 
### A Shadow Passed Over the Son

Book One of The Go-Kids

by

Ryan Schneider

SUMMARY:

A Shadow Passed Over the Son is the first installment of the adult-friendly (PG-13) epic adventure serial series The Go-Kids, quality science fiction from award-winning writer Ryan Schneider.

Parker Perkins lives in Manhattan with his mom and dad. Today is Parker's 10th birthday. But Parker's birthday takes a sudden turn and his life will never be the same.

A Shadow Passed Over the Son is far more than a kids' story. It is a story about growing up, friendship, and the challenge of moral choices. Ride along during the ongoing adventures of Parker, Sunny, Bubba, Igby, and Colby, characters readers will come to know and love.

Books 1-5 now available.

Book 6 coming June 2013!
Copyright © 2009, 2013 Ryan Schneider

All Rights Reserved

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook may not be re-sold but it may be given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please share it with as many people as possible. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, hey great – free book! Thank you for enjoying the hard work of this author.

First Edition

For my wife Taliya.

You believe in me

and in my purpose

each and every day.

Ani ohev otach.

I Love You.
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 to be 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'd barely slept because of it. And he'd had a horrible nightmare. It had mostly faded now. But he recalled a girl screaming.

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. 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 Parker. His radio crackled. A woman's garbled voice droned out of it. The officer watched Parker for a moment longer, 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.

Parker 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.

Parker 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 for him 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. "Bring on the war mice." He tapped the inside of the canopy touch-screen.

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 the 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."

"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 later."

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 front loaders and dump trucks 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. Parker recognized the insignia from the uniforms of French soldiers he'd seen at The Cloud Deck restaurant. 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.

"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 of Sky City South. 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. Parker wondered what it was 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 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. 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.

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. 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 into a deep dark pit. The same pit that often appeared in his dreams, threatening to devour him alive.

He heard a sound.

A roaring below.

A sound he'd never heard before.

It grew louder, and then louder still, coming closer.

Panic took control.

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.

Parker 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. Parker had 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 a 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 monorail 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. Parker 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 very 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.

He noticed something strange.

Graffiti adorned the blue glass, white letters three stories high: Wake Up! 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 five 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 lights flashed. An automated female voice announced 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 stood in the corner, willing himself to stay awake. Exhaustion was once again invading 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, until the car came to a complete stop and the doors opened.

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.

Parker rose from the table, picked up the poster, and walked to his bedroom. He unwrapped it, stood on his bed, pushed a dozen red tacks into the ceiling around the perimeter of the poster, and mounted Tal firmly in place over his bed.

He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his jeans, swapped his t-shirt for a nightshirt, and stood in the corner, his back against the wall.

Outside, in the darkness, the lights of the Kingdom City skyline twinkled 147 stories below.

Parker studied his bed. Blankets turned back. Pillow cool and inviting. The bed appeared safe.

But it wasn't.

Nor was his parents' wide, empty bed in the other room. Nor the floor. Nor the bathtub. Not even the kitchen table.

No matter where he slept, the nightmares came.

He looked up, at the ceiling. At her. Tal. She'd helped in the park, maybe she could help here at home.

Parker walked over to his bed.

He lay down.

Pulled the blankets up to his chest.

He was afraid to move. His eyes twitched. His face was hot. His hands were cold. He wondered if he had a fever. He could call Bubba and borrow a thermometer. Bubba was probably still awake. But if Mrs. Black found out, she would either insist he sleep over or insist Bubba go up to the market to buy some disgusting medicine.

Parker decided he didn't have a fever. He gazed at the ceiling above him. He decided to concentrate on Tal. He'd unfurled the poster to find her standing in the cockpit of a black fighter jet. He wondered if it were a real, prototype aircraft or if it were merely a plywood and epoxy mockup, disguised by an expensive paint job. The Grim Reaper adorned the tall tail of the jet, black robe fluttering. Tal was wriggling out of a tight green flight suit. Strands of her coffee-colored hair fell against the shiny silk straps of her lacy white brassiere. Parker had no idea what the poster had to do with music, but he liked it.

"Help me, Tal."

Why don't you ask God to help you?

That voice again, speaking to him from somewhere between his ears and his mind, what most people no doubt referred to as a conscience. But sometimes, like now, Parker suspected it was more than just his conscience. A conscience came from within, provided instructions for day to day living, helped differentiate right from wrong. This was different. This . . . voice, for lack of a better word, issued commands: Thou shalt not steal, although he had. The voice also knew things. Lately, he'd begun arguing with it.

If there were a God, He wouldn't let me endure this. Parker stared into Tal's eyes. "Help me, Tal."

He let his eyelids drop. He took a deep breath and let it out.

He opened one eye.

She was still there.

Behind her, the Grim Reaper's skeletal hands clutched the stick of his scythe. Death lurked in the background, waiting. Parker closed his eye.

A pit of blackness opened beneath him where the bed had been, pillow and blankets gone. He was falling. He heard a cavernous roar.

He was falling.

He reached out. Hot syrup, black like old oil, poured on his hands and feet in searing cold-hot agony.

Falling.

Falling.

Deeper and deeper.

Into blackness.
Chapter 6

Lucky Thirteen

Parker sat straight up in bed. He gasped for air. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead and flushed face. He flung himself out of bed. The blankets twisted around his legs and he fell to the floor, dragging the mass of bedclothes with him. He checked his hands, back and front. They shook, but they were otherwise normal. He threw back the tangled web of blankets and inspected his bare feet and legs. He checked his bed, the walls, the room around him.

Nothing out of the ordinary. He was home. He had been in bed. It was morning.

He drew a deep breath and held it, then collapsed backward onto the cold hard floor. He closed his eyes tight, pressed on them with the heels of his hands, and exhaled.

He dropped his hands to his sides and opened his eyes. "I need help." On the ceiling, Tal looked down at him from her cockpit. "And more posters."

On the bedside table, next to a glass jelly jar, a scale model of Colby Max's robotic Battle-Suit looked back at him. Strapped inside stood a tiny mechanical boy his age. "What time is it, Colby?"

Glowing red digits appeared above the clock. "Seven-thirty . . . a.m. Time to kick some plasma!" declared the clock.

Parker sat up. "That's for sure."

"Take it to the max!" said the clock.

Tacked to the wall above the clock hung a calendar. The top of the calendar showed Colby Max in his flying robotic suit, rescuing a crippled airliner about to plunge into a blue ocean. Below this, each day for the month of July bore a large red X. The rows of red X's led up to Friday the thirteenth. This day bore a handwritten word: Dad. And below this a little birthday cake with Lucky 13 written inside it.

Parker smiled. All week Bubba had been saying turning thirteen on Friday the thirteenth was malchance . . . bad luck. Each time, Parker shook his head or laughed; he wasn't superstitious. And he had a reason to smile: today, at long last, his dad was coming home.

Parker stood and scooped up the blankets and tossed them on the bed. "That's the last time I sleep here."

He moved to the glass wall spanning the length of his bedroom. A gray mist swirled against the other side of the glass. The usual expanse of the city was obscured, even the ceramic arch of monorail track hugging the building one floor below. Just more gray. As if on cue the whoosh of a morning train swept past. For an instant its red position lights flashed. The window and floor vibrated. Then it grew quiet as the train sailed away toward the north tower, leaving mere fog in its wake. "Since when is there fog in the summer?"

"Take it to the max!" declared the clock.

"Kiss my plasma."

"Take it to the max!"

Parker forced himself not to reply to the clock. Colby Max always had to have the last word. The clock was as bad as the talking cereal box. He again considered discarding the clock. But it had been a gift from Bubba two birthdays ago. To rid himself of the clock would be tantamount to slashing at the bonds of their friendship. And next to Sunny, whose gender put her in a separate, unique category, Bubba was his only friend. Although Bubba understood it was not Colby Max whom Parker worshiped but the Battle-Suit he flew, the verbose clock would remain.

Parker tried to look through the fog at the city he knew was there: maze-like grids of scaffolding and black netting clinging to the ever-rising upper floors of the buildings, rooftop cranes standing out against the morning sky, bobbing and swiveling, lifting tons of building materials. Above the cranes and beyond the fog, the morning sun would already be growing yellow as it climbed into the sky.

He leaned against the window. Three years ago he'd pushed his bed right up against it. At the time, he'd planned to watch the sky for his dad's return flight. When his dad didn't arrive, he'd begun looking for gull-gray military transport planes like the one he'd watched his dad board three years ago. He never saw one. Now, three years later, the whole notion seemed childish.

So he'd gone from watching the sky to watching the city, itself a living organism he'd come to think of as his friend. For three years he'd watched the city grow like a child, its growth slow and imperceptible, until one day the difference was unmistakable and somehow startling. He wondered if his own growth would be perceptible to his dad.

He smiled.

In less than five hours he would see his dad. Would his dad be wearing his uniform? Would he have gray and black cammo-striped paint on his face, his automatic rifle slung over his shoulder and a pistol strapped to his hip? Then Parker realized his dad was coming from the airport so most likely he would look like all the other fathers coming home to visit their sons.

Parker suddenly wanted to escape the dreary morning fog. Fog and birthdays didn't mix. Birthdays deserved warm sunlight brighter than the candles on any birthday cake. The Cloud Deck would provide a better view.

Parker gasped.

The Cloud Deck!

Bubba! He and Bubba had a breakfast date.

How long had he been staring at the fog? He whirled around and checked his alarm clock: 7:52. Bubba would be there any minute and he didn't like to be kept waiting, especially when it came to food.

Parker scanned the floor of his bedroom. He grabbed yesterday's blue jeans and his favorite blue Go-Boy t-shirt. He sniffed each one, decided they were acceptable, and hurriedly swapped t-shirts, then stepped into his jeans, jumping and hopping as he pulled them over his boxers. He remembered the pizza delivery boy in the park yesterday; his shirt had been blue, too. Where did the boy live and sleep? Was his dad was off fighting, too?

Parker ran to the bathroom and smoothed his t-shirt, checking the image of Colby Max on its front. Satisfied, he splashed water on his face and hair, dripping water all over his shirt; why hadn't he waited to get dressed? He loaded his Colby Max toothbrush with blue Colby Max toothpaste and brushed his teeth so fast he rammed the toothbrush into his gums and then gagged when he choked on the frothy blue foam. He gargled with cold water, spit, and stood upright, examining himself in the mirror. He stared into his own eyes; he was supposed to say his affirmations every morning. He tried to say the words. He'd promised his therapist he would say them. More importantly, he'd promised Bubba, and Bubba would surely ask. Sunny would, too. But he hated saying the affirmations. He felt stupid. Besides, he was late!

He ran to his room and grabbed socks and shoes, pulling them on as he hopped out of his bedroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen. The box of Astr-O's cereal sat on the counter where he'd left it. It detected his movement and the smiling hologram came to life. "Take it to the max!" Parker ignored it and hopped over to the videophone. He speed-dialed the Black residence and sat down on the cold tile floor to tie his shoes while he waited for someone to answer.

On the second ring the screen lit up and Mrs. Black appeared. "Hello? Hello? Is this some kind of a joke? Because I can't see you."

"Take it to the max!" said Colby.

Parker knocked over the box of cereal. "I'm down here, Mrs. Black." He stuck his hand in the air and waved.

"Parker!" Mrs. Black smiled. "Happy birthday, honey. I'm baking you a nice cake so you and your dad can come over and have cake and ice cream with Bubba and me later, okay?"

Parker finished tying his shoes and stood so Mrs. Black could see him. "That would kick plasma!"

Mrs. Black wore her trademark purple apron embossed with the smiling face of Ornophelia Savannah. Savvy, as she was known by her beloved legion of fans, was the host of Mrs. Black's favorite program, the wildly popular daytime talkshow Savvy. Savvy was also the wealthiest woman in the country. Regina Black owned not one but two of Savvy's aprons. Last Christmas she let Parker wear her second apron the day she and Bubba and Parker made Christmas cookies. Mrs. Black slipped the bright yellow apron over Parker's head and Bubba tied it for him in the back, quickly making a perfect bow. Parker had looked dubiously at the joyous image of the lovely, caramel-skinned Ornophelia smiling up at him, but an hour later his hands, arms, and most of his face were powdered white with flower and he and Bubba and Mrs. Black were having the time of their lives. Regina showed Parker how to knead the dough and then sprinkle flour on it and roll it flat with the heavy, wooden rolling pin. Bubba showed Parker how to press the silver cookie cutters into the flat, thin dough, and they made cookies in the shapes of trees and angels and ghosts and pumpkins, because those were the only shapes Mrs. Black had, and they laughed at the frosted green Christmas ghosts and the sweet orange Christmas pumpkins. For the better part of that afternoon, Parker forgot about his troubles, and was happy.

On the videophone, Mrs. Black's body shimmied back and forth and the spoon scraped the sides of the metal bowl as she stirred. "Why is your shirt all wet?" She leaned in closer to her screen and her nose and face appeared large and oblong. "Have you been exercising?"

Parker suddenly remembered the red t-shirt Mrs. Black had washed and ironed and put on a hanger for him to hang in his closet. She'd said he should look nice for his big day. "Mrs. Black, has Bubba left yet?"

"Not yet, honey."

As if on cue, Bubba bobbed into the picture over Mrs. Black's shoulder, already a couple inches taller than his mom. Bubba's two pet mice, Colby and Igby, rode on his shoulder like they always did when Bubba was at home.

"Here I am, Park," said Bubba. His teeth crunched on a long piece of crispy bacon. Igby sniffed at it, his little white body standing up on his pink feet.

"Why are you eating bacon?" Parker asked. "Aren't we going to The Cloud Deck?"

"Of course," said Bubba, "but mom always cooks bacon on Friday mornings. You know that. Want me to bring you some?" Bubba held the bacon close to the camera and it loomed extra large on Parker's display. Igby ran down Bubba's arm to the back of Bubba's hand. Igby's mouse nose and whiskers sniffed the camera quickly. He turned and grabbed the bacon in his pink hands and began nibbling loudly with his four tiny teeth.

"No, that's okay."

"Did I tell you Igby likes bacon?"

"Just meet me in the elevator. And don't accidentally forget to stop on my floor this time."

"Is the birthday boy afraid I'm going to get to the buffet line first? That I'll finally beat him at something?" Bubba smiled his toothy grin.

"Just don't forget."

"I won't." Bubba leaned in close to the screen. "Did you say your affirmations?"

"Yes."

"Liar." Bubba always seemed to know when he was lying.

"Just meet me in the elevator."

"God's speed, Lieutenant." Bubba stood upright and snapped off a quick salute before the screen flickered once and went back to displaying the local weather. A smiling sun wearing black sunglasses appeared. Parker looked outside at the fog and shook his head again at the irony of a sunless birthday.

He ran to his room, to his closet. His old wristwatch sat on the middle shelf, where it was plainly visible, and where it had been collecting dust for nearly three years. I think you'd better take off that watch until you're ready to give more than you take. Next to the watch, also where he could see them every day, sat a key-ring looped with blackened keys, the only remains of his mother found at the smoldering elementary school. He tried not to look at them, either. He found the clean red t-shirt Mrs. Black had washed and ironed for him. He jerked the clean shirt from its hanger and exchanged it with the wet one he wore.

Parker hurried to the front door. He reached for his identification key on the table. Its monetary value had reached zero over a week ago. Nevertheless, it had become habit to keep the card always on the table near the front door, beside his most prized possession: a scaled-down yet perfect replica of the Go-Boy Battle-Suit flown by Colby Max, minus its pilot, unlike the verbose alarm clock. His dad had sent the Battle-Suit in the mail along with a note explaining how he had made a few calls and managed to snag it from a toy store in Tokyo, almost a whole month before it was available in U.S. stores for last year's Christmas rush, and it arrived via special delivery the day after the cookie-baking marathon. Parker had chosen this spot to display the Battle-Suit, though he often carried it into his room at night. Bubba had been duly impressed by its authenticity and realistic attention to detail. Even Sunny had marveled at it. The three of them had admired the model and agreed that if they could ever get real Go-Boy suits of their own, the first thing they'd do would be to go up to the roof of The Cloud Deck, look down at the ground five thousand feet below, and jump off. Bubba had said he would do a swan dive. Parker and Sunny had agreed he would be too scared to go through with it.

Parker slid the key into his back pocket. He used the front of his t-shirt to gently wipe some accumulated dust from the Battle-Suit. Would the real thing would be as impressive, or just a cheap mock-up that only looked good onscreen? Would Colby Max be nice? Would he would say, 'Take it to the max!' like he did in his movies and his SuperVision advertisements? Would Go-Boy . . . Unleashed be as good as Go-Boy . . . Forever? Would the line to meet Colby be long? Would his dad have a good time eating pizza and meeting Colby Max and seeing his new film? And most of all, would having his dad home put an end to the nightmares?

Parker took a moment to look at the other object he often carried into his room at night: a big, full-color 3-D lasergraph of himself with his parents . . . both of them. His dad had his arm around his mother. They each rested a hand on Parker's shoulders.

Parker touched the lasergraph. He could almost feel his mother's long blond hair. He could almost smell the warm vanilla scent of her perfume. His mom and dad were both smiling, almost laughing. The photographer had told a dumb joke to coax them to smile: "How do you get Holy water?" He answered, "By boiling the hell out of it." He said all good photographers should strive to capture genuine emotion, otherwise it was a waste of laser-film. Parker, however, had found the joke inappropriate and had not laughed, and in the photograph he was not smiling. His dad had said he looked intense, his mother said handsome, but Parker thought he looked sad. He sometimes thought, in that moment, when they sat for the laser-flash, that he somehow knew something bad was going to happen, that his mother would be taken from them, and it would be forever.

He tried to force the thought out of his mind, like he always did when he looked at the picture. And his mom's blackened keys. And the old wristwatch.

He suddenly remembered Bubba. Bubba was probably waiting for him at the end of the hall, holding the elevator doors open and munching on bacon while all the people in the elevator whined at him to let them get a move on.

Parker unlocked the dead bolt and twisted the handle. He was already formulating something appropriately sarcastic to say to Bubba when he walked face-first into a tall man wearing a dark blue uniform.

The poster.

Tal.

On his ceiling.

The music store.

The security guard . . . .

They found me.
Chapter 7

Malchance

Hot fear chain-reacted in Parker's stomach, flooding his body. He instantly began to sweat. He was going to be arrested. Handcuffed. They would lead him out like a fugitive. People would recognize him and say things like "Ain't that Joe Perkins's boy?"

"I heard he stole an ice cream in the park."

"I heard he stole a loaf of bread from the store 'cause he ain't got no money."

"Doesn't matter, stealin' is wrong."

"His momma Mary was killed in The Attack."

"That's no excuse."

"Such a shame."

None of them would know the truth, and it wouldn't matter because he was going to spend his birthday locked up. And the worst part was that his dad was going to come home from the war only to bail his no-good son out of jail. And all because of a poster of a scantily-clad girl in an airplane.

But not just any girl; it was Transcendental Tal. She was his rose in the darkness.

They would never understand. He wouldn't even try to explain himself. He already wanted to die for the shame of it.

But something in the man's demeanor caught Parker's attention. The man seemed . . . solemn. More so than would be natural while apprehending another juvenile delinquent warphan from Southie.

The man wasn't wearing a badge. He wasn't one of Kingdom City's finest. The uniform wasn't police. It was military. Class A Dress military. It seemed the man might topple over for all the stripes, insignia, ribbons, and crests covering his sleeves, shoulders, and lapels. A gleaming silver eagle shone on his chest. The silver bird bore a shield on its front between outstretched wings. It clutched arrows of war in one claw and an olive branch of peace in the other. Traditionally the bird had looked to its right, to the symbolic peace of the olive branch. But President Chase ordered the national symbol be changed three years ago. After The Attack. The bird still held its head high but it now looked to its left, to the arrows, to the war in which America found herself. The eagle meant the man was an O-6. A colonel.

Beside him stood a man in black, save for a white collar.

This was not about the poster. Their presence outside his door on a Friday morning had nothing to do with a stolen poster of a scantily-glad girl in an airplane, even if she were a famous singer posing with a Top Secret aircraft.

The colonel slowly removed his cap. He locked eyes with Parker.

Parker heard Bubba's voice in his head: Friday the thirteenth . . . malchance . . . bad luck. He knew immediately and without a doubt . . .

. . . Bubba had been right.
Chapter 8

Warphan

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, let'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 room 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

Parker opened the door.

Sunny stood in the hallway, smiling.

Parker had to look up slightly to look at her. Why was she so tall today? "Um, hi."

"Hi! Happy birthday!" She thrust a bright yellow package at him and threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight.

He didn't know what to do. This was their first time sharing such an embrace. He hugged her around the middle, using his free hand. He felt the full length of her body against him, warm and firm. The soft skin of her neck pressed against his face and lips, and her thick blond hair brushed his forehead. She smelled like candy and flowers, the familiar scent of her cherry lip gloss combined with her shampoo or conditioner. He felt strange, like that day sitting alone with Sunny on her bed, when she showed him her pillow book. His heart was beating hard. The only other woman he'd ever hugged was his mother, but it had been nothing like this. Did comparing Sunny to his mother make him a psycho?

Sunny withdrew her embrace. They looked at each other without speaking. Seconds became a moment. Finally, she walked past him and he heard her say, "Hi, Bubba!"

Parker closed the door and went back to the sofa and placed Sunny's gift on the coffee table.

Sunny sat perched very lady-like on the edge of the sofa cushion, her ankles crossed neatly beneath her. It seemed she sat that way a lot lately. She wore a yellow shirt and short white shorts. White high-heeled sandals adorned her bronze feet, explaining why she seemed so tall. Her long blond hair appeared shiny and neatly brushed. She looked like a spring flower. Parker sat on the far end of the sofa and looked away. He stared out the window, feeling heat flush his face, wondering if Sunny and Bubba could see him turning red. He felt so stupid around Sunny lately. How many kids went around comparing their friends to spring flowers?

"I hope you don't mind me stopping by," said Sunny. "Bubba said you guys would be done with breakfast around nine."

How and when had Bubba conveyed this information to Sunny and why didn't he know about it? It had probably happened yesterday, while he was out shoplifting. He looked at Bubba; Bubba winked.

"What time's your dad getting here?" Sunny asked with a big smile. "I can't wait to meet him."

"Um, he's . . . not," said Parker. "He can't make it."

Sunny's mouth dropped open. "Oh, no. What happened?"

"His flight was delayed," said Bubba. "Right, Park?"

Bubba stared at Parker expectantly. Parker saw such caring on Sunny's face and in her eyes that he couldn't bear to go along with Bubba's half-truth.

"Actually, he's missing in action. They told me this morning. They don't know where he is or even if he's alive. They promised to keep me informed."

Sunny put both hands over her mouth. "That's awful. Stupid war . . . ."

"So I was just telling Parker that we should go get a pie and then see Colby Max, just like he planned," said Bubba. "Don't you think that's a good idea, Sunny?" He looked at her with an exaggerated smile.

Sunny didn't say anything. Parker felt her gaze, sensing how he was handling the bad news.

"Don't you think that's better than sitting here like some old fart, moping on his birthday?" Bubba continued. "Today is supposed to be the day he becomes a man," said Bubba, with the same urgent tone.

"I think he's right," said Sunny. "It won't help the situation to sit around and worry about it. That's not what your dad would want. He'd say to go have some fun."

"See!" declared Bubba. "That's exactly what I said. Isn't that exactly what I said, Park?"

"Yes, that's what you said."

"Well then?" Bubba leaped to his feet.

Parker was reminded that for a kid his size Bubba was remarkably quick and light on his feet. Maybe the ballet really was helping. Parker stood. "Okay. Bring on the war mice."

"Now you're talking," said Bubba.

Parker turned to Sunny. "Should I open my present first?"

"Save it for later," said Bubba. "You guys can come over to my place when we get back. My mom's making you a cake, remember? And I'm not supposed to say anything, but she got you a present, too. It's a good one. So let's go. I'm looking forward to that cake and ice cream," said Bubba.

"I don't have any money," said Parker. "My card expired a week ago."

"It's on me," said Bubba.

Parker waited for Sunny's opinion.

"Sounds good to me," she said. "And I can't wait for you to see what I got you."

"Me either," said Parker. He looked at the package on the coffee table. It occurred to him that its bright yellow paper matched Sunny's shirt.

"Besides," said Sunny, "Colby Max is kinda cute."

Parker and Bubba exchanged a horrified look.

"Just kidding," said Sunny. "He's so full of himself he's about to pop."

"Amen," said Bubba. Bubba moved toward Parker's bedroom. "Speaking of popping, I'll be right back. Eel-fo-fair-du pee-pee. How's that, Sunny?

"Marvelous, Bubba," said Sunny. "You'll be translating L'Etranger in no time."

Bubba flashed his handsome grin and went into Parker's bedroom. Parker stood near his end of the sofa, feeling funny. He hated when Sunny and Bubba spoke French and he didn't understand. He hated feeling left out.

"So, did you and Bubba have a nice breakfast?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

Silence.

"This is some strange fog, huh?" said Sunny. "National weather service said it's not just Kingdom City, but New York, D.C., the whole eastern seaboard is covered in it. They're at a complete loss to explain it."

"I hate it."

The sound of a toilet flushing filled the air, followed by running water as Bubba washed his hands. A moment later, Bubba cried out, "What is that?" Bubba appeared in the doorway leading to Parker's bedroom.

"What's what?" Parker asked.

"That." Bubba pointed into Parker's bedroom.

"What is it?" asked Sunny. She rose from the sofa and looked into his bedroom. After a moment she looked at Parker. "Did you really have to put her above your bed?"

A strange mixture of embarrassment and anger filled Parker.

"I thought you said you were broke until your dad got here and re-filled your keycard," said Bubba.

Parker knew he couldn't talk his way out of this. Not without lying to his friends.

"Did you steal it?" said Bubba.

"Parker wouldn't do that," said Sunny. "He could've been arrested."

"I nearly was."

"I knew it!" said Bubba.

Sunny put her hands on her hips. "Parker Joseph Perkins, you didn't."

"You sound just like my mother."

Bubba and Sunny looked at each other, then at the poster.

"Did you really have to put her above your bed?" Sunny repeated.

"I put my poster of her on my wall," said Bubba. "What was I thinking?"

"I guess that gives a whole new meaning to the phrase five-finger discount," said Sunny.

Bubba laughed.

Parker didn't find it funny. He had expected no one to understand, but he had hoped Sunny and Bubba, of all people, would, at the very least, refrain from ridicule.

"Where'd you get it?" asked Sunny.

"Rattle and Hum."

"That's right near Sky City Hobbies and Toys," said Bubba. "You'd better hope they don't see you today."

An image of the security guard flashed in Parker's mind. The white shirt, the gold badge. He was probably standing in the doorway of the music store right now, scanning the crowd for the punk who got away.

"You're not a very good criminal, are you?" asked Sunny.

"Can we just go, please?" said Parker.

"If you don't mind getting locked up on your birthday," said Bubba.

Parker didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He had, after all, already considered this scenario.

"I'm sorry," said Bubba. "Don't worry, momma will have no trouble singing Happy Birthday To You in the joint."

Parker still didn't laugh.

Bubba turned to Sunny. "Looks like the birthday boy is all business."

"He's a hardened criminal," said Sunny, "what do you expect?"

Parker fixed his eyes on Sunny. "Better not tell your mom."

"There's lots of things I don't tell my mom. She thinks I'm still at the mall shopping for new sandals." Sunny pointed her toe, displaying the sandals.

"Those are very pretty. Huh, Park?" said Bubba.

"Uh, right. Very pretty."

"Mom says boys like a girl in heels." Sunny turned and strutted toward the door. Bubba and Parker followed her.

Parker closed the front door and stepped into the hall. He intentionally did not look at the family portrait on the table next to his Battle-Suit model.
Chapter 10

The Games

Parker, Sunny, and Bubba walked down the hall to the express elevator.

Parker reached the elevator doors first, and pressed the call button.

As they boarded, a door in the hallway opened and they looked back. Old Lady Smattering poked her head out of the door to her apartment. Her bright-white eyeballs bulged from their bony sockets beneath her wild eyebrows and frizzy silver hair. Her disembodied head seemed to float a few feet above the floor. She looked at them as if riding the elevator were some sort of crime. She was a night janitor in The Cloud Deck and Parker was amazed to see her awake at this hour of the morning. He felt her staring at him. Did she know about his dad? Had she peered through her peephole at the colonel and the chaplain? Had she heard them say, 'We've got some bad news'? Old Lady Smattering was rumored to be a vicious gossip. By this time tomorrow, every employee of The Cloud Deck would know his dad was M.I.A. Even the regular patrons would find out. Parker knew the next time he walked across the dingy black-and-white checkerboard floor, past Sandy's podium and into the restaurant, people would look at him differently. He would no longer be Parker Perkins, the nice boy from the 147th floor. He would be Parker, the warphan, soon to be a ward of the state. The Cloud Deck was his favorite place to do homework, to look out the window at the city, to chat with Sandy and help her close up at night. But now it felt like a place he never again wanted to visit.

Sunny waved at Old Lady Smattering, who jerked her head inside and slammed her door. The elevator doors closed.

Parker went to the computer display near the door and pressed 2-0-0, the deck number for Monorail Depot South. It was also his standard path to Skycade, and he knew it by heart.

Most of the ninety blue chairs in the elevator were vacant, and Parker went to sit with Bubba and Sunny. He was about to sit down next to Bubba when Bubba kicked him, the toe of his shoe rapping Parker's ankle. Parker curled his right hand into a fist, ready to punch Bubba hard on the shoulder. Bubba opened his eyes wide, his head inclined toward Sunny. Parker realized why Bubba had kicked him: he should sit next to Sunny. He moved toward the vacant seat beside her, careful not to step on Sunny's feet. Her neat, clean toes protruded from the white leather straps of her summer sandals. Her toenails were neatly trimmed and shiny.

"Do you like my sandals?" asked Sunny. "I got a pedicure today. You guys should try it. You get a foot massage, too. It feels so good. I almost fell asleep."

Parker stared at Sunny's toes as they wriggled inside her sandals. He felt funny again and quickly looked away. He surveyed the elevator, searching for a distraction. On one wall of the car loomed a large flat-panel digital display. The screen depicted a schematic of the building and a red dot indicated the elevator's current location. On another wall hung a display of the current weather, including real-time up-to-the-minute temperature, wind speed and direction, and humidity on each of the open-air observation and recreation decks, as well as down on the surface streets far below. The monitor said: SUNNY and Parker glanced at Sunny sitting beside him, then back at the monitor. It depicted the same sun smiling behind dark glasses, despite the blanket of fog shrouding the entire eastern seaboard. A third big monitor displayed a twenty-four-hour news network, complete with global news, sports, and financial data; someone had muted the volume on the newscaster, who stood in the shower, his hair and body wet and covered in a creamy white lather. He caressed a green bottle of shampoo he was tasked with selling between ninety-second segments of actual news.

In the rear of the car stood a dozen tourists, all wearing shiny gold Sky City Plaza Hotel sweatshirts like the ones sold in Sky Gift and Shop. The tourists spoke excitedly in a different language. One gentleman seemed to be explaining the operation of the elevator, motioning with his hands and pointing at the schematic display on the wall.

Everyone leaned ever-so-slightly as the elevator accelerated horizontally. When it reached the outside of the building, the back wall of the elevator slid open like paneled curtains to reveal a massive window looking out onto the city skyline. The gray mist swirled against the glass, obscuring the magnificent view. The tourists chattered and snapped pictures. Parker wondered if they were discussing the peculiar summer fog, photographing the rare meteorological conditions, like the people upstairs at The Cloud Deck had done earlier.

The elevator's computer placed the car on a vertical track and the powerful electromagnets propelled it rapidly upward. Parker was so entranced by the tourists that he didn't feel the car decelerate as it reached its destination. A bell chimed pleasantly and 2-0-0 appeared in bright red numbers above the door. "Two hundredth floor . . . ," declared the elevator proudly. The tourists applauded. They were still clapping as the doors slid shut after the kids had disembarked.

Parker, Sunny, and Bubba stepped into the giant breezeway that was Monorail Depot South. It created the feeling of an old-world train station with a modern theme. On the walls were many large touch-screen displays depicting a zoomable layout of the entire Sky City Plaza, with a distinct flashing red dot indicating You Are Here. Long, glowing strands of fiber-optic cable were embedded in the ground. The cable emitted bright pulses of light like directional arrows, leading to waiting areas of the same color: red, white, blue, green, and yellow. A traveler was thus virtually assured of arriving at his or her destination simply by knowing the color and number of the monorail or elevator of their destination. It was all part of the proposed plan to make the new Kingdom City the most friendly place on Earth. Parker followed the glowing red line and thought of the pink-shoed sky marshal who shot the man for stealing the elderly woman's paperback novel. It seemed Sky City was friendly unless you broke the law, in which case it became most unfriendly. In an age when people respected consequences more than laws, some people were still willing to gamble.

Parker, Sunny, and Bubba followed the bright red line toward the red waiting zone for their train. The depot was a flurry of activity, though not as bustling as during the weekday commutes, when the people traffic could be maddening. They walked past green, blue, and white trains all being boarded. A bell rang out, indicating a train was entering the station and a bright yellow monorail glided into the depot with yellow lights flashing. The bright color reminded Parker of the snug yellow blouse Sunny wore and the gift she'd given him, now sitting on his coffee table, not to be opened until later. The train stopped in the yellow zone just as a second yellow train and a blue train departed down two of the many dark tunnels. The tunnels filled with bright yellow and blue light. Parker often came to the depot in the evenings, and spent an hour or two riding the monorails, enjoying the brilliant glowing lights of the different colored trains, especially as they moved between the enormous towers, rocketing across their tracks like massive glowing worms speeding through the night sky.

Outside the station sprawled a massive open-air recreation deck. It teemed with sidewalk cafes and vendors selling hot dogs and warm, roasted peanuts and big puffs of pink and blue cotton candy spun around long white cardboard cones. Vendors handed treats to excited children while moms dug through their purses for money and dads pulled crisp bills from their billfolds. The food aromas filled the train station with the scent of fresh coffee and candied nuts and warm waffle cones. Parker felt his stomach grumble.

Great pillars and giant archways around the perimeter supported the roof of the deck and the floors above it, and allowed the sun and a gentle breeze to enter. Though this morning, wisps of fog curled through the archways.

Tall oak, pine, and white-barked eucalyptus trees lined the perimeter of the park, and a vast green lawn filled its center. A brown wooden sign painted with yellow letters stood at the entrance to the park: Welcome to Canary Downs. A small lake occupied the very center of the park. Solar energy warmed the water and offered a pleasant place to swim. Despite the wisps of fog drifting through the eaves of the deck, dozens of people were already staking their claims all around the shores of the lake, spreading blankets and unfolding chairs while children waded into the warm, filtered water. This was the park Parker had known for the past three years. People came here at all hours of the day and night. Children came here with their friends and frequently without their parents. The park was safe. But now that he'd been down to the real park, Canary Downs seemed different, smaller.

Parker marveled at the newest and most remarkable feature of the park: an enormous stadium. For the past two years, the city council members of Sky City South had lobbied tirelessly for their city to host The Games. In the end, they had convinced the Commissioner, the Board of Directors, and its Chief Financial Officer, Canary Cherrolet, that the largest, most modern sports arena ever conceived could truly be constructed inside a building; their building. They brought in big-name engineers, architects and contractors, advertising, marketing, and event specialists, all of whom argued confidently that not only could Sky City South physically support the weight of a stadium full of two-hundred thousand screaming fans, but that it would also be an exciting and savvy location for the single largest sporting event in the country. In the end, they beat out the earnest attempts by seven other cities and ground was officially broken using a twenty-four-karat gold shovel. The structure would be known as Canary Ann Stadium, named after the first daughter of Canary Cherrolet, the man who not only provided the gold shovel, but much of the funding for the three mile-high towers of Sky City Plaza itself.

Since that time, construction had been going on around the clock, seven days a week. Now, with the opening ceremonies just a week away, some people feared the worst . . . that as Sky City West readied for its dedication on the celebratory weekend of the opening day of The Games, the stadium simply would not be finished, would not be ready.

"Looks like they've got the upper deck done," said Parker. He and Sunny and Bubba surveyed the stadium from inside the breezeway as they followed the red line glowing on the ground. Passing through the depot on a regular basis had allowed them to witness firsthand the meticulous creation of the stadium.

"I hope we can get tickets," said Bubba.

"My dad said thirty-thousand tickets would be reserved at a substantially discounted price for people who live in the building, in appreciation for all the noise and dust for the past year," said Sunny.

"Where do we get 'em?" asked Bubba.

"At the box office," replied Sunny. "When it's done." The frame of a modest building was situated to one side of the broad thoroughfare leading up to and all the way around the stadium.

"I hope they hurry," said Bubba. "I don't want to miss the opening ceremonies. My mom told me they're putting the finishing touches on the upper floors of Sky City West, even though people are already moving in, and that the dedication is the night before the opening of The Games. There's going to be a party up on the roof, with fireworks. And a carnival and even a roller coaster. She already said she would take us!"

"Uh, neat," said Sunny.

"Sounds like a blast," said Parker. He hoped they couldn't detect his pangs of loneliness at the thought of attending the carnival with Bubba's mom rather than with his own parents. He dared not hope his dad could be home by then.

They reached the red zone and stopped to wait for the next monorail. Parker recalled hurrying to the train yesterday in Sky City North. He remembered the man reading the paperback, remembered he wanted to mention it to Sunny. He thought for a moment. He couldn't recall the title, but he remembered the author. "Hey Sunny, have you read any books by Petal Darker?"

Sunny and Bubba snapped their attention toward Parker. They looked at each other, then back to Parker.

"Where'd you hear that name?" asked Sunny.

"A guy on a train was reading her book."

"Which one?"

He tried to visualize the man and the book he'd been holding. Parker clearly saw the glossy black cover, the raised letters, silver at the top, red at the bottom. "It started with an M."

"Malina?" said Sunny.

"That's the one. Have you read it?"

"I heard her books were on the list," said Bubba.

"What list?" asked Parker. What were they talking about? Why did it seem yet again that Sunny and Bubba knew something he didn't? He looked at Sunny, waiting to find out if she had read the book, then at Bubba, wondering what list he was referring to.

"Ladies first," said Bubba.

"No, I haven't read it," said Sunny. "At least, not all of it. I mean, yes, I read some of it. Most of it, actually. Okay, yes, I've read the whole thing. A girl from school brought it to a slumber party. We read the first two chapters out loud. After that, no one wanted to keep reading."

"It wasn't good?" asked Parker.

"It was awful. Full of sex and death. One girl ran to the bathroom and got sick. Then Lucy's mom came into the room so we had to hide it. Once everyone was asleep I slid it out from under Lucy's pillow and continued reading."

"I knew you would read it," said Parker.

Sunny grinned. "Any book that gets banned is a book I want to read. I don't need the government or my parents or anyone else telling me what books I can read and what books I can't read. This is a free country. I'll decide for myself if a book is any good, thank you."

Parker turned to Bubba. "What's this list you're talking about? And why is it you guys know about this stuff and I don't?"

"The list is the list of banned books," said Bubba. "It's a list of books you can't buy and aren't really even supposed to own. That's all I know. I overheard momma and some of the other church ladies talking about it. It was a long time ago."

"So why haven't I heard of it before now?"

"Beats me," said Bubba. "I guess if you had a mom who . . . ."

Bubba stopped speaking.

"Who was alive?" Parker asked.

"I didn't mean that," said Bubba. "Bad choice of words is all."

"I know. It's okay."

"Anyway," said Sunny, "Petal Darker's books are banned because they're morally questionable and because she professes to align herself with the enemy."

"And because they make thirteen-year-old girls throw up at slumber parties," said Bubba.

A bell rang out. Another train entered the station. They craned their necks to see what color it was. A sleek, candy apple-red train glided into the depot and eased to a stop. Doors hissed open and everyone boarded. Parker and Bubba ran to the front of the train with Sunny hurrying after them. The doors closed silently along the length of the train and red lights flashed on its roof at either end. Parker and Bubba settled into the nose of the train, in the forward compartment below the conductor. They each lay on a blue plastic bench so their faces were inches from the transparent plastic nose bubble. The bullet-nosed monorail eased out of the depot. It moved silently through the dark tunnel, bathing its passengers in red light, accelerated quickly, then emerged at last into the misty daylight. The train zoomed around the outside of the building at ninety miles per hour. The towers themselves were round, allowing high winds to slip past the structures rather than push against them, and the monorail's curved track spiraled around the outside of the tower. For someone lying down in the nose of the monorail, it was almost like flying.

Sunny sat facing the inside of the train, her eyes closed.

"Yee-haw!" shouted Bubba. "Sunny, you really should come up here."

"No, thank-you, Bubba." She held tightly to one of the vertical handrails, her eyes shut tight. The flat panel display on the bulkhead showed the same newscaster, his entire head now covered in foamy white shampoo. He prattled on and on in silence, likely about the war or the sagging global economy or who-knew-what, as the sound was muted here as well; somebody must really not be in the mood for bad news this morning.

The train rode smoothly around the perimeter of the building. So great was the perimeter of Sky City South that the monorail's angle of bank was barely perceptible, nor was there a noticeable G-load pressing passengers against their seats. All in all, the ride was quite pleasant, and Parker wondered again why it frightened Sunny so.

"Here comes the bridge!" yelled Bubba.

The monorail's track straightened out. Parker expected to see the spectacular view of both Sky City North and Sky City West. Normally, the morning sun glinted off their blue glass. Puffy white clouds often danced around the mile-high towers, obscuring various floors, much to the consternation of the visitors on the observation decks. On a similarly cloudy day, Parker and his dad had once gone to the rooftop of their own building, taking along an empty glass jar. Parker's dad had lifted him up into the mist and Parker had captured a jarful of a passing cloud. They laughed and laughed, twirling around and around inside the cloud. That jarful of cloud had sat next to his bed from that day on. Beginning about a year ago, Parker had seen similar jars for sale in Sky Gift and Shop next door to The Cloud Deck. They bore fancy labels and claimed to contain "one hundred percent real clouds." Parker often watched the tourists eagerly plunk down their money. He always remembered that day spent with his dad and wanted to smash every jar to pieces.

"Don't forget to look down!" said Bubba, and Parker snapped out of his reverie. They rushed across the bridge, and he and Bubba looked straight down through the nose of the train, anticipating the magnificent, unobstructed view all the way to the ground below. But they saw only more fog.

Sunny's eyes remained closed. Tightly.

"Did you know if you drop a penny from up here and it hit someone on the ground it would go right through them?" asked Bubba.

"No way," said Parker. How could something as small as a penny could do such a thing?

"Yes, way!" said Bubba. "I saw it on SV, on an ad for money laundering and coin cleaning."

"Is that true, Sunny?"

Sunny still had a firm grip on the handrail. Her eyes were still closed. "How should I know?"

"Your dad's a scientist," said Parker.

"That doesn't mean he goes around dropping pennies from the tops of tall buildings." Sunny shook her head.

Parker wished the monorail had windows which could be opened, wished he had a penny or two in his pocket.

The monorail sailed across the bridge. Parker peered over his shoulder, straining to see the north side of his building, looking for the graffiti he had seen yesterday. But the fog was too dense and he saw only gray.

"What are you looking at?" Bubba asked.

Bubba would know if Parker lied again. "I saw some writing on the side of our building on my way home yesterday. Giant white letters painted on the glass, three stories high."

"After you boosted the poster?" Bubba grinned.

"Yes, after that."

"What did the writing say?" asked Sunny.

"It said Wake Up! It even had an exclamation mark."

"Sounds urgent," said Sunny.

"Sounds like God trying to get your attention," said Bubba.

"I don't think God would use graffiti to get my attention," said Parker.

"Why not?" asked Bubba. "It's no more or less strange than a burning bush or a bolt of lightning or a weeping statue."

"Besides, why would God want to get my attention?"

"Momma would say 'That's for you to find out,' " said Bubba. "Is the writing there now?"

Parker looked over his shoulder again. He saw only fog. "Don't know."

"Then I'd say it was a message meant just for you," said Bubba.

The monorail banked gently and careened around the perimeter of Sky City North.

They entered the tunnel, slowed, and the monorail came to a smooth and gentle halt at the depot. Sunny opened her eyes when Parker bumped into her on their way off the train.

"Ladies first," said Bubba.

"Thank you, Bubba." Sunny stood up gracefully and sauntered toward the door. Parker looked at Bubba. Bubba winked at him. Ladies first. He would have to try and remember that one.

They exited the monorail depot and walked to the bank of escalators that would deposit them into the North Plaza Sky Mall Parker visited yesterday. The designers of Sky City North benefited greatly from the logistic mistakes made in the design of Sky City South. Vast improvements were made in the design of the second tower, with an eye more toward aesthetics and beauty over the raw functionality of Sky City South. One of those designs forced Sky Mall visitors to descend via slow-moving escalators into the vast mall, providing not only a stunning view to enjoy but a chance to survey all the stores, boutiques, and eateries, ensuring a more thorough shopping experience for the visitors and a greater opportunity to collect revenue for the store owners. Not to mention an opportunity for all visitors to be studied by security personnel, both on foot and in the control room via hidden cameras. This included music store security guards.

Parker and Bubba were thoroughly enjoying discussing the descriptive and anatomically-correct implications of being struck on the top of the head by a fast-moving penny. As they neared the mall, it was clear Sunny had heard quite enough about murderous, free-falling coins dropping at nine-point-eight meters per-second-per-second, as described by the ad Bubba had seen on how to literally clean money. Parker had a feeling Sunny was about to vocalize her displeasure when all three of them stopped dead in their tracks.
Chapter 11

No Matter What

Before them, protruding from Sky City Hobbies and Toys, filling almost the entire promenade of the great Sky Mall, was a massive line of people. The line of parents and children and teenagers poured out of the toy store, ran past Fool's Gold Jewelry Store, past the Twist and Shout Soft Pretzel Shoppe, obscured the Yellow Snow-Cone and Lemonade Stand and Rock-n-Cinnamon-Rolls, and completely hid all but the big red sign for HulkaBurger. The line curled around and ran up the opposite side of the mall, obscuring the entrance to both Sky Pups Corndogs and Shepherd's Pie. It even stretched past Rattle and Hum. They would have to walk slowly past the music store if they wanted to stay in line.

"Well . . . ," said Bubba, as they surveyed the long line, "at least we won't go hungry while we wait. You guys want to grab a Triple HulkaBurger first?"

"Let's just get in line," said Parker.

They walked across the promenade to the end of the line and looked around at the sea of people.

Fifteen minutes later, they had moved about five feet.

Fifteen minutes after that, they had moved about another five feet.

"I guess Colby Max has more fans than we thought," said Bubba.

A boy of similar age turned around in line to face Parker, Sunny, and Bubba. He wore a white helmet adorned with sparkling silver and gold lightning bolts like the helmet worn by Colby Max, and a puffy, brown leather bomber jacket with sheep's wool lining the collar and wrists. He grinned at them but didn't say anything. Bubba leaned close to Parker and murmured, "He looks like a potato wearing a helmet." Parker pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing.

"Hi," said Sunny after several minutes of uncomfortable silence.

The boy continued to grin at them from inside the helmet. Finally he droned, "Colby Max is the best pilot in the world."

"No, he's not," said Bubba, "my friend Parker is."

"Nuh-uh," said the boy.

"Is too," said Bubba, "he's had the high-score at Skycade for three months."

"Bubba . . . ," said Parker.

Bubba met Parker's gaze, saw Parker preferred he let it go.

The boy in the helmet turned around and moved forward as the line progressed.

After an hour, the kids were standing in front of Shepherd's Pie. Parker knew the aroma of pizza baking in the brick oven would prove too much for Bubba to resist.

"You smell that?" asked Bubba. He inhaled deeply. "Green bell peppers . . . and black olives . . . and sausage . . . . I'm hungry. You guys want a slice?"

Parker and Sunny shook their heads. "Let's wait until we can go in and sit down," said Sunny, "after we've met Colby Max."

"I'll be right back," said Bubba. He left the line and went into the pizzeria. The line shuffled along and five minutes later Bubba returned carrying a wide triangle of steaming cheese pizza. He folded it in half length-wise so it looked like a taco and took a big bite. "Mmmmmm . . . ." He smiled, his eyes half-closed, nearly lost in ecstasy while he chewed. He held a napkin in each hand and more napkins stuck not only out of his side pockets but from his back pockets as well.

"What's with all the napkins?" said Sunny.

"I dunno," said Bubba, "I just like 'em. You never know when you might spill." He took a hearty bite of his pizza and grinned again as he ate. Parker was well aware of Bubba's habit of requesting extra napkins.

The line inched forward. Parker watched as Rattle and Hum grew steadily closer. He stood on his toes and looked for the security guard, the white shirt and gold badge.

"Nervous?" Bubba smiled as he chewed.

"No."

"Liar."

"Don't worry," said Sunny. "They didn't catch you in the act so you're safe now. If anything happens, just act dumb."

"That won't be hard," said Bubba. He winked at Sunny, studied his slice of pizza, and took a huge bite.

Sunny grinned. Parker smiled, too.

"I should've made you take that poster down and bring it back to the store," said Sunny. "That's what my mom did to me when I stole a Cherry Lip Lover five years ago."

Parker again noticed the sweet cherry sheen on Sunny's lips. "What happened?"

"Nothing," said Sunny. "The store manager pitched a fit and said I should go to jail."

"Were you scared?" Bubba asked, and took another large bite of pizza.

"Not really. Even back then I was pretty sure they wouldn't send an eight-year-old girl to jail for swiping a two-dollar Cherry Lip Lover. I knew that when I took it."

"How'd you get caught?" asked Parker.

"My mom saw me smearing it on my lips. She knew I didn't have any money so I must've stolen it. I screamed and cried and said I was sorry but she still made me take it back the next day and apologize."

"Were you sorry?" asked Parker.

Sunny's head tilted and she looked up at the monorail depot, considering the question. "Yeah," she said at last, "I was. You shouldn't take things that don't belong to you."

Parker thought again of the guy who stole the paperback on the train. He was shot and killed by the sky marshal for taking something that didn't belong to him. "Did you ever steal after that?"

"No," said Sunny. "My dad came to me the next day and put his arms around me and gave me a big hug and said, 'If you ever want something bad enough to steal it, come talk to me and we'll see what we can do.' That was the end of it."

Parker felt he would gladly steal a thousand posters if it meant feeling his dad's arms around him.

The line inched forward until Parker, Sunny, and Bubba were standing in front of Rattle and Hum. There was no sign of the security guard. "I don't see him," said Parker.

"He's probably in line to get Colby's autograph," said Bubba. "I think every mall employee must be in this line."

They crossed the promenade, making their way closer to the entrance to the toy store, standing idly in front of Rock-n-Cinnamon-Rolls. Bubba craned his neck to look inside, probably trying to catch a glimpse of the giant, fresh-baked cinnamon rolls gleaming with warm, melted icing. Without saying a word, he disappeared inside. He returned a few minutes later not with a giant cinnamon roll in his hands but carrying several smaller shrink-wrapped pastries.

"What're those?" asked Parker.

"Frinkies," said Bubba. He smiled as if this explained everything. When he realized his friends were still staring at him he said, "Deep-fried sponge cake. My absolute favorite."

"Since when?" asked Parker.

"Since I was five and I had my first one at Coney Island, in line for the Cyclone. These are Special Edition Go-Boy Frinkies." He held up the package. "Look, you can even enter to win a Go-Boy Battle-Suit." Bubba studied the fine print. "It says to send in one hundred proofs-of-purchase for a chance to enter. Millions will enter, only one will win. Figures. Some lucky sap will be walking around with a Go-Boy Battle-Suit. And some righteous love handles." He tore open one of the crinkly wrappers and took a bite. The crispy outer shell crunched, revealing golden sponge cake inside, surrounding white creamy filling. The white filling smeared on Bubba's lips and the tip of his nose. Bubba grabbed a napkin from his pocket like a gunslinger drawing his six-gun. He daintily dabbed the corners of his mouth as if dining in a classy French restaurant, wiping his mouth with fine silk rather than a cheap paper napkin. Parker and Sunny laughed.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the orphan and his friend Captain Tub O'Lard."

Parker, Sunny, and Bubba turned around to see three boys walking toward them from the exit of the toy store. Leading the way was Brent Spade, followed by Harry and Barry Harvey. Brent grinned his buck-toothed grin. The Harvey boys fell-in behind Brent, where they stood like slobbering gorillas. Though a fair bit shorter than Bubba, they were large for their age. Brent wore his trademark leather flight jacket, covered in aircraft and military insignia patches, identical to the jacket sported by Colby Max on his SV show and in his movies.

"What's that on your nose, Bubba?" asked Brent. "You and your butt buddy been off huffing snowballs again?" Brent shifted his gaze, grinned, and said, "Hi, Sunny."

"What do you want, Brent?" asked Parker. He spat the name as though it were a morsel of rotten meat.

"Oh, I already got what I wanted." Brent held up a cardboard tube. "I shook Colby's hand and he said he really liked my jacket. He's signing posters and eight-by-tens. But they're not free, you have to buy them first. Plus, he's leaving at one o'clock. Doesn't look like you're going to make it." Brent pretended to consult his wristwatch. "Too bad for you guys."

"We'll make it," said Bubba.

"Maybe when you guys move out of the slums, like me, you can be on time," said Brent. About a month after goading Parker and Bubba into exploring Kingdom City Municipal Park in the middle of the night, Brent had changed schools. His dad was a plastic surgeon and opened an office near the top of Sky City North. Their family had moved to the north tower, a fact about which Brent was forever reminding those around him. He and the Harvey boys still spent a great deal of time in Skycade, much to the chagrin of Parker and Bubba.

"I said we'll make it," said Bubba.

"Make it what . . . a Triple HulkaBurger with everything?" asked Brent. He eyed Bubba, who still held a Frinkie in each hand. The dab of white cream filling remained on the tip of Bubba's nose and white napkins still poked out of his pants pockets.

"I like your jacket." The boy in the helmet had turned around and was watching Brent. "It's just like Colby's."

"Shut up, loser," said Brent. "Get a real jacket."

"Back off, Brent," said Parker.

The boy in the helmet looked down at his less-impressive jacket, then hung his head and stared at the ground. He turned back toward the front of the line.

"Hey, Sunny," said Brent, "did you hear about Lonnie? His brother killed himself."

Sunny inhaled audibly and covered her mouth. "What happened?"

"The entire platoon under his command got killed. So they sent him home on leave for a month. The day before he had to ship out to go back to the front, he got up in the morning, bought an old car for five hundred bucks, drove through Jersey and out to the narrows, sat in the car and ate a pizza and drank thirteen Colby Max Longneck Lagers, wrote one letter to his mom, one letter to his dad, and one to Lonnie. Then he put his military-issue pistol to his chest and fired two rounds into his heart."

"That's terrible," said Sunny.

"He was everything Lonnie wanted to be," said Brent. "Now this. Anyway, Lonnie asked if he could throw a party for his brother. His parents went to Key West to shop for a yacht, so he's having a Go-Boy movie marathon slumber party tonight. Pretty much everyone's going. You should come. Lots of kids from school have been asking about you. Especially Lonnie. And if you don't like him, I'm available."

A strange sensation filled Parker's body, originating somewhere near his stomach. His therapist said the naming of a thing takes away the fear of it, and takes away its power. But he couldn't define the feeling, the emotion. It was part anger, part fear, part hurt, part regret. Despite the tragic news about Lonnie's big brother, he wanted to hurt Brent. He tried to stay calm. If he attacked Brent, it wouldn't be like getting suspended from school for a few days; he would probably be arrested. And after having the good fortune of not running into the Rattle and Hum security guard, it would be stupid to get busted now. He took a deep breath. He waited for Sunny's response. Would she accept Brent's invitation? It had been difficult for Sunny to change schools midway through the school year and she often spoke fondly of the kids at her old school, many of whom she had known throughout elementary school. They would probably swim in Lonnie's heated, private pool and order in lots of food and spread out their sleeping bags in Lonnie's home theater. Parker had only met Lonnie once and though Brent was a certifiable jerk, Lonnie seemed like on okay guy. Despite the sad circumstances, there was no doubting it would be a good time.

"I already have plans," said Sunny.

"Plans to dump these losers from Southie and get some real friends whose dads don't neglect their responsibilities?"

Parker lunged at Brent, reaching for his neck. Bubba stopped him, placing an arm across Parker's chest. "No, Park. He's not worth it."

"Listen to Tub O'Lard, Parker," said Brent. "You wouldn't want to get suspended from school. Again. You might get in trouble with your father. Oh, that's right, he's not home. All you've got is that crazy cleaning lady and Tub O'Lard's mom to look after you."

"I'm warning you," said Bubba. He held Parker back, though now with much more effort.

"You couldn't warn an old lady not to pee on her electric blanket," said Brent. "You couldn't warn your mom not to—"

At the mention of his mom, Parker's anger flared. He lunged forward again, harder this time, and Bubba barely held him back. Brent flinched badly and fell backward into the Harvey boys, who just stood there as Brent slid down their legs and landed on his butt on the floor. He got quickly to his feet, one hand rubbing his backside, the other retrieving his cardboard photo-tube from the ground. "Southie losers," he muttered and began backing away. He looked at Sunny. "I'll tell Lonnie you're coming." He turned and walked away. The Harvey boys still just stood there. "Come on!" barked Brent. The Harvey boys turned and walked away.

"How did you put up with his crap in school?" said Parker, turning to Sunny. Before her dad's promotion and their subsequent move to Sky City South, she must have run into Brent almost every day at school. She probably had classes with him. Lonnie, too.

"Brent's desperate for attention," said Sunny, "so he gets it any way he can, even if it means being a clone of someone like Colby Max. The truth is his dad's never home, either. He's too busy running his clinic, doing face-lifts and sucking fat out of those lazy North Sky Country Club women." Sunny took an extra napkin from Bubba's pocket and wiped the white dab of filling from the tip of his nose.

"Thanks," said Bubba.

Parker shook his head as the line inched forward. He imagined Lonnie's brother, sitting there in the cheap car, eating pizza and drinking beer while he looked out at the Atlantic ocean, with the gun on the seat next to him, racked with guilt over the soldiers lost under his command. Parker wondered what he would do if he were in charge and got his friends killed.

An hour later, they were finally inside Sky City Hobbies and Toys. Yet even then there was more waiting to be done. The line wound up and down the rows of toys like a giant snake.

The upside to this was that it afforded an opportunity to explore the store's vast inventory. They played with Mechanical Max the Artificial Pooch, until his batteries died. Then the Bare-Bottom Bears, a variety of rainbow-colored teddy bears which danced in circles and pulled their diapers down. Next was the Pretty Paltry Parakeet, a robotic bird that could sing, poop, and vomit and was available in a variety of yellow, green, or blue hues. Parker didn't know if real parakeets vomited but he did find it somewhat depressing that so many of the toys for sale were artificial representations of the real thing. But, then again, the Go-Boy Battle-Suit they were waiting to see wasn't real, nor was Colby Max a real pilot; he was an actor, paid to pretend to be a pilot. Underneath all the computerized special effects and flying rigs and big-budget studio artifice, Colby was a kid just like them. Parker wondered if Colby's dad was off fighting the war.

He put down the battery-operated digital-video camera making whirring and clicking sounds and looked up at Sunny and Bubba, who had been posing in front of the cheap camera. They looked at him expectantly, wondering why he'd stopped playing.

"Brent was right. I am an orphan. A warphan. They said they might have to put me in base housing, until they can have a judge decide what's best for me, since I'm a minor and can't live alone, without a parent or legal guardian."

"Who said that?" asked Sunny.

"The military guys who paid me a visit this morning."

"Base housing?" said Bubba. "The military base is two hours away, you'll be outside Sky City, in a different school. We'll never see each other!"

"I know."

"They can't," said Bubba. "They just can't. You can live with us! My mom and dad will say it's okay, that's all there is to it."

"So you think my dad's dead?" asked Parker.

"I didn't say that," said Bubba.

"Forget it," said Parker. He knew Bubba hadn't meant to imply the worst about his dad. "They said I would become a 'ward of the state' until I turn eighteen. That means I go into the system, and wait for a foster family to adopt me. Like that would ever happen. Nobody adopts thirteen-year-old kids. Everybody wants a newborn baby. I'll probably get sold off to Unity Up!, brainwashed into preaching Armageddon at your front door, asking if you're square."

Sunny and Bubba exchanged glances but didn't speak.

"Or . . . I could go to military school," continued Parker. "They said under the circumstances they could probably bend a few rules and get me in right away before the Fall term starts next month."

"Where?" asked Sunny.

"Maryland."

"Maryland!" shouted Bubba. The boy in the helmet looked over his shoulder, as did several other people. "It might as well be on the moon!"

"Maryland is just a bit closer than Luna Base," said Sunny. "But you're right." She looked at Parker. "We'd still see you two or three times a year, maybe. But it definitely wouldn't be like it is now."

"Unless . . ., " said Bubba, after a long pause.

Parker and Sunny both looked at him. Parker could see Bubba's mind working.

"Unless we went with you," said Bubba.

"Huh?" said Parker. "You guys live here. You go to school here. Your families are here."

"We'll enroll in the military academy with you," said Bubba. "I'll have my dad make some calls, too. You know, pull some strings. I'll tell him I want to be a commander on a nuclear sub, like him. And Sunny can . . . be a . . . a . . . bio . . . chemical . . . research . . . person. For the Army. She can say she wants to reverse-engineer viruses for them. Like her dad does. They'll love that. We'll be a shoe-in, Park. Whaddya say? I'm in if you're in. Sunny?"

After a long, contemplative pause, Sunny said, "Well, I do like bugs. And my parents will finally be proud of me. And if I'm away at school, I won't have to clean that stupid apartment anymore."

They waited for his answer, virtually holding their breath waiting for him to speak.

"I can't ask you guys to do that," he said at last.

"You're not asking," said Sunny.

"We're volunteering," said Bubba. "In fact, even if you say, 'No,' I'm going to do it anyway."

"Really?" asked Sunny.

"No," said Bubba, "just kidding. I'd be too scared if Parker weren't doing it with me."

They both waited for Parker's answer.

"Well," he began. He took his time choosing his words, "we'll have to wait until I hear from the military guys, about my dad. But if they . . . if they say he's . . . you know . . . ," he couldn't bring himself to say his dad might be dead.

"We know, Parker," said Sunny with a soft smile.

"Well then," Parker continued, "yeah. Absolutely. Count me in."

"Cool," said Bubba. "This way, we can stay together, so we'll always be friends. No matter what."

"No matter what," said Sunny.

"No matter what," said Parker.
Chapter 12

Don't Touch the Merchandise

Parker, Sunny, and Bubba inched down yet another isle of Sky City Hobbies and Toys. After the formation of their military-school friendship pact, there was a tight-lipped embarrassment. Parker had seen this before, when he'd complimented Old Lady Smattering on her new hair-do. They'd passed each other late one evening in The Cloud Deck. He'd gone up there the night his dad left for the airport to return to his unit, the location of which Parker had pleaded to know. His dad had ultimately refused to say. Alone in their apartment that night, Parker lay in bed, tossing and turning until finally throwing on some clothes and going to The Cloud Deck around midnight. Sandy was closing up for the evening and Parker found a smidgeon of comfort in the hot-fudge brownie sundae Sandy had prepared for him. On his way back to the elevator, he'd nearly walked head-on into his reclusive neighbor as she was beginning her night shift. For once she didn't look like an electrocuted zombie. "Your hair looks very pretty today. I mean tonight," Parker said.

"Why, thank you, Parker," she replied. She patted the underside of her hair with her palm.

They endured an uncomfortable silence. She finally freed them both by suggesting he get to bed.

In the toy store, Parker, Sunny, and Bubba avoided looking at each other during a similar silence.

"So!" said Bubba, "Who wants a bite of my last Frinkie?"

Parker felt glad Bubba had been the one to break the trance, confident he wouldn't have been able to do it himself. He and Sunny happily accepted Bubba's gift as he broke the Frinkie into thirds and shared it with his friends. Bubba wiped his hands on a napkin as they chewed in silence, each of them happy to have something to do.

Together they went back to the business of trying to forget they were standing in what was becoming an interminably long line.

Parker busied himself playing with a Firecracker Baseball he'd found out of its package. He and Bubba had spent many summer nights playing baseball in Canary Downs. Parker would hold the ball in his hand and curl his first two fingers over the top of it, placing them on the red seam, with his thumb on the bottom of the smooth leather, and a gap between the ball and his palm. Bubba had explained how this was the key to throwing a good four-seam fastball, one of the fastest pitches in baseball, just like the pros used. Bubba had learned it from his dad, and had readily taught Parker the technique, how to grip-it-and-rip-it. Parker was grateful, and he often practiced gripping and throwing the ball to Bubba, and found he liked the pitch. Whenever he practiced pitching fastballs to Bubba, part of him longed to have learned it from his own father, in a time-honored tradition more about learning how to be a man than how to throw a baseball. When Parker's arm had begun to tire, he and Bubba took out their Firecracker Baseballs. They took turns lobbing balls to each other. Each time they connected, the ball soared into the air. After a few seconds it exploded into a spectacular display of fireworks. He and Bubba were currently hashing out a secret plan to hit them off the roof of Sky City North, hoping to blame it on Brent Spade. They were thus watching Brent whenever he came to Skycade, waiting for him to take off his precious jacket and leave it unattended, so they could quickly swipe it in order that they could leave it at the scene of the crime.

Bubba counted the dead insects he'd noticed inside the fluorescent light fixtures. Sunny talked quietly to herself, eagerly repeating and memorizing the writing printed on a shiny black box containing a Chocolate Critter Kit. Splashy pink-and-green writing on the front of the box boasted it contained not only the dehydrated ready-to-hatch eggs of perfectly edible insects, but also the fondue pot, long, tiny forks, and the chocolate sauce used for dipping. Not suitable for children under eight and some assembly required. Sunny said she could easily find the insects herself in the park and then melt a chocolate bar at home in her mom's double-boiler. The ecstatic kids featured on the box were about to enjoy what looked like wriggling green tomato worms, their fat bodies and little caterpillar legs drenched and dripping with melted chocolate. Sunny said she had seen plenty of those in her mom's garden, crawling on the undersides of leaves. She suggested they would make an excellent interactive appetizer during Parker's birthday party at Bubba's.

"Does that mean you're not going to Lonnie's party?" asked Parker.

"I already made plans with you guys," said Sunny. "I couldn't accept the invitation."

Sunny had answered the question but Parker still felt strange. She said she wasn't going to the party, but did she want to? It was obvious Lonnie liked her. Lonnie and his yacht-buying out-of-town parents. It seemed strange that in a time of war there were people out there living their lives and buying yachts. If so, it made sense that there were also people out there living their lives and having slumber parties. Parties were fun. It was natural for Sunny to want to attend; she had a lot of friends, a lot of people liked her. Including Lonnie. It was natural for Lonnie to like her. But the real question was: Did Sunny like Lonnie?

"We're not really going to eat bugs, are we?" Parked asked.

"Of course not," said Sunny. "This whole insect-eating craze is lunacy if you ask me."

"You guys hungry?" said Bubba. He was eying the chocolate worms on the box Sunny held in her hands. "Wanna blow this off and get a pizza? It's been almost three hours. My feet hurt. My stomach hurts. There's seventeen dead flies, nine dead moths, and thirty-four dead roaches in the lights. Even the worms on that box look appetizing."

"Manduca quinquemaculata," said Sunny.

Parker and Bubba stared blankly. "Man duke-uh what-uh?" said Bubba.

"Quinquemaculata," said Sunny. "It's binomial nomenclature. Naming all plants and animals on earth according to their Genus and Species names. A Swedish botanist guy named Carolus Linnaeus invented it in 1757. Scientific taxonomy. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species. Pretty smart, huh?"

"Did you learn all this at your old school?" asked Bubba.

Sitting next to Lonnie, maybe, thought Parker.

"No," said Sunny, "it says it right here on the box." She showed them the small print.

"Good," said Parker, "I don't feel quite as stupid now."

"But I'm still just as hungry," said Bubba. "Let's go get a pie. Salami and black olives, Park, just the way you like it."

"I am pretty hungry," said Parker. "Sunny?"

"If we leave now," said Sunny, "I can use the extra time to find the tomato worms and maybe some crickets and get the chocolate melting." Parker and Bubba exchanged alarmed looks. "Or we could just eat pizza." She put the Chocolate Critter Kit back on the shelf. "But meeting Colby Max and seeing a real Go-Boy Battle-Suit is your birthday wish. Bring on the war mice, remember?" She surveyed Parker for a moment. "No, I say we stay here. We've come too far to quit now. Besides, I'd rather not ride the monorail again just yet if I can help it. Bubba, can you see the front of the line? We've got to be almost there."

Bubba stood on his toes and tilted his head back. "I can only see heads of hair, balding heads of hair, and baseball caps." He jumped up in the air once, then a second time, then a third. "Yeah, I can see the suit."

"Really?" Parker dropped the Firecracker Baseball into a bin of Semi-Artificial Dog Doo marked Clearance! "What does it look like?"

Bubba jumped up and down, up and down, again and again. People nearby began to look at the boy leaping into the air in the middle of a toy store. "It looks like it does . . . on SV . . . and . . . in the movies." He gasped for breath between bursts of words.

"Cool," said Parker. "We definitely can't leave now."

"But look . . . ." Bubba leaned forward with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He held up his wrist so Parker and Sunny could inspect his Go-Boy watch. The tiny Battle-Suit soared through the sky, pushing puffy white clouds into giant numbers: 12:15. They had about forty-five minutes to get to the front of the line.

"We'll make it," said Sunny.

Parker hoped she were right. If she were wrong, this birthday would be even worse than he'd previously thought.

Thirty minutes later, they were near the front of the line. The store manager, a short, plump man with glasses perched on the tip of his nose and sweat stains under the armpits of his yellow shirt announced Colby Max would be leaving at one o'clock sharp. The line seemed to move a bit faster after that. The swarm of teen-aged toy store employees did their best running the registers and herding the excited fans, even enlisting the help of the handful of bored-looking security guards perched near Colby Max and the impressive Battle-Suit display. A handful of people dressed in business suits hustled to and fro, always hovering protectively over the expensive Battle-Suit. Sunny suggested they were movie studio executive lackeys, sent to baby sit. Try as he might, Parker couldn't quite get a better look at Colby Max or Igby Fry or the Battle-Suit for all the jostling and moving back and forth going on in front of them. Colby and Igby were the same age as Parker, Sunny, and Bubba, and Parker wondered if they would look the same in person as they did on-screen.

At last it was their turn.

The boy in the lightning bolt helmet was yanked forward by his mother. She dragged him over to the table where Colby Max sat, beset by a sea of posters for his new movie and several stacks of glossy black-and-white production still-photos taken during the film shoot. The boy's mom purchased several of Colby Max's eight-and-a-half-by-eleven head shots and he scribbled his name across them. She led her son over to the most amazing thing Parker had ever seen: a life-sized Go-Boy Battle-Suit.

But this one wasn't a cheap plastic piece of junk like those they played with in Skycade. Nor was it the crummy, ill-fitting costumes Parker and Bubba had worn on Halloween the last two years, trick-or-treating their way up and down the endless hallways of Sky City South accumulating pounds of candy they knew they would never be able to finish. This suit was easily eight feet tall. It stood next to the table where Colby Max sat glancing at his watch. There was no sign of Igby Fry. The suit was a brilliant pewter-gray color, with lots of black accents. It gleamed under the lights. It looked like someone had taken a mold of a professional bodybuilder and combined it with a robot and then re-made it as a menacing jet fighter aircraft. Parker looked under the table at its massive black booted feet, then at the enormous hands dangling at the wrists. He couldn't wait to get closer and actually touch it.

The front of the suit was open and a stepped platform placed in front of it. The boy in the helmet stood on the first step and then looked slowly up at the suit, at the broad shoulders, at the shiny black canopy. He slowly removed his white plastic helmet.

He opened his mouth and started to bawl. Tears squirted from the corners of his eyes and he balled-up his fists and started to shake all over, howling. "It's not real! It's not real! It's not real!"

"Next!"

Parker jumped as Colby Max yelled for the person next in line.

The boy's mother dragged him off the platform and out of the store. He could still be heard screaming outside. "It's not real . . . ." The noise finally faded away as they rode slowly up the escalator.

"What a loser, eh, Dad?" Colby Max rolled his eyes. He exchanged looks with a man standing behind him wearing a smart baby-blue pinstriped suit. Colby's dad patted his shoulder.

"Maybe he was scared," said Sunny. She and Parker and Bubba approached the table.

"Maybe he should get a real flight jacket," said Colby.

"Maybe they can't afford one," replied Sunny.

"Maybe his mom should lay-off the bottle and get a job instead of skating by on my tax dollars," said Colby. "The woman stunk like a liquor store. And isn't it time the top one percent of earners in this country stopped paying ninety percent of the taxes? It's un-American. The harder I work and the more money I make, the more I have to pay? No way, Jose. How about if we invert the tax bracket? That way, the more you make, the less you pay. That would encourage people to want to get into those tax brackets and be able to keep more of their money." He looked Sunny up and down. "By the way, may I just say that you, mademoiselle, are simply breathtaking. C'est très magnifique! I know this is completely insane because we just met forty-eight-point-two seconds ago, but I meet a lot of people, most of them female I might add, and none of them compares to you. You are ravishing. And I love your sandals. I know I'm probably coming on too strong and I'm being impulsive, but that's the kind of person I am. When I want something, I go after it. I get out of my own way and I don't listen to anyone who tries to bring me down or talk me out of it. I don't believe in wasting time, either. Life is too short. If you please, indulge me by granting me the joy of learning your name."

Sunny's eyelashes fluttered. Her head tilted to one side. She smiled. "Sunny."

"How apropos." Colby held out his hand.

"I've always thought so." Sunny looked at Colby's outstretched hand. "If I am not mistaken, Mr. Max, a gentleman always waits for a lady to offer her hand. To do otherwise could be considered forward."

"Indeed it could." Colby's hand remained outstretched.

Sunny's smile broadened.

Parker wanted to scream. First Brent and now Colby Max? This had to be a joke. This whole day had to be a joke. The last three years had to be a joke.

"Is there a problem, Colby?" Nearby stood the man in the yellow shirt. The sweat stains were now spreading to his chest.

"I told you to call me 'Mr. Max,' " said Colby. "Dad, he's not calling me 'Mr. Max.' " Colby turned back to the man in the yellow shirt. "What happened to the other store manager? Don't make me call the studio. Barbie can get Terry Hawthorne on the phone in a heartbeat. 'Here's your chilidog, Terry.' 'Thanks, babe.' 'Hey Moody, you owe me a year's worth of lunches.' "

Parker watched and listened as Colby's voice and expression changed. Nothing Colby said was making sense. Why was he talking about chili dogs? Who was Moody and why did he owe a year's worth of lunches? Then Parker realized what Colby was doing: he was acting.

"'Ricky!' 'What?' 'Where am I and how the hell do I get out of here?' 'C'mon.' 'Rudy the Rabbit, Rudy the Rabbit.' 'It just doesn't matter, it just doesn't matter, it just doesn't matter.' 'It's in the hole! It's in the hole.' 'Come in, Ray. It's right here. It's looking at me.' 'This city is about to face a disaster of Biblical proportions.' 'Well, he's ugly. He's not Elephant Man-ugly, but he's not attractive. Was his father ugly?' " Colby turned to Sunny. "'You can't go! All the plants are gonna die!' 'In the past four hours, I've lost my car, my job, my apartment, and my girlfriend.' 'Chicks dig me, because I rarely wear underwear and when I do it's usually something unusual.' 'Oh, God, I wish I was a loofah.' 'Son of beach, sheet. SON OF BEACH, SHEET!' "

Parker watched Colby look directly at him and say, "'I think we're getting into a weird area here, tootsie. I'm just afraid you're going to burn in hell for all this.' 'For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.' 'Would you like to join my crew? I'll order you a red cap and a Speedo.' " Colby closed his eyes, raised both hands, and said, "And . . . scene!" He open his eyes and began to bow repeatedly. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Everyone began to applaud. Parker looked around and saw everyone clapping, even Sunny and Bubba. Everything Colby just said seemed more like schizophrenic rambling than like acting. He hadn't understood any of it. Yet everyone stood applauding and smiling and shaking their heads in disbelief and admiration.

"You know," said Colby, "I had a job once buying fabric for Terry Hawthorne's wife. I went to their house. I knew very well who Terry Hawthorne was. To be in their house was quite surreal. She gave me a soda and the name of a fabric she wanted. So my dad drove me downtown to this one fabric store she said had the fabric and it took forty-five minutes to park and they didn't have the fabric so I had to call her and tell her. I could hear the disappointment in her voice. A few days later I got the part in the first Go-Boy film and the rest is history. I often wonder what would have happened if I had found the fabric. But like I said," Colby suddenly became angry again, "don't make me get Terry on the phone!" He snapped his fingers and a young woman with bobbing curly yellow hair and wearing a tight red business suit stepped tentatively forward.

The man in the yellow shirt forced a smile. "I'm Mr. Alvin," he stammered, "I'm, uh, also a store manager." He turned to Parker, Sunny, and Bubba. "Welcome to Sky City Hobbies and Toys. Why don't you two get an autograph from Colby—er, Mr. Max—while you get your picture in the suit." He carefully escorted Parker to the Battle-Suit and watched closely as Parker climbed the platform. Nearby stood a sleepy-looking photographer cradling an impressive black laser-film camera. The sleeveless vest he wore was rampant with little pockets and zippers and covered with small flags from countries all around the world. Around his neck hung a black leather string to which many large, sharp-looking teeth were attached.

"Come on, kid, up you go," said the photographer. Barbie looked on uncertainly. The executive lackeys stood behind her, one eye on Colby, the other on the Battle-Suit.

Parker slowly mounted the steps. He heard the photographer mutter something about combat photojournalism and never again working with kids or animals or robots.

"Isn't Colby handsome?"

From atop the steps Parker saw a tall, thin woman with curly hair and dangling earrings sitting in a chair behind a cardboard display for Go-Boy . . . Unleashed. She had only become visible when he ascended the platform steps. She smiled up at him.

"Ma!" said Colby, "how many times have I gotta tell ya not to embarrass me in front of my public?"

"I'm sorry, honey, but I'm just so proud of you."

"My mother, Ginny," said Colby to Sunny and Bubba. "Say, 'hi,' ma."

"Hello," said Ginny. Her grandmotherly-sweet voice seemed to come from out of thin air as she sat behind the cardboard display. She batted her big blue eyes at Parker. She and Old Lady Smattering ought to get together for tea.

Parker reached the top step and recalled why he was there. He put his hand on the breastplate of the suit. It was cool and smooth.

"Don't touch the merchandise, kid," said the man in the pinstriped suit. It was Colby's dad. Barbie and the lackeys exchanged nervous looks.

"But I thought—"

"You thought wrong. Didn't you see the sign?" He pointed to a red and white sign dangling from the Battle-Suit's wrist by a white string: DON'T TOUCH.

"It's okay, dad," said Colby. "He wouldn't know what to do with it anyway."

"Wanna bet?" said Bubba.

"How much?" snapped Colby.

"All the tea in China," said Bubba.

Colby rolled his eyes again. "That's stupid. What would I do with all the tea in China? I love a steaming hot mug of Earl Gray, but I could never use all the tea in China. And I sure don't want to be remembered as the guy who took all the tea away from China, even if I did win it fair-and-square. Besides, you don't own the tea in China so you can't wager with it."

"Well, then . . .," said Bubba, grasping for a response.

"It's okay, Bubba," said Parker, "if he's afraid I might damage his cute little plastic suit, it's okay."

"Plastic!" said Colby. He jumped up from his chair and walked over to Parker and the Go-Boy suit. Barbie began chewing on her red fingernails. "This thing is pure titanium," said Colby. He knocked on the breastplate. It made a solid, impressive sound. "Super strong but extremely light."

"What about this?" Parker tapped on the black canopy. "Plastic, right?"

"Heck, no!" said Colby. "Photosensitive transparent aluminum, courtesy of Mr. Scot, like on the monorail I rode this morning. Except better, of course."

"The production team spared no expense on the mock-up," said Colby's dad. "Everything was detailed to the exact specifications of Dr. Igby." He pointed to a second life-sized cardboard cut-out image of a boy with short brown hair and glasses, wearing an oversized lab coat with his sleeves rolled up. "Sorry he couldn't be here today. He's at home. Sick."

"As usual," muttered Colby, though Parker heard him clearly. He wondered if Igby knew his co-star and supposed friend spoke so derisively of him in his absence. Parker had read that the two boys were very close, though there were rumors Colby was jealous of Igby's triple doctorate degrees and genius-level Intelligence Quotient. Parker was beginning to think those rumors had substance to them. This gave him an idea.

"I guess I won't get in it," said Parker, "since Igby's not here and everything. We wouldn't want to mess anything up."

"I'm the lead pilot," said Colby. "Not Igby. He's the hamster running on the wheel back at the lab, wearing that dumb coat that's too big for him."

"Still," said Parker, "he'd be mad if we broke something."

Colby rolled his eyes a third time. "We're not going to break anything. Besides, it's my suit. I fly it and I can do what I want with it. So, if you want, you can get in it. But just for a minute." Barbie yanked a fingernail completely off with her teeth. The lackeys whispered to each other.

"Colby, I'm not sure this is a good idea," said Colby's dad through clenched teeth and a phony, well-veneered smile. "Think of the potential liability."

"I'm the star and I say it's okay. Besides, Dad, you've gotta keep your fans happy! First rule of show business. The second rule of course being always leave 'em wanting more. Which is why we're going to make this quick."

Parker looked over at Bubba and Sunny, who stood there like deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Their friend was not only arguing with the biggest SuperVision and movie star in the world but was actually tricking him into encouraging a complete stranger to try on the one-and-only Go-Boy Battle-Suit.

"Colby was always such a generous boy," said Ginny from behind her cardboard.

"Ma!" Colby rolled his eyes again.

"But that's how I raised you," said Ginny. Colby and his dad exchanged a look and this time they both rolled their eyes.

Parker stepped onto the knee joint of the Battle-Suit. He swung one leg and then the other into the cockpit and slid into the suit, just as he had a thousand times before at Skycade. He reached his hands down into the arms, where he carefully pushed his hands into the soft gloves at the ends. He made a fist, then opened it, and watched in amazement as Go-Boy's massive metal hand matched his every movement. It may not have been real, like the boy in the plastic helmet had said, but it was the next best thing.

"This is cool!" said Parker.

But his head was inside the cockpit and Sunny and Bubba and Ginny all said, "What?"

Go-Boy's arm moved up, bent at the elbow, and the long black index finger tapped a button below the black canopy and it whisked open, revealing Parker's beaming face.

"I said, this is cool."

"You want your picture taken now or what?" said the photographer. His shutter clicked several times as he made lasergraphs of Parker.

"How do I look?" Parker asked.

"Like you were born to wear that suit," said Sunny. Bubba nodded vigorously.

"Just one problem, kid," said Colby.

"His name's Parker," said Bubba.

"There's just one problem, Parker," Colby continued, "this is my suit. So, someday when you've spent your whole life making a name for yourself in showbiz and you get your own SuperVision show and a four-picture deal, then you can have your own Go-Boy. Until then, scram, because it's one o'clock and time's up."

Mr. Alvin stepped forward and spoke to Colby's dad. "He can't leave yet. What about all these people? They're likely to riot."

"He was never going to meet all of 'em anyway," said Colby's dad. "Give 'em a free poster and say better luck next time. We might be back next year. Colby does have a four-picture deal, you know."

"And I will have to deal with all these irate people. He can't just leave!"

"Well . . . too bad!" said Colby's dad. "Colby needs his lunch now."

"And it better not be bagels!" added Colby. "I'm sick of bagels. Bye!"

All at once the toy store was a mess of shouting, angry people. The people in the front of the line shouted about their chance to meet Colby. The people in the back of the line pushed against those in front of them, who in turn pushed back. The pimple-faced store employees and the no-longer bored security guards fought hopelessly to calm everyone down.

In the chaos, no one noticed as the back door of the store opened and four men in dark suits entered. They strode through the swinging door onto the sales floor. In mere moments they had surrounded the autograph signing area. One of them grabbed the photographer's camera, opened it with a brief burst of red laser light, and yanked out the roll of film, spilling its entire length onto the floor.

"You just cost me a day's work!" shouted the photographer, though no one heard him or paid any attention.

Two other men kept an eye on the sea of people, looking malevolently at the mothers and fathers of the countless crestfallen children still in line.

Another man grabbed Parker around the waist and pulled him out of the Battle-Suit. He tossed Parker over his shoulder and walked through the still-swinging door to the warehouse. The other men stopped what they were doing and followed him through the door.

Mr. Alvin and Colby's dad were still shouting face to face, like an umpire and a coach arguing over a call during a baseball game.

Sunny and Bubba stood motionless next to Colby, who had been forced off the step-platform when Parker was yanked from the Battle-Suit.

The headlights on the car bearing down on them seemed to have just gotten much brighter.
Chapter 13

Riding a Camel

The door swung shut behind Parker, separating him from the confusion and din of the toy store, separating him from his friends. Through the little round window in the door, he met the eyes of Sunny and Bubba. They stared at him, their mouths open. They obviously felt the same way he did: What in the world was going on?

"What's going on?" Parker asked. I must be in shock, he thought to himself. Was this what shock felt like? He pushed on the man's back to try and sit up, to see the man's face. It didn't work. The man walked quickly, bouncing, and Parker felt the man's shoulder dig into his gut with each step. Parker suddenly remembered when he was five years old and his dad took him to the circus. Parker had insisted upon riding the camel. After one trip around the tiny oval, he'd slid off the camel's back, falling to the dust and straw floor of the warm, smelly tent. Who knew riding a camel was so uncomfortable?

Am I being kidnapped?

A complete stranger had grabbed him and carried him away.

That's it, he realized, I'm being kidnapped.

What kind of birthday was this?

An entire store full of snot-nosed brats and they grabbed ME?

What should I do?

He tried to think. What had the school nurse said to do in this situation? Stop, drop, and roll? No, that was to be employed in the event you found yourself on fire. What had she sad about kidnapping? He couldn't remember! He never paid any attention to that stuff. He remembered the nurse digging through his hair with a wooden tongue-depressor in search of lice, then something about how to poke a hole in the front of someone's neck with a pen if they were choking and that Heinie-lick Maneuver-thing hadn't worked. But he couldn't recall ever hearing anything about what to do when a bunch of men in dark suits stole you out the back door of a toy store. Why hadn't he paid more attention in school?!

"Help!" he shouted. The bouncing-man's shoulder made it difficult to draw air and his shout came out weak and pathetic.

"Shut-up," said the man.

Parker could see only the cement floor of the warehouse and the alternating shiny black heels of the man's shoes as he walked. His mind raced. He tried to think of something, anything.

He had another idea.

He waited long enough to draw several shallow breaths and with all his might screamed, "FIRE!"

He'd seen an ad on SuperVision about how people on the street never respond to cries for help because they don't want to get involved, but everybody comes running when someone yells Fire! The host of the show wasn't sure why onlookers responded this way, though he speculated it had something to do with the innate arsonist in all of us. Parker figured people were just curious about fires because they saw them so rarely. Or perhaps it had something to do with destruction of property or loss of life or with catching on fire themselves. Stop, drop, and roll.

Parker drew breath between steps so he could shout 'fire' again. He opened his mouth to scream. Another man grabbed his cheeks and stuffed something into his mouth. It felt like one of his mom's silk scarves his dad still kept folded neatly in their bureau drawer, beside their bed he still kept as well. Then a wide strip of silver tape was stuck over Parker's mouth.

"He said to shut-up," said the man with the tape. The man then took out a long white plastic zip-tie and cinched it tightly around Parker's wrists, binding them together behind his back. Parker felt another strap his legs together at the ankles.

"Sorry, kid, but this is for your own good."

Parker lifted his head to see what could possibly be for his own good. He tried to turn away as the man slid a black hood over his head. He could no longer see the shiny black heels of the man carrying him. He couldn't see anything. There weren't even any tiny holes in the hood's fabric through which at least some light shone.

Parker wondered if he should be scared, and only then did he realize that he was. In fact, he was terrified.

In that moment, Parker wished more than he had ever wished for anything in his entire life that his dad had come home from the war that morning. Never before had he realized how much he loved and missed and wanted his father. He was almost glad he had a stupid black hood on his head because the kidnappers couldn't see the tears rolling down his cheeks as he quietly began to cry.

*** ***
And now, here's a sneak peek at the next installment:

### Hallowed Be Thy Name

Book 2 of THE GO-KIDS
Chapter 1

A Single Prayer

Back in the chaos and noise of Sky City Hobbies and Toys, Sunny and Bubba turned and looked at one another, their mouths still agape.

"What just happened?" shouted Sunny.

"Some guys just stole Parker," shouted Bubba.

"Wait 'til they hear from my lawyer!" shouted Colby.

Sunny and Bubba exchanged a look: Colby had clearly missed the point.

Colby's dad and Mr. Alvin shouted and called each other names, spittle flying from their wet, shiny lips. The people in the front of the line yelled and waved their arms, commiserating with the people behind them and fighting to get Mr. Alvin's attention.

"Come on!" said Sunny, and she ran for the warehouse door. Bubba ran after her.

Colby watched them go. "Hey! Wait for me!" He ran for the door.

"Bye, Colbeeeee . . . ."

Colby stopped as he reached the door. He looked back and saw his mom still sitting behind the big cardboard cut-out. She waved, smiling proudly at him. He shoved the door open and ran through the warehouse, packed with tall shelves full of toys and games and hobby supplies.

He ran to the back of the warehouse. A big sign suspended from the rafters by chains read Shipping & Receiving. Black and yellow-striped forklifts were lined up along the back wall, all plugged-in to their recharging stations like giant sleeping wasps. Sunny and Bubba exited through a side door and Colby sprinted after them. The door read Freight Elevator.

On the other side stretched a wide, vast hallway. Tire marks left by busy forklifts covered the cement floor. Along one wall lurked a series of metal roll-up doors, the receiving docks for stores on this side of the mall. Colby ran hard and caught up to Sunny and Bubba halfway down the corridor.

"Where're you guys going?" he panted as he ran alongside them.

"They went through there," said Bubba. He pointed ahead. Far away, at the other end of the long corridor, loomed another massive roll-up door. Next to it was a regular sized man-door. Sunny, Bubba, and Colby ran for it. Bubba began to fall behind.

"Our father . . . who art in heaven . . . " he yelled, ". . . hallowed be thy name!"

"Are you praying for Parker?" Sunny called over her shoulder.

"I'm praying not to puke!" Bubba yelled.

Sunny and Colby reached the door, turned the handle and yanked it open. Bubba came pounding up behind them.

Inside was a second corridor. Instead of roll-up doors, it held great freight elevators, a dozen or more. Each freight elevator was a massive square platform surrounded on four sides by shiny aluminum fences, the front and back of which was built to slide up, allowing access to the enormous platform inside; load from one side, unload from the other; another lesson in efficiency learned from Sky City South. The closest elevator was descending, its overhead machinery and pulleys and flywheels spun and hummed and whirred loudly.

"Now what?" shouted Bubba.

"We have to follow," said Sunny.

"What?" said Bubba.

"Follow!" repeated Sunny.

"How do we know they're in there?" said Bubba.

"There aren't any other exits, stupid," said Colby.

"Who invited you, anyway?" said Bubba.

"I invited myself, fat boy. Nobody steals my thunder."

"Thunder?" said Bubba. "It ain't raining, you moron."

"Excuse me," shouted Sunny, "but they are getting away. Why don't you guys debate meteorology later."

"He started it, Sunny!" countered Bubba.

" 'He started it, Sunny!' " Colby whined, miming Bubba.

Sunny arrived at the elevator. She pulled up on a red handle. The gate didn't move. "Help!"

Bubba and Colby joined her and the three of them pulled with all their might.

*** ***

Who are the mystery men that kidnapped Parker?

Where are they taking him? And why?

Will Sunny, Bubba, and Colby reach Parker in time?

Read BOOK TWO: HALLOWED BE THY NAME to find out.

 Click here to purchase BOOK TWO: HALLOWED BE THY NAME.

To learn more about this author and to read more of his work, please visit him online:

Ryan Schneider

Website/blog:

AuthorRyanSchneider.com

Twitter:

Twitter.com/RyanLSchneider

GoodReads:

GoodReads.com/AuthorRyanSchneider.com

Thank you for your interest in my book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

If you would like to have me autograph your eBook copy of A SHADOW PASSED OVER THE SON, please find me on Authorgraph.com. I would love to sign your eBook!

Finally, please take a moment to leave an honest review of A SHADOW PASSED OVER THE SON:

 http://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Passed-Over-Go-Kids-ebook

Thank you!!!
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.

As always, 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.

I'm pleased that you finally have had the opportunity to meet them.

