A Shadow Passed Over the Son
Book One of The Go-Kids
by
Ryan Schneider
Copyright © 2009 Ryan Schneider
All Rights Reserved
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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First Edition
Acknowledgements
For a bunch of people.
You know who you are.
In case you don’t:
For Todd McCreery for helping me take the first steps in my purpose-driven life. From kindergarten to now, it’s been quite a journey. And it’s just getting started. Thanks, G.
For Carol Agrifolio for your illogical belief in the book and your unwavering insistence on reading it. And for giving me your copy of A Purpose Driven Life. This is all your fault!
For Michael Holland. I was living in your house when I first dreamed of Go-Boy (literally dreamed, as in, in my sleep, although I had no idea what it meant at the time), and it was in your house the entire story was downloaded into my brain for me to furiously type while I stayed up all night for more than a week watching the Games of the XXVIII Olympiad in Athens.
For the Fearless Art Writers’ Group; you were the first to follow the high-flying adventures of Parker and his friends. Thank you for all your help and insight.
For Brad Andrews. A great flight instructor, a great pilot, a great friend.
For the Reverend H.E. Noble. Your feedback and input have been invaluable. Your friendship even more so.
For Patricia Russo. You’re always a mere email away when I need help.
For my parents and siblings, for cheering for me all these years.
For my wife Taliya. You believe in me and my purpose each and every day. Ani ohev otach. I Love You.
You’ve all known of the Go-Kids for awhile now.
It’s time to meet them.
Prologue
Blue sky.
High desert below. Dark green scrub, giant boulders, spiny cactus. Craggy, ancient mountains in the distance. Like pictures of New Mexico and Arizona.
Powerful robotic hands were attached to his muscular robotic arms. Black-booted feet emitted cones of blue plasma, holding him aloft. An impressive red safety harness held him securely inside a Go-Boy Battle-Suit. A real Go-Boy Battle-Suit. Better than the simulator at the arcade. Better even than the expensive Hollywood version piloted by Colby Max, and he was the most beloved thirteen-year-old in the country, perhaps the world.
There were others nearby, kids Parker’s age, somewhere in the sky with him.
One of them was in trouble.
Parker spun around, scanned the sky.
There she was, inside her Battle-Suit, on her back and falling headfirst, trapped in a flat spin. She spun like a leaf. A leaf made of lead.
Who was she? How did he know her?
It didn’t matter now. Questions later. If he could get to her before she impacted the hard ground, flattened in an unceremonious crunch of expensive metals and metallurgical polymers and whatever else Colby’s sidekick Igby used to build the fancy flying suits.
Parker rolled onto his back, accelerated hard. He dove from the sky in a tight loop, until he flew parallel to the earth. He accelerated harder, pushing his Battle-Suit faster and faster. Scrub and boulders and cactus rushed by in a blur.
Voices on the radio, shouting, arguing, far away, as if he were under water. He ignored them, focused on her. He could save her. He had to.
A giant cactus appeared in his flight path. Green spines and black spikes rushed toward him. He made a fist with his big robotic hand and punched the cactus as he flew into it. The cactus exploded. Shards of cactus meat and beads of cactus juice hung in the air as if in a photograph. The explosive impact rang his ears inside his helmet.
He flew on, faster and faster.
She neared the ground. Mountains loomed behind her. A few seconds more and it would be too late.
He would make it. He would catch her.
She wasn’t going to die.
Not today.
Parker stretched out his long robotic arms. Drops of cactus juice sparkled on the black palms of his robotic hands, blue sky and brown desert reflected a hundred times in miniature.
He focused on her. Twirling as she fell. Around and around she spun. His timing had to be perfect.
He reached out . . .
. . . waited, waited . . . .
A shrill scream blared over the radio.
The Battle-Suit and the girl screaming inside it disappeared behind a massive boulder.
The screaming abruptly stopped.
From behind the boulder rose a cloud of brown dust.
Chapter 1
Bye, Mom
“I’m so dead.” Parker’s mother glanced at the rear view mirror for the third time.
“Mom. Relax,” said Parker. “It’s one day of school. Besides, it’s my birthday. Remember?”
“Yes, of course I remember.” She relaxed into the driver’s seat and looked at him. She smiled. Her eyes flitted to the mirror again.
“Mom.”
“Sorry.” Her eyes flitted back to him. “This is a tow-away zone.”
“They’re not going to tow the car with us sitting in it.”
“If your father finds out you spent the day playing video games, we can say you played hooky because it’s your birthday. But if I get a ticket for parking in a red zone outside the arcade, we won’t get off so lucky.”
“Fine. Go to school. Go teach.” He reached for the door handle.
“You sure you have enough money?”
“Yes. You gave me more than enough.” He smiled and opened the door.
“Don’t tell your father. You know how he is about earning things.” Her eyes drifted to the rear view mirror again. “Is that a cop?”
Parker looked over his shoulder. “No. It’s a taxi.” He put one foot out.
“What time are you meeting me back here?”
“Three.”
“We have to hurry to meet your father or he’ll know we were up to something.”
“I know.”
“What time?”
“Three.”
“You’re sure you have enough money?”
She sat behind the wheel, more matronly than usual in her work clothes, a long skirt and button-down sweater, hair piled atop her head like it always was in the mornings, with two blond strands framing her eyes. “Yes, mom. Go teach.”
She smiled. An odd, different smile.
He didn’t know what it meant. “What?”
“Nothing.” She looked at him, the mirror forgotten. “You’re getting so handsome. You look more like your father every day.”
“Dad says I remind him of you.”
She smiled again. “Does the watch fit?”
He held up his wrist. “Perfectly.”
“Good. He spent a lot of time shopping for the one you wanted. Make sure you turn it off until after school. We can at least pretend we’re following the rules. You’ll get my gift at dinner. I love you. My hope.”
“Mom, please.”
“What? It’s not every day my little boy turns ten.”
“Go teach.”
“Fine. Go . . . kick . . . . What is it you’re kicking, exactly?”
“Plasma.”
“Right. Go kick some plasma. And, uh, ‘Take it to the max.’” She pointed her finger at the sky. “You’re sure you have enough money? Parker?”
He wasn’t listening. He studied the watch, remembering last night, minutes before his father had given it to him. He’d walked in on his parents, found them shouting at each other. He hadn’t slept because of it. Halfway out the car door, he paused. “Last night, what were you and dad arguing about?”
“Grown up stuff.”
“Are you getting a divorce?”
Her eyes widened in horror. “A divorce? No, absolutely not. I love you and your father more than life itself. I would never leave. Either of you. Why would you think we’re getting a divorce?”
“You were arguing last night. When I came in, you stopped. It seemed like it had something to do with me.”
Her eyebrows lifted and she smiled. She shook her head, caring but conflicted. “Respectful disagreements are perfectly healthy.” She checked the rear-view mirror again, then checked the little round silver watch on her own wrist. “I have to go. You know how Midtown is in the morning.”
He sat on the edge of his seat, looking at her. The wide red strap of his Go-Boy backpack hung on his shoulder.
She smiled wider. “This is a topic for some other time, honey. It’s your birthday, remember?”
He got out and closed the car door, not entirely convinced.
She smiled. “Have fun!”
A siren woop-WOOP! behind them. A blue and white cruiser had pulled up, NYPD on the door. The big man behind the wheel held up both hands: I’m waiting . . . .
“See!” She waved at the officer and threw the shift lever into Drive. “I am so dead.”
She waved again, this time at Parker, and smiled big, guilty, and her blond hair shook. Suddenly she seemed young again. Her essence, her silliness and ignorance of how beautiful she was, outshone her years for a moment, a second or two. Then she was mom again.
“I love you!” She drove away, still smiling. Her head tilted as she watched him in her rearview mirror. Then she was swallowed up by the morning traffic.
The police car remained at the red curb. Its steam engine purred. Tendrils of moisture wafted from the tailpipes and melted into the unseasonably cool July morning air. The police officer hunched sideways, his right hand on the headrest of the passenger seat, watching. His radio crackled. A woman’s garbled voice droned out of it. The officer watched Parker for a moment, then stabbed a button on the dash and the red and blue lights atop the car sprang to life. The officer whipped the car out into traffic. Several taxis and a double-decker sightseeing bus screeched to a halt. The taxi drivers honked and the bus’s brakes squealed. The wide-eyed passengers on the upper deck bobbed forward in unison as the bus stopped, many of them shooting pictures and video of the hurried police car.
Parker turned and walked down the wide sidewalk toward the long row of silver doors which led into the mall. Men and women wearing business suits and athletic shoes streamed out of the crowded stairwells leading up from the Penn Station subway station. Warm subway air engulfed him as he passed. He inhaled deeply, relishing the unique smell of the subway: warm air, almost stifling, tinged with grease and mechanical things, the smell of the trains, and the smell of rich, fried food, of freshly-popped popcorn.
He rode the elevator eighty floors to the top of the mall. The arcade was nearly empty. Two guys played pinball in the corner. Their long hair rested on their shoulders. Each had a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his wrinkled black t-shirt. High school guys. Cutting, like him. They saw him and smiled in appreciation.
The Go-Boy simulators were all unoccupied. The robots stood like sentries, waiting to be guided. He went to his favorite, the one that fit the best and had the fastest reaction time and lowest ping.
Number thirteen.
He climbed in and closed the canopy, giving it the little wiggle right at the end, to make a good seal.
He was in. He dropped his backpack on the floor and fastened the wide red straps of the safety harness around his chest. He took out the faded, crinkled bank card his mom had recharged in the car and inserted it in the slot.
The cockpit lights flicked on. The soft hum of the cooling fans speeding up. The scent of dust and electronics. He tapped the inside of the canopy touch-screen. “Bring on the war mice.”
Orange clouds filled the canopy view. The sun was setting behind distant mountains, half a glowing red circle sinking below the black terrain.
The sim moved and his weight settled onto the wide red straps of the harness. He was flying. Just like Colby and Igby. By the time eight o’clock rolled around, bringing with it the World Premiere of Go-Boy . . . Unleashed, he would be ready.
Far below, on the ground, lay a city. Somewhere inside it lurked the enemy. Parker angled his body downward and throttled up. He raised his arms, un-safed his cannons, and prepared for battle.
An hour later, he was sweating, twisting his body side to side, climbing and banking, diving and rolling, trying to get the bad guys off his tail. He’d been hit twice, grazed really, was low on bullets, and was outnumbered twenty-to-one. Not even Colby went up against that many. There’d be another new high score after this one. All of the top ten high-scores already bore his initials P.J.P.
His new watch rang.
Lost in the moment of the game, he tapped his watch face without thinking. “Hello?”
“Parker?”
Uh-oh. Parker stabbed the Pause button, freezing the game. He looked at his watch. His dad looked back at him, then leaned closer and his face appeared larger.
“Where are you? I figured you’d have your phone off. Aren’t you supposed to be in Algebra?”
The cockpit was too quiet. Just the far away sounds of pinball paddles flapping, and the low hiss of his dad’s call. “I’m . . . in the bathroom.”
“Oh.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I was calling to tell you I got tickets to the eight o’clock show, the big theater, like we talked about. And good seats, in the middle. Why is the bathroom so dark?”
Parker reached for the dial to increase the cockpit lights. The dial stuck, then came free, and his hand slipped. His finger touched the Pause button, restarting the game.
“Take it to the max!” declared the voice of Colby Max.
Parker slapped the Pause button again. Silence.
“Are you at the arcade? Why aren’t you in school?” His dad shook his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t believe this. You think because it’s your birthday you don’t need to go to class? You know how I feel about you getting an education. You are not going to be a code monkey like me.” His dad shook his head again.
“I like writing code.”
“Parker, listen to me. There used to be a time when writing code was a prestigious, elite, even noble profession. But these days it’s about as glamorous as digging ditches under an outhouse. I even gave you your birthday present early. And this is how you behave. I think you’d better take off that watch until you’re ready to give more than you take.” He squinted into the camera, as if listening for something. He was thinking, realizing something else. “How did you get there? Did your mother drop you off? Is she in on this?”
“No, I—”
“She’s so dead.” His dad looked around his office again, then leaned back in his big black chair. “You enjoy yourself today, Parker. I’ll see you and your mom at the restaurant at four.”
The call ended. Parker’s watch went blank.
Now what?
Get out? Go to school? Go home? Or stay and “enjoy” himself, like his dad said. As if that were possible now.
Heavy thumping sounds rolled through the building. Just a few at first, far away. Then more, a lot more, coming closer. Coming fast.
Outside the sim, outside the arcade, Parker heard sounds, high-pitched shrieks and squeals like the brakes on the subway cars. It wasn’t brakes. It was people . . . screaming.
Before Parker could move, the walls groaned, flexed, and imploded, crushed by the shockwave. Then the sound of the explosion hit. The steady ringing of glass the instant it shatters. Pinball machines flew through the air. The simulators piled up like dominoes. Parker’s head whipped sideways. He was falling. The entire room around him was falling, collapsing, taking him with it. He was inside a tornado, blind, holding tight to the safety harness. He landed hard on his back. Ringing in his ears. No air in his lungs.
Something hit the outside of the simulator, smashed against it. Stuck there. A bloody face, obscure on the other side of the dirty canopy. Brown, shoulder-length hair and black t-shirt. Eyes open. Blue eyes. Staring at nothing. Illuminated by the soft glow of the cockpit lighting.
Parker stared at the face on the other side of the canopy. Tried to breathe. No air to scream. No sound. No light beyond the cockpit glow. Muffled darkness and the distinct impression of being buried under a pile of rubble.
Buried alive.
Chapter 2
A Miracle
Darkness.
Parker opened his eyes as if from a long sleep. His head ached. Pain coursed up and down his neck and spine. He coughed. He tried to sit up, realized he was secured by the wide red straps of the harness. He was still inside the simulator.
An orange glow filled the cockpit around him, dim and dull. The sim’s back-up batteries were nearly drained. But that would’ve taken hours.
Dogs barking.
Men shouting.
Flashing lights. Moving erratically. Blue-white beams lighting up the dust in the air.
Footsteps. Stomping overhead.
Scraping. Dust falling. Debris being cleared.
The chugging and groaning of heavy equipment, the Beep-Beep-Beep drone of frontloaders and dumptrucks backing up.
Dogs. Closer now.
The sounds all came from up there, somewhere above.
The dead high school guy lay on the canopy, visible in the glow. Blood had pooled around his eyes and in his swollen face. He looked like a smooth, purple plum with two wide, blood-shot eyeballs, staring at nothing.
The barking dogs reached a frenzy. The climax of their excited searching.
Parker considered the dead guy. Who do the dogs smell? Him . . . or me?
Flashlights blasted into the cockpit, blinding blue-white light.
Men all around. Men in dark coats with glowing green stripes, attached to harnesses and ropes. Firefighters. Sweaty, soot-black faces and wide, scared eyes beneath the wide brims of their helmets.
The dead guy was hoisted up. His face squeaked against the outside of the canopy, smearing it with blood.
Flashlights beamed into the cockpit again. A tidal wave of voices, men shouting, dogs yelping. A big yellow dog with floppy ears jumped onto the sim. The dog dug frantically at the outside of the canopy, claws tapping, scratching, scratching the blood.
A whistle. The yellow dog jumped down.
Two firefighters looked into the cockpit.
Behind them, smoke filled the night sky. It was dark outside. Night time.
“What happened?” Parker asked. “What time is it? How long have I been down here? Where are my mom and dad?”
“He’s alive!”
“We got a live one!”
A chorus of cheers, echoing somewhere up there, atop the mountain of rubble.
One of the men leaned closer. “Don’t worry! We’ll get you out. Just gotta shore up some of this mess before it comes down on all of us. This thing saved your life!” His gloved hand patted the sim. “Are you hurt?”
Parker did a mental inventory of his body. Everything hurt. But no bones poked out of his skin. He could move and breathe. That was good. “What happened?”
“There was an attack. They’re saying millions may be dead. But you’re okay?”
Parker nodded.
The man looked up, over his shoulder. “He’s okay! He’s okay! It’s a miracle!”
Parker lay back, his head against the head rest. How could any of this be a miracle?
Chapter 3
A Shadow Passed Over the Son
Parker stood at the entrance to Kingdom City Municipal Park, sunlight warm on his face. This was only his third visit since he and his dad left Manhattan for Kingdom City.
Three years ago.
After The Attack.
After he was buried alive.
After George Washington Elementary was blown to bits, his mom and her class of twenty-seven along with it.
His first visit to the park was a Biology class field trip to study the post-attack ecology of flora and fauna. The second visit was a few months later, with Bubba, after Brent Spade passed a note to Bubba during trigonometry, saying they weren’t men enough to leave the safety of the towers. He and Bubba waited until midnight, snuck past Mrs. Black snoring on the sofa, tiptoed out of Bubba’s apartment, rode one of the rapid express elevators one hundred stories to the street, and made their way to the park. They followed the bike path, camouflaged by the shadows of moon-dappled leaves. They walked softly, quietly. When they spoke, they whispered.
Two soldiers burst from the trees, automatic rifles locked and loaded, aimed and ready.
“Merde!” one soldier cursed. They lowered their muzzles; the last thing they needed was to have their patrol hampered by accidentally gunning down a couple local teenagers they were there to protect.
The soldiers had patches sewn onto the shoulders of their uniforms, visible in the bright moonlight, a tiger wearing a tall white chef’s hat, wooden spoon in its paw, stirring a black cauldron of steaming soup. Leave it to the French to equate the world’s greatest air force with fine cuisine. Below the caldron was orange writing: Laissez-faire . . . ou la mort. It was the insignia of Super-Tigre pilots. These two must’ve been taking their turn on foot patrol. He recognized the insignia from the uniforms of French soldiers he’d seen at The Cloud Deck. In between showing patrons to their tables, and overseeing every other facet of managing the enormous rooftop restaurant, Sandy had offered a translation: Live and let live . . . or die. It was France’s motto. As the world’s only remaining superpower, the motto seemed to be working. He forgot to ask Sandy why everyone called the Super-Tigre pilots “Soupers.”
“Allez-y!” said the soldier. “Go!” He waved his hand. Parker and Bubba ran for home, eager to share with Sunny their tale of near-death at the hands of elite French pilots.
That was last November. Nine months ago.
Now, three years after The Attack, life was surreal. There were no celebrations of the anniversary of The Attack. It seemed people preferred to observe the infamous day each in his or her own way. Bubba said it was because America had gotten her butt kicked and hadn’t recovered, that she was still looking for payback, for revenge, and that it was best if everyone kept their mouths shut for now and continued working to defeat the enemy. The road ahead was a long one. There would be time for celebration later.
Parker followed the paved path through a grove of tall trees, the same path he and Bubba had walked the night they’d nearly been shot. He wondered again if he were doing the right thing. Maybe he should’ve simply gone to Canary Downs. But he needed to sleep. He didn’t want his dad coming home from the war only to find him sallow-faced, with heavy bags under tired eyes.
A park seemed a safe place to sleep. Warm sun on his face. Open space all around. People strolling and laughing. Dogs chasing balls. Joggers. Bicyclists. An ice cream vendor handing swirled cones to children. Teenagers lying on the cool grass, falling in love. Summer in the city.
At least, this was how he’d always imagined a park should be. Canary Downs was this way, man-made and climate-controlled as it was, up on the 200th floor. Not to mention being full of people who might recognize him.
So here he was instead, at the city park, the real park, where anything might happen.
Lush, green leaves filled the tree tops, but three years after The Attack the trunks were still burned and black. The path led to a wide, treeless clearing. There were no people strolling, no dogs playing, no lovers kissing on the lawn. In fact, the grass was knee-high. It waved in the breeze, swishing from dark green to light green and back again. It seemed there was no money to keep it mown. Bicyclists raced through the park, couriers wearing satchels across their bodies, the right leg of their pants rolled up, away from the greasy, grinding teeth of the sprockets. They pedaled hard through the network of trails, shortcuts from one side of town to the other.
A man wearing a grimy green military-issue parka waded through some low bushes. His eyes locked on something and he stooped, then stood upright, holding a cigarette butt. Pink lipstick greased the tip of the bright white paper. The shelters paid a dollar an ounce for the butts, recycling the precious paper in an attempt to offset the rising costs of keeping the shelters open. Three gold chevrons adorned the shoulders of the man’s parka. The chevrons meant he was an enlisted man, a sergeant. Sergeants were the linchpins of the armed services, the link between the officers giving the orders and the enlisted men and women tasked with carrying out those orders. The vet must have listened well and worked hard to be promoted in rank to sergeant and put in charge of the lives of others. He carefully placed the butt into the recesses of his coat pocket. What was it like to be in charge of other people’s lives? To give orders, knowing your words could get other people killed. What had happened to the vet? How had he come to be scavenging for cigarette butts in the bushes?
A boy in a blue t-shirt pushed a small cart through a sea of noisy, bobbing pigeons. On the cart sat two square green bags, the same kind the pizza delivery guy used when Bubba’s mom Regina ordered pizza on the weekend or when she didn’t feel like cooking. Parker wondered who the pizzas were for and why the boy wasn’t in school. Then he remembered: it was still summertime and school wouldn’t resume until fall. He felt a pang of guilt seeing the boy working. None of the kids from Southie had jobs, himself included. As bad as things were, somebody always had it worse.
A group of people moved into the middle of the clearing. They began setting up a picnic. There were about twenty people, all different in appearance and ethnicity. Three men and four women unpacked sandwiches, apples, and oranges from old milk crates. Another handful of men and women spread blankets over the tall grass, assisted by two little girls with curly blond hair who jumped and leaped on the blanket, laughing, mashing down the cool grass beneath it. Nearby, two boys with black hair and narrow eyes took turns tossing a boomerang. The harder the boys threw the boomerang the faster and more violently it came back to them.
The people were probably from Unity Up! The kids were most likely warphans, a bunch of dumpties, so named because they’d been orphaned by the war and dumped on the government’s doorstep, then farmed out to private organizations after their lone parent had been killed in action, K.I.A., like Sunny’s big brother.
Parker searched for the Unity Greeters. He spotted two of them right away, over by the empty bike rack. Their new, grease-shined carbines were slung high and tight in front of their spotless body armor. These two never stopped looking over their shoulders. They must’ve been new to Unity, or perhaps it was the reality of being old enough, at long last, to be a part of the mercenary force, and old enough to carry an automatic weapon. Either way, they seemed nervous about being in the park. It was almost funny that heavily-armed and privately-funded mercenaries would be referred to as “Greeters.”
Two other Greeters stood apart on the other side of the picnic area. One, a tall, caramel-skinned man, perhaps in his early thirties, conversed with a fair young woman astride a red bicycle with wide silver handlebars. She nodded her head and smiled while his mouth moved. Their voices were muted by the distance, and Parker was unable to hear their words. Either she was familiar with Unity and liked their work or perhaps she was excited by the prospect of discovering a group of people actually doing something, trying to protect the community and, hopefully, the nation. Though by her smile, Parker guessed it may have been the Greeter she liked.
The other Greeter, a female, stood several yards away. Dark glasses hid her eyes. Parker sensed she was watching him. Probably had been since she’d arrived. The long muscles in her forearms fluttered as she redoubled her grip on her own shiny black carbine. Her body armor was marred by scratches and grime and a distinct hole near the shoulder. A bullet hole. Clearly she had seen some action. It was visible in her very demeanor, her calm acceptance of the reality that anything could happen at any time and it paid to be prepared for when it did.
Parker flopped down onto the grass. The Greeter talking with the woman on the bike handed his weapon to her. Her eyes widened when she felt how light it was. She smiled again. The woman wearing the dark glasses watched the man give away his weapon. She shook her head.
The other Unity people were still unpacking their lunch. If Parker pretended to be asleep before one of them offered him a sandwich, maybe they would leave him alone. His stomach grumbled. But if he took a sandwich, the sermon would begin, the invitation to take back the community, to stamp out the enemy within. They’d preached at his front door, so he knew the spiel. Compelling as some of their arguments were, and despite how much he wanted a sandwich, he had to get some sleep.
The ice cream vendor shouted. He waved his arms at the vet collecting cigarettes, shooing the vet away from his cart as he would a fly. The vet held up another cigarette butt, then shuffled off. The ice cream vendor seemed to be the only element matching Parker’s notion of what summer in the park ought to be.
Suddenly, a deep, bleating horn sounded, blasting the air, followed by the rising whine of a siren. The siren bounced off the tall buildings and echoed through the park.
We’re under attack.
Panic filled Parker’s mind. Memories of being buried alive washed over him. Three years ago could have been three days ago.
He surveyed the sky. Should he run for home?
The other people in the park seemed to be doing the same thing: sitting or standing in the tall grass, watching, listening, like wild animals waiting to see what was going to happen, if a threat were imminent. The woman in the dark glasses knelt behind a tree, weapon raised, ready. The vet lay in the bushes, curled into a tight ball with his arms over his head, rocking himself.
A shadow passed over Parker. He saw it. Felt it. High above, a black creature was flying. A hideous, reptilian thing with wide, leathery wings. And it was looking directly at him. Then the light of the sun shined from behind it, and Parker was blinded. He clamped his eyes shut. He waited until the pain in the back of his eyes lessened, then opened them again. A bird soared through the air, black wings spread wide. Wingtip feathers spread like fingers. Just a bird.
Flashing blue and red lights appeared through the trees. The source of the bleating horn and screaming siren appeared as a massive vehicle roared down the middle of the street, its armor painted blue and black with K.C.P.D. and BOMB SQUAD painted on its side. It was bigger than any fire truck, with wide, hard tires taller than a man. Its siren screamed. The driver blasted the horn again, sending yellow cabs swerving out of the way. The enormous truck drove on and the siren faded. The Thursday midday sounds of the park gradually returned. The warm breeze soughed the tall grass. A hundred pigeons bobbed, pecked, and cooed.
Everyone waited.
Nothing happened.
The threat seemed to have passed.
The Unity Up! people went back to their picnic. The woman in the dark glasses leaned against the tree and lit a cigarette, her hand shaky as she struck a silver lighter. The vet lay in the bushes, still curled up, though he seemed calmer now.
Parker lay back in the grass. He took a deep breath and exhaled, smelled the cool, sweet grass tickling the back of his neck and tried to forget about the sight of the bomb squad. The long green blades of grass blocked out everything but blue sky. The sun was high. It would be an hour or two before it moved behind the south tower and sunset came and the park was locked down for the night. He could sleep for an hour or two. That would be enough to sustain him for his big day tomorrow. His dad wouldn’t know he hadn’t been sleeping, wouldn’t worry.
The bird whirled overhead in a circle. It folded its wings and dropped from the sky. It disappeared behind the tree tops, no doubt dropping in on an unsuspecting mouse or snake.
Parker closed his eyes. The sun glowed red through his eyelids. He took a deep breath and let it out. Warmth surrounded him. Sleep slipped in. The laughter of the children faded. A sensation of spinning flooded over him, as though he stood on a cliff at night, about to fall. The delirium of sleeplessness. Surely that was it.
The cool grass and moist earth vanished.
Darkness.
He was falling.
He heard a sound.
A roaring below.
A sound he’d never heard before.
He reached out to catch himself. It was a bad idea. He reached out anyway.
From out of the darkness, a rose appeared. Red petals, long green stem, sharp green thorns. The rose evolved into a woman. She looked into his eyes. He looked into her eyes, into her.
The roaring ceased. He stopped falling. He opened his eyes. He was still in the park, supported by the earth. He sat up.
The Unity people ate their white bread sandwiches. The Greeters remained at their posts. The woman on the red bike had gone, as had the pizza delivery boy. The ice cream vendor busied himself behind his white cart.
Then Parker saw her. On the side of the cart: a woman’s face. It was her, the rose in the darkness. The image was an advertisement, a sales pitch for the Israeli singer and songwriter Transcendental Tal and her new album. Bubba and Sunny were huge fans.
Parker stared into Tal’s eyes. The same eyes he’d seen in the darkness. I stopped falling when I saw her. She saved me.
The ice cream vendor rang his bell. Parker jumped. He stood and ran toward the south tower, toward home. He already knew what he was going to do.
Chapter 4
Thou Shalt Not steal
The mall was packed. Sky City North was always busy. People here had money to spend. More than most of the inhabitants of Sky City South, anyway.
Rattle and Hum turned out to be the perfect target. He’d never been here. No one would recognize him.
Half the music store screamed with blazing neon and splashy banners devoted to Transcendental Tal. Most of the other half was covered in Go-Boy posters, clothing, hats and t-shirts, soundtracks and images of Colby Max in action. Colby was backed always by his sidekick Igby Fry, the boy-genius inventor of the Go-Boy Battle-Suit.
On the back wall Parker found the display of posters, hung like pages in a giant book. He flipped slowly through the display and found a poster featuring Tal spread across the rear spoiler of a Merc II. The glossy black sports car was the most expensive automobile ever built, constructed entirely by hand. Tal lay with her head thrown back, her back arched. Her white lingerie was probably hand-made too, like the car. Bubba had this same poster on his bedroom wall; he said he must’ve been an famous race car driver in a past life.
Below the poster display was a bank of little numbered boxes all packed with posters. Parker pulled one of Tal’s posters at random from its cubby. Then he surveyed the store.
Nearby, two young, morbidly obese teenaged girls occupied one row of the gospel section. Their manicured fingers flipped through the alphabetized racks of music. One girl said the selection was poor. Blond, salon-fresh hair arrowed down her back. The other girl agreed the selection was very poor, very poor indeed, and went on balancing on the stiletto heels of her shiny, lime-green shoes.
A man with skin the color of chocolate and wearing a red KC Cyclops cap coughed into his fist, then coughed again, louder, almost as if he were choking. The obese girls grimaced at him. He put his hand in front of his face and waved it down and away in what had to be Sign Language. He tapped his throat apologetically. The obese girls turned their backs on him without speaking and moved out of the gospel section.
A security guard stood by the doors. A gold badge gleamed against his starched white shirt. He hadn’t been there a minute ago.
Parker turned his back on the security guard, the obese girls, and the man in the red cap. He considered the poster tube in his hands. It wasn’t too late to walk away.
He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. The security guard was probably watching him, just like the Unity Up! woman wearing dark glasses in the park. Looking over his shoulder would appear suspicious.
Thou shalt not steal . . . .
It was that annoying voice in his mind, offering advice again. He was fairly certain he’d heard that tidbit somewhere; probably from Regina Black.
He considered it.
He could put the poster back in its place and walk away. It wasn’t too late.
But he needed to sleep. The nightmares were happening more often. And Tal had helped him. He needed her. He needed the poster.
He slid the long white tube into the waistline of his jeans and down one leg. He held it in place with his fingers, buried deep inside his front pocket. He glanced casually over his shoulder.
The security guard was still there, watching the obese girls exit the store. He lifted a hand-held radio to his mouth and spoke into it.
Parker meandered through the store and pretended to shop. He would wait until the security guard moved away from the doors. Otherwise he would have to walk past him. Parker strolled between the endless racks of alphabetized artists until he was near the doors.
The security guard walked over to the bank of registers. He leaned across the counter and said something to a young female cashier with artificially-crimsoned hair. Had the guard had moved away from the door deliberately? Daring Parker to commit his crime?
All that remained was an artful dodge through the open doors. Nothing would happen until he exited the store. It wasn’t theft until he was off the premises. That’s how the judge would see it. Until then he was just a warpunk with a poster down his pants, just another Southie urchin on the wrong side of the tracks.
Parker headed for the doors. His pulse pounded in his ears. A hollow feeling clenched his stomach.
He expected a heavy hand to fall upon his shoulder, expected the security guard to shout at him.
A few more awkward steps . . . and Parker was out of the music store. The high ceilings and faux-crystal spires of the mall loomed around him, filled with the white noise echoes of hundreds of shoppers. He walked faster, as fast as the poster in his pants would allow.
Ahead of him sprawled the food court. Beyond the food court loomed the bright colors and flashing silver lights of Sky City Hobbies and Toys. Beyond the toy store he could see the escalators and the herds of people moving in and out of the monorail station. He would be invisible there, lost in the crowd.
He hurried through the food court. The two obese girls sat in front of Shepherd’s Pie, Bubba’s favorite pizza joint, at one of the hundreds of tables, devouring wide slices of pizza larger than their heads. Parker tried to resist the urge to look over his shoulder but couldn’t. He glanced back. He saw a flash of white shirt weaving through the people behind him. A flash of gold. A badge? Or just an expensive earring? He walked faster.
He passed Sky City Hobbies and Toys, where he’d go tomorrow with his dad to meet Colby Max and see his Battle-Suit. Maybe actually touch it. The real one. Unless he got arrested in the next five minutes.
He reached the bank of escalators and joined the shortest line. He waited his turn and stepped onto the rising mechanical stairs, pretending he wasn’t fleeing. The crowded escalator carried him in slow agony up to the monorail station.
He hurried through the wide archways of the station entrance to the endless line of electric gates arranged like soldiers guarding the trains. He crowded close behind an elderly woman. She wore a black fur scarf wrapped around her neck, despite it being the height of summer. He moved close to her. When the gate opened, he thrust his hand between the mushy rubber blades. The sensors kept the gate open and he hurried through before it demanded money from him. Money he didn’t have. He walked stiff-legged across the platform where a Redline train waited to depart. He stepped onto the train. He watched the doors, willing them to slide shut. Through the window there was a flash of a man in a white shirt. Was it the security guard? The white shirt was obscured by the herds of people.
The security guard stepped onto the train an instant before the doors closed, a collective rush of air mixed with the squeak of tired hydraulics mashing together synthetic rubber door molding. His white shirt stood out in the crowd at the far end of the monorail car. He remained standing, reaching out to hook one arm around a silver pole. The gold badge gleamed.
A trickle of sweat beaded down Parker’s ribs, a cold tickle.
The train rose on its electromagnets and began to move.
Parker remained standing, the stolen poster rigid against his inner thigh, preventing him from sitting. He scanned the train for sky marshals. It was impossible to pick them out solely by their attire. He’d once seen a man wearing a black trench coat and pink patent-plastic shoes pull a gun and a badge from out of nowhere and pop a guy in a three-piece suit. The guy in the suit had been standing next to an elderly woman reading a book. He grabbed the book out of her hands and lunged for the door. The man in the trench coat drew his piece and fired once. The bullet hit the man in the back. He fell on the platform, dead before he hit the ground, shiny black shoes still on the riveted yellow safety line.
Thou shalt not steal . . . .
The man in the trench coat and pink shoes showed everyone his U.S. Sky Marshall badge, picked up the book and returned it to the elderly woman, and life went on. The next day, Bubba unfolded his electronic newspaper and showed the story to Parker, amazed that Parker had watched the crime happen. Mrs. Black read the bold, black headline over Bubba’s shoulder: BOOK THIEF SHOT DEAD. Bubba tapped the headline and the article expanded. “It’s a real shame when a well-dressed white boy tries to steal a book from a little old lady on a train,” said Mrs. Black. She headed for the kitchen. Her special signature cornbread baking in the oven filled the apartment with its sweet fragrance. “There goes the neighborhood,” Mrs. Black muttered. She uttered that sentiment often. It always made Parker smile.
On the other side of the train, Parker saw a man near the door, seated on the blue plastic bench. Navy blue business suit, pink silk necktie, pink silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Bubba claimed anyone wearing pink was a skymarsh, claimed pink was a subtle part of the uniform, how they picked each other out. Parker disagreed. It was too obscure; too many people wore pink for no other reason than they liked pink. Hadn’t Sunny said something about pink being the new black? Or maybe black was the new black. Or was it white? He couldn’t remember.
The man looked up and caught Parker watching him. The man surveyed him up and down, probably wondering why there was a Southie warpunk on his train. Parker offered a curt nod and looked away, casual, like he didn’t care, like he didn’t have a stolen poster shoved down his pants. He counted, one, two, three and snuck his eyes back to the man, who’d returned to his paperback. He continued reading and didn’t look up. Parker tried to see the cover of the book. Raised silver letters gleamed on the glossy black cover: Malina. Raised red letters at the bottom spelled the name of the author: petal darker. The name sounded familiar. He would mention it to Sunny. She liked to read, liked to talk about books. Her family owned several books. Sunny even had a book of her very own, a gift from her mother. Sunny had shown it to him one Saturday morning, while they were alone in her bedroom. They’d sat on her bed, careful not to ruffle the comforter. Sunny had reached under her pillow and carefully pulled out the book. She’d held it like a piece of fine china. A beautiful woman embossed the black cover, a nude woman with her arms out, and beautiful balls of colored light inside her and above her head. Sunny said it was The Vitruvian Woman by a famous artist named Jason Lincoln Jeffers.
Sunny was about to open the book when the door opened.
Mrs. Harper burst in, a short glass tumbler in one hand. Sunny tried to hide the book behind her back, but her mom had already seen it. Mrs. Harper approached the bed.
Ice cubes tinkled in her glass. With glassy eyes she stared down at Sunny and sipped at the clear liquid. When she swallowed, she winced. Parker smelled the drink, like the sherry Mrs. Black sometimes cooked with. Mrs. Harper asked Parker to please see himself to the door.
Nearly three weeks passed before Parker saw Sunny outside of school, where she was just a blur hurrying through the halls between classes. She came over to help him with his calculus homework one day as though nothing had ever happened. She sat next to him at the kitchen table. He watched her face, her eyes, and listened to the tap-tapping of her yellow electronic pencil as she whisked through his differential equations. Her lips glinted with a thin sheen of her Cherry Lip Lover lip gloss. It was the only cosmetic indulgence permitted by her mother. He smelled the sweet scent of artificial fruit. He wanted to ask Sunny about her pillow book. But he couldn’t. And he never did.
Parker held tight to the monorail’s cold aluminum handrail overhead. Everyone swayed together when the train moved. Most people kept their eyes down, reading their electronic newspapers or digital magazines. Some held bags between their legs or on their lap. One man sat with a set of small golf clubs, perhaps a gift for his son. A large map of the Sky City Monorail System hung near the doors, a colorful grid of red, blue, yellow, and green rail lines punctuated by white and black station dots. Next to it was a familiar poster showing a lone backpack sitting on the ground, with bold black words: IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING. It was a good slogan, borrowed from neighboring New Yorkers. He knew it was important to be vigilant, but the thought of what was inside that bag scared him every time he saw one of the posters. He turned his eyes and his attention to the scrolling marquee sliding across the roof of the train. It showed images of Colby Max in his Battle-Suit, flying through balls of orange fire and black smoke, spraying bullets across the sky. The new movie hit screens tomorrow. He and Bubba had been waiting nearly a year to see it.
The train glided out of the station and into the dark tunnel. It gathered speed, emerged into daylight, and hummed along its track, across a mile of open sky.
For the second time in his life, Parker was guilty of theft. He told himself stealing wasn’t wrong if you really needed something, that had he any money he would have paid for the poster. But the argument was as thin and transparent as the clear plastic cellophane wrapped around the poster, cold against his skin. One more thing he would have to forget.
The security guard stood by the far door, staring out the window. Had he radioed ahead? Would someone be waiting for him at the station in Sky City South? Backup, ready to grab him if he tried to run? Parker tried to act casual, but he was suddenly completely self-conscious. He was going to feel really stupid if he got the poster home and later that night or the next day there was a knock on the door and he opened it to find a cop standing there with the store manager, the stolen poster tacked to the ceiling above his bed.
The security guard turned around.
Parker stepped across the train, stood behind a woman in a white coat. He looked down and realized he stood next to the man reading the Petal Darker paperback. Just like the guy in the suit who was shot in the back.
Parker felt a firm bump from behind.
He looked up.
The woman in the white coat had backed into him without noticing. The security guard was facing him. Watching him.
Parker tried to act casual. He looked down at the man holding the book.
The man glanced up at him, then down at the book in his hands. He closed the book and slid it into his coat, stood, and moved across the train to the door, obscuring the view of the security guard.
Another drop of sweat dripped from Parker’s armpit.
The south tower drew steadily closer. Thousands of windows reflected blue sky like diamonds sparkling underwater. As was the case with most buildings in Kingdom City, each window of Sky City South was also a transparent solar array gathering electricity to power the building’s electrical and HVAC systems, and the anti-aircraft weapons and myriad ground defense monitoring systems. Employees charged their vehicles while they were at work. Excess power was sold as a commodity to other businesses or sold to power companies at a standard market rate averaging ten to fourteen percent profit; not as good as selling privately but more readily available. Protest groups screamed about Global Cooling resulting from a loss of ambient heat in the atmosphere; heat that would normally be returned to the environment was being gobbled up by solar cells and, according to the protestors, hurtling the entire planet headlong into another ice age. It was impossible to know who was right, but prudence and sensible conservation seemed appropriate.
The stolen poster shifted inside Parker’s pants. He tried not to think about the security guard twelve feet away.
Chapter 5
Why Don’t You
Ask God
To Help You?
On the ground, nearly a mile below, tiny cars and buses and hoards of tiny yellow cabs and countless tiny people bustled about. The gold domes of mosques stood out among the other buildings. The sun glinted off the pointed spires of cathedrals. Parker counted five synagogues. A handful of buildings supported tall crosses on their rooftops, the marks of nondenominational houses of worship.
Nearly all of the holy buildings were still blackened and charred by the fires set there. Some were being rebuilt. Most were not. The church Regina Black attended had been rebuilt twice. Bubba said Pastor Larry was lobbying for federal funds to begin the reconstruction process yet again. In the meantime he and his mom and the other parishioners were meeting in small groups to worship in each other’s homes. Everyone brought a dish of some kind, a tuna casserole with ruffled potato chips on top, salad with tomatoes and croutons Bubba devoured with black plastic tongs, a cherry pie, a spicy carrot cake. With the constant rash of arson, the Kingdom City Fire Department certainly had its hands full. Who was setting the fires, burning the holy places, remained a mystery.
Across the city loomed Sky City West. Like Sky City North and Sky City South, the third and newest tower stood far taller than the scores of buildings around it, nearly complete but still covered by a network of silver scaffolding and wrapped in black safety nets. The black netting wrapped nearly every building in the city. It gave the city a dark feel, the buildings like mourners standing together at a funeral.
Gradually, however, construction was being completed and the nets and scaffolding were being removed. The new buildings glowed in the sun. The netting would be removed from the west tower in the coming days, just in time for its dedication prior to the opening of The Games. Transcendental Tal had probably bought a place in Sky City West. Colby Max, too. They could afford it.
Parker’s gaze drifted toward Sky City South. Graffiti adorned the blue glass, white letters three stories high: Wake Up! He saw it each time he rode the Redline from the north tower. Who had put the words there and what had they intended them to mean? The message was painted next to the monorail tunnel. Whoever had painted it must have come through the tunnel and scaled the side of the building. Who would be so intent on conveying their message that they would scale the smooth glass of the building more than two thousand feet above the ground? Wake Up! Parker hoped he was awake.
The south tower gleamed as the train approached, and Parker snuck a look at the security guard. The man stood holding the silver pole, his eyes fixed on Parker.
The Redline entered the dark tunnel. It glided into the Sky City South station, red flashing lights and automated female voice announcing its arrival. Parker checked the security guard again, found him still watching.
The doors whooshed open. Parker shoved the woman in the white coat aside and leaped out the door.
He made his way through the throngs of people to the express elevators, never looking back.
He boarded an elevator and waited for the doors to close, waited for the security guard to appear.
The doors closed. He was safe.
He stood in the corner, willing himself to stay awake. Exhaustion was once again invade his body like a virus. The benefits of his momentary nap in the park were wearing off. Only felony-induced adrenaline propelled him now.
He rode down to his floor, waiting patiently for the car to come to a complete stop and the doors to open. The poster was cold against his thigh while he walked down the long gray hallway, until he was at last safe in his empty apartment.
Parker went into the kitchen. He pulled the poster out of his pants and set it on the glass tabletop. He opened the pantry and grabbed the big green box of Astr-O’s cereal. The hologram of Colby Max came to life. In one hand, Colby cradled a white bowl of cereal teeming with black and green O’s. With his other hand he drove his silver spoon into the air. “Take it to the max!” the holographic Colby declared.
“Shut up,” said Parker.
“Take it to the max!” the holographic Colby repeated. He again raised his spoon aloft.
Parker forced himself not to reply. Colby Max always had to have the last word. For the hundredth time, Parker considered removing the power cell, but it was buried somewhere at the bottom of the box.
Dinner consisted of a few handfuls of the dry cereal and an old banana Bubba had somehow left in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator. The spotted fruit was mushy and it collapsed onto the back of Parker’s hand as he unzipped the thin brown peel. He licked the banana off the back of his hand and drank from the kitchen faucet, ignoring the clean glasses in the cupboard, glasses purchased by his mom a little more than three years ago. He sat at the kitchen table and stared out the giant windows. The sun disappeared behind the column of the south tower. The city slowly turned orange and then brown beneath a fading indigo sky. The stolen poster rested at the far end of the glass table top, taunting him.
Evening passed into night. The heat returned to Parker’s face and eyes. The jittery queasiness of exhaustion returned to his chest and stomach. His eyes stung. How much longer could he stay awake? A vibration shook the floor. The glasses rattled against each other inside their cupboard. A monorail rushed by, humming along the track mounted to the outside of the building, one floor below. It was a Redline, a fast-mover. Its pulsating red beacon glowed in the night, punctuated by steady flashes from its white anticollision lights. The Redline was on its way to Sky City North, probably carrying people on their way to a nice dinner or the cinema, perhaps to a sushi restaurant where they would eat with fine acrylic chopsticks and feel cosmopolitan before they went to one of the dozen discotheques where they would gyrate until dawn, and forget about the war.
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