Cloud Club

The message--which was hatefully typed by Mr. Fox, carried by Dr. Silver down three flights of stairs, approved by Orchid as she scrambled to hide the top secret folder with the symbol of a key against the sun, carried by Dr. Silver down another two flights of stairs, sent down a clear plastic tube in a parachute, flown by a carrier pigeon one mile, dropped in a mail truck, and finally hand-delivered to Clay--was a simple two-word note: “Election day.” After all this time spreading his campaign slogan, “Clay is the way,” and parading through his supporters with feigned confidence, it was finally time. Clay crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it in the recycling. He did not need the reminder.

Then, after some nervous pacing, he plucked the note out of the bin, coldly ripped it into many small pieces, and watched the remnants float back into the bin. They looked like snow. What a treat!; it did not snow in Cloudhouse, a massive flying machine in the upper part of the Troposphere. Clay knew that there were three types of clouds responsible for producing most of the precipitation that fell to Earth: stratus, cumulus, and nimbus. He also knew that the nimbus type, the highest of these clouds, only could rise up to 5,500 meters. And Cloudhouse was positioned a lot higher than that.

    Clay looked in the mirror, straightening his suit and running a hand through his slicked back hair. I went too overboard on the gel, he thought to himself. They’ll know. They’ll suspect me. But there was nothing to be done. It was election day, and it was time for him to leave.

    He hopped into his Starunner, activated his oxygen tube, checked the various readings on his instruments, and adjusted the settings accordingly. It had taken him surprisingly little time to grasp the machinery; and it disturbed him. He had acclimated too quickly. If he didn’t watch himself, he would get accustomed to the ways of life of these people. That wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen.

Yet even Clay, with his resolution like steel, couldn't deny the awe of watching the roof of the dark observatory peel back and open itself up to the universe above. He clicked three buttons, yanked back a lever, and marveled at the unfolding of his mighty balloon. The basket groaned as the balloon rose, its ropes tugging its reluctant cargo towards the heavens. Up, up, up. He looked longingly at his plants as his machine took flight, waving goodbye to the withered ferns and shriveled flowers waiting to be replenished by cold moonlight. A spiral staircase lined the tower walls, ushering him away. He felt as if he was in a mighty volcano and as he exited the structure he could almost feel it burst. All anchors to Earth we’re gone. It was only him. Him and the balloon and nothing. Nothing; everything. 

And also Mr. Fox, his much abhorred opponent. There was always Mr. Fox. Clay could almost see him, sitting proudly at that oak desk of his that he so painfully hauled into his office by flying machine piece by piece. It made his office distinguishable; everyone else had opted for lightweight folding furniture. Mr. Fox always had been a sucker for tradition. 

In fact, at that very moment Mr. Fox was indeed perched at his desk like a prude little parrot, occasionally squawking into his walkie talkie about one thing or another. Stern, yet smug. On this particular day (and on all other days, though to a lesser degree) he believed himself to be terribly clever. In reality, Clay had been shortsighted and the anonymous source (who Mr. Fox would never know was Orchid all along) knowledgeable, leaving him to do very little work to set his plan in motion. Oblivious to this, he strode to a marble bust of himself, quietly murmuring, “you are a cunning one, Mr. Fox,” while flicking an invisible speck of dust off the bust’s shoulder. ”Today, you and I will rightfully claim our seat at the head of Cloud Club. And Clay will be exposed for his relations”--he tasted the word, feeling its suggestiveness--”with Dr. Silver. Clay will have the socks knocked right off of him.” And up here, the wind’s a quick thief.

The bust didn’t have anything to say in response to that.

A very desensitized Orchid meandered into the room casually asking, “ready for the election?”

Mr. Fox nodded sheepishly. “Of course.”

If Clay were there, he would have wanted to punch Mr. Fox. But Clay wasn’t there. He was still ascending in his Starunner, removing his oxygen tube so he could check his teeth in the rear-view mirror whilst glaring at the sticker reading, “objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

The normally bothersome declaration felt ominous that day, as Clay was not only looking in the rear-view mirror to check his smile (a difficult feat to accomplish when one is frowning at a safety label), but to check the Starunner’s proximity to the dock as he parked the vehicle. Through his mirror, he could see Cloudhouse, a looming, 5-story concrete mass hovering in a nest of fluffy white tendrils curled like dragon’s breath. The base itself was positioned on a sleek island of solid rock, sloping and slick near the edges. At first glance, the chunk of rock was teeming with life. At a second glance, the chunk of rock was still teeming with life. At perhaps the tenth glance or so it became apparent that all of the plants--from the sparse green moss to the lively green puffs of bush to the shy little trees--were fake.

And in the center of this quasi cult following was the main building. Brushstrokes of balconies, roof overhangs, wide windows, and chiseled pillars all came together to create a vibrant architectural masterpiece. As a whole, it looked like a whale spout of sea mist and bubbles shooting skyward (though in an infinity of sky in every direction, the term meant very little). The structure was painstakingly designed to curve every corner and round every straight wall, so why as he looked upon it did he feel so rigid?

Before he could so much as take a deep breath of air out of his oxygen tank, he was parked, stepping over the narrow gap between his ship and the wooden planks of the dock, and strutting along the sidewalk lined with plastic plants courteously bowed over the concrete. It was only at the door that he stopped and finally mustered the strength to take a raspy breath. 

Through the doors, into the lobby, down the hall. Since he was inside, he had disconnected his oxygen tube at this point. One breath.

Into the auditorium. Three breaths.

He made it.

Dr. Silver rushed towards him. “Clay! You’re on stage in…”--Dr. Silver paused to check his watch--“one minute. What happened?”

“I don’t like long waits.”

Dr. Silver shot him a knowing look. “Long waits. You mean like the amount of time I sat around here waiting for you?”

Clay smiled guiltily. “Yeah, just like that.”

Dr. Silver shrugged. “Apology accepted. You better beat Mr. Fox. Remember, he and I were engaged for two months before cutting it off, so...”

Clay winced. “No pressure.”

“None at all.” Dr. Silver smirked wickedly. “Thirty seconds left. I’ll leave you in peace. Good luck!--or, uh, break a leg.”

“Thanks,” Clay managed to choke out before striding on stage without hesitation. Immediately, the enormity of the crowd sent his legs quivering. He was unable to stop this, but luckily the speech booth blocked his lower body and kept the audience unsuspecting. In between the speaking booths of him and his opponent was the previous Cloud Club president, waving stupidly. He proceeded to give a speech that was well written enough that it seemed like it should have a point but upon further observation was completely void of value. The audience clapped politely, shifting in their seats in anticipation for what they were actually here for. “And without further ado...,” the previous president continued. The audience leaned forward as one, necks craned and ears tilted towards the stage. “Cloud Clubbers, I present to you the face of this mighty society for the next four years: Clay.”

Clay pasted a winning smile onto his face. The deafening applause rang in his ears like the chime of a hundred dainty bells. Clay had never heard a more delightful sound. 

But just then, Mr. Fox grabbed his microphone and screeched proudly, “I object.” Clay had never heard a more dissonant sound. 

The applause fizzled away more quickly than Clay deserved. In anger, he looked towards Mr. Fox for answers. Mr. Fox withdrew a remote from his pants pocket and clicked the projector on. The clip of Clay and Dr. Silver hooking up in Dr. Silver’s office began to play on the big screen behind Clay, Mr. Fox, and the previous president. 

Clay went pale, his smile now gone. His legs stopped quivering. He momentarily considered tackling Mr. Fox to the ground and snatching the remote away from him. He decided against it; he could not reverse the damage, only reframe it. Instead, Clay politely asked, “Mr. Fox, would you so kindly turn off that video? I think it’s time you and I have a chat, one-on-one.”

Mr. Fox, smirking like he’d won though the battle hadn’t started yet, let the clip play for a few seconds longer before finally turning it off.

“I’ll start,” Clay said decidedly. “Right now, I’m thinking about how foolish you were for showing this footage.”

Mr. Fox smiled lazily, but a hint of alarm sparked in his eyes. “Oh yeah, how’s that?”

“You’ve done more damage to yourself than me. There is no policy against sleeping with coworkers.” Clay did not specify that the policy had never been instilled because the founders were the spoiled children of wealthy lords, rebellious and eager to break the tradition of marrying only to further their wealth. “There is, however, a rule against hacking into the security database.”

“I’m sure our proud committee will understand the necessity of taking matters into one’s own hands when the situation calls for it.”  

Clay was also feeling terribly clever that day, though certainly more rightfully so than Mr. Fox. Clay was to make a gamble. A logic-backed one, but a gamble nonetheless--with a very high risk. “Perhaps. But I think we both know that you did a bit more snooping than was warranted.”

Clay turned his head to look directly at Mr. Fox, analyzing his every facial feature shift. Clay noted the subtle things: the way Mr. Fox’s face flushed, brow knitted, and eyes widened ever so slightly. Mr. Fox did not have anything to say to that. He was too busy thinking about how Clay could have possibly seen him flipping through the file of his ex fiance, Dr. Silver. 

Clay chose his next words expertly. He cited the Cloud Club motto, “secrets are for Earth dwellers.”

It was a crude saying and outdated to the point of total inaccuracy. It had been drafted at a time when the skyward shift was fresh and new. Back then, people wanted Cloud Club to be different. They wanted to be different within the walls of Cloudhouse. But then the inevitable happened: people grew restless with their new personas and simply transferred everything they hated from the ground to the air above it. 

However, the saying was at least well-established. And if Clay had to say one nice thing about Mr. Fox, it would be that he was good at manipulating human inertia and using it to his advantage. He was always delivering bold proclamations of Cloud Club’s restoration to the way it was in the good old days where real life was tinted rose. 

For that reason, Clay repeated the motto again, declaring, “secrets are for Earth dwellers!”

The crowd stirred, caught in the dreamy current of nostalgia. 

Mr. Fox badly wanted to dab his forehead with his handkerchief as Clay said, “I saw you, Mr. Fox. I saw you sitting at that desk of yours. Don’t lie to me.”

Mr. Fox shook his head childishly.

Clay continued, “I watched you while you were--”

At the same time, Mr. Fox confessed, “alright, I give up! I looked at a few documents,” while Clay finished, “flipping through the pages in a Manila folder with the logo of a key against the sun.”

The crowd buzzed. Some were angry and anxious, most exhilarated. But regardless of their various reactions, not a single audience member breathed as Orchid walked on stage and cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, there has been an error.”

Clay and Mr. Fox looked at her inquisitively.

“Both of you are disqualified.”

Shouts of confusion broke out in the audience. 

Orchid raised her hands as a signal for the crowd to quiet and they obeyed with great reluctance. “The two of you are wonderful speakers. And I respect that. I really do. But neither of you are skilled mathematicians.”

A pause--just enough time to breath but not for anyone to interrupt.

“Mr. Fox, your admission of guilt regarding Clay’s spontaneous--yet true--claim that you betrayed the trust of this society and viewed private information without permission may very well be all it takes to rule you guilty after a swift trial. Clay, you were precise, but not precise enough. Yes, there has been a security breach of both a few top-security classified documents in a Manila folder with the logo of a key against the sun and, allegedly, of digital information by Mr. Fox. However, the evidence has led us to believe the incidents are unrelated and that the crimes were committed by different people. Unfortunately for you, in Cloudhouse we are well-known for our meticulous security system. And that particular logo you are describing happens to have only rested under the eyes of its designer, the past two club presidents, and yours truly. Until, of course, it was stolen by an undercover agent sent by Cloud Club’s infamous rivals, the Earthworms. The only way you could possibly know what it looks like is if you were the one responsible for the thievery.”   

Clay and Mr. Fox both blinked. 

“And that, of course, leaves only one candidate for this year’s election:,” Orchid smugly transitioned. “Me.”