the floor and rattled the glasses in the kitchen cupboard.

  “It’s not doing you any good sitting here moping,” said Bubba. “Seriously. Besides, man, it’s your birthday. I know it stinks to high Heaven that your dad isn’t coming home, but he wouldn’t want you sitting here like a fart on a lump on a bump on a log on your thirteenth birthday. Today’s the day you become a man.”

  Bubba was right. But Parker still didn’t want to go anywhere.

  “Whaddya say?” said Bubba. “I’ll even spring for the pie.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  Parker stood up and headed for the front door, relieved he didn’t have to give Bubba an answer.

  He approached the door and imagined once again finding the colonel and the chaplain on the other side. Except this time they would be carrying his dad’s coffin down the hallway. His neighbor, Old Lady Smattering, would be shuffling along ahead of the procession, wearing a black dress and a dark veil over her wild gray hair, cackling as she scattered black flower petals across the carpet.

  Parker reached for the door.

  Chapter 9

  Off to See the Wizard