Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1

by Valerio Malvezzi

  The three policemen on the plane will turn to the Commissioner, speaking with their eyes.

  “The Vatican Gardens?” Cervetti will ask, “Distance of the van?”

  He must be damned good at maneuvering a van in traffic, remotely, driving a monolifter.

  “Gardens at three minutes, Commissioner. Van now at eight hundred meters, left side, at ten o’clock, two parallel roads.” His voice will sound professional, but with a slight crack.

  Or damned crazy.

  “Give me the station.”

  The Inspector next to the driver will touch the screen projected in the middle of the cockpit.

  “This is the operations center.” A woman’s voice.

  The right hand of the pilot in the green monolifter will move the lever quickly, while his left will firmly hold the driving control for quick overtaking.

  “Have you scanned the van? Tactical picture of the situation.”

  We can’t do it.

  The Commissioner will observe the city’s scrolling roofs, antennas, an unsightly mixture of ancient and modernity.

  “Satellite scanner detection indicates shoebox size object, electrical wires, electronics, and components. Sent image to forensics. A possible bomb. They’re doing image evaluations. Confirmed human absence at the controls. Moved remotely. It proceeds at high speed. It’s turned in your direction. Estimated arrival time eighty seconds.”

  A possible bomb.

  “Mobile two and three, stop the monolifter immediately!” the Commissioner will yell.

  On the screens, the dark helmet will immediately see the two aircrafts exit traffic to head in pursuit, and will accelerate to full speed.

  The voice will enter the cabin, clearly and loudly.

  “Commissioner, mobile two here, the target has spotted us!”

  “As always, our John thinks this is a democracy. He doesn’t remember that the professor was an army major in his day!” the brown-haired man will exclaim.

  “Hey, Rick, is that your little one? My, how he’s grown up!” Sue will be looking at the image projected to one side of his desk, a child in front of a large cake with a candle, held in the arms of a smiling brunette woman.

  The man will nod. “It’s his first birthday. Tonight, if the meeting doesn’t go too long, I’d like to take the 5:30 train. I promised Helen I’d be home by 7:00.”

  With the sound of a door opening, Bach’s music will invade the hallway, heavy steps on the wooden floor. The man dressed in sportswear will take his feet off his desk, while his two colleagues move through the door to let in a middle-aged, stocky man with a well-groomed beard.

  “Well, guys, what do we have for today?” the newcomer will ask.

  At that moment, the man with the light raincoat will be descending into one of the elevators of the silo near the building.

  “Nothing substantial, sir, a sluggish week,” the Chinese woman will reply on behalf of her two colleagues. “A few unknown authors have been opposed, none of them famous. Absolutely ordinary themes. Ah, yes, I have a novel that’s actually a little weird, about a failed assassination attempt on the Pope. Rick has an investigation into the linear correlation between an aging population and the average size of agricultural fields, and Susan has some musical material over there, mostly politically motivated songs in some Latin American countries, the usual things. Nothing about military or police action. Ah, and then there’s John’s report on a scientist’s medical essay... Where’s it from, John? China?”

  “Precisely. By the way, sir, if you could give me your attention, it seems a little unusual that the Chinese...,” the blond man with the wool sweater will continue, standing up.

  The middle-aged man will raise his arms. “I’ve already explained to you at least a couple of times, Mr. Whiley, that we don’t have time to waste here on crazy theories.”

  “He’s disconnected the safe driving, and he can turn in any direction now,” the voice will come through, a siren noise in the background. “He threw himself under, at level two!”

  The Commissioner will mentally calculate what to do. He will turn to see the white flying car at a distance of a hundred meters.

  The Commissioner will open the holographic projection, and by his side will appear the man sitting in the back seat of the flying car following them, the Pope, with a serene face.

  The target.

  “Prepare the armored support car, hook up the monolifter. Operations center, can you stop the van with a checkpoint? Mobile two, situation,” he will ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Central here. Negative. The van is heading at full speed in your direction now. Thirty seconds. Confirmed direction on column center.” The woman’s voice will increase in intensity.

  Column center. The Pope.

  “Mobile two here, the target is throwing himself down into traffic at level one!”

  There is no more time. There are no other solutions.

  “Armored support here, Commissioner. Monolifter hooked. View free for twenty seconds,” a new male voice will enter the cabin. The Inspector will turn, rasping, “Commissioner, Captain Hauser is calling us.”

  Twenty seconds. Later.

  “Armored support, open fire on the target.”

  The rotary barrel pulse machine gun will have a fire capacity of one thousand two hundred pulses per minute. The burst will be short, a few seconds. Commissioner Cervetti will turn to see the violent blaze, and already a column of smoke will rise in the sky of Rome more than half a kilometer away. The flying car group will flow into traffic, barely audible sirens in the distance.

  The Inspector will come and speak softly.

  “Commissioner, Captain Hauser on the line.”

  Cervetti will turn his head and look at his colleague, not speaking. Then he will look away, to check the holographic recording that will project the image of the van into the cabin.

  The stocky man will put his hands in his pocket.

  “In any case, the fact that you included for today’s meeting a research thesis on an obscure Chinese laboratory in the medical field was not particularly appreciated by our leaders onsite. I don’t think I have to explain to you, gentlemen.”

  The man will close a holographic sheet in the middle of the room with one hand.

  “... The funds associated with this study program are not infinite, and I have to report to our department head how we spend our taxpayers’ money. In any case, I would like to be informed, before certain—how shall I put it? —original initiatives. In any case, in this afternoon’s meeting, we’ll see all the material, and we hope some connection will come up. We haven’t had a decent line for weeks, and I’m tired of explaining that this section needs to continue to be funded for you to spend your time reading novels and listening to music. Everyone, be on time today, 3:00 p.m. in the meeting room. Sue, open up and see if you can give me a clear picture of the theories that were hypothesized before examining the details of your extroverted colleagues,” he will say, looking at the man in the sweater. “Ah, Rick, and I want that report on the supplies of radioactive material that I’ve been expecting for a week.”

  “Yes, sir. This afternoon I thought I’d bring them to the meeting,” the researcher will respond to the stocky man, who will turn on his heels, returning to his room. The door will close, and Bach will subside in the distance.

  “Well, he seems to be in a good mood today!” the sportsman will joke.

  “And stop it! But where’s Richard?” Sue will ask.

  “I was going to tell you guys. He called half an hour ago; he seems to have the flu.” The girl with raven hair will stand with her hands resting on the doorjamb. “I have her on protected line two.”

  “Pass it to me. I need to talk to him,” Rick will say. “Now.”

  The raven-haired girl will leave the room.

  The stocky man in the square near the metro board will put on his leather jacket, walking down the street.

  Driverless, the van will fly straight in t
he last known direction and then hit a large advertising sign on the top floor of a building in a huge blaze.

  “Captain Hauser, Commissioner?” the Inspector sitting in front will ask politely.

  Cervetti, without answering, will look at the holographic projection of the Pope, smiling next to him, transmitted by the white, armored, and soundproofed flying car.

  He didn’t notice anything.

  In the holographic projection next to him, the Commissioner will observe the recording of what happened moments earlier, the green monolifter surrounded by dozens of high-potential projectiles, a cloud of fragments and organic material exploding like a bucket of paint in the cabin. A red cloud covering the glass.

  Holy Christ!

  After a few seconds, the holographic image will appear in the center of the room, showing a man about forty years old, obese, reclining on a sofa, his long wavy black hair pulled back, his short beard disheveled.

  “Hey, guys, how’s it going? No meeting for me today, I’m afraid,” a nasal voice will say.

  “Wow, Richard, what a beautiful sensual voice you have,” Sue will joke.

  “Do you think so? Ricky, I read your author’s essay on the linear correlation between agricultural fields and the aging population. You know, it could be interesting sociologically. Today, maybe I’ll just connect to the meeting. By the way, John, did you find me that old book in the library? You know, for my sociological survey of population migration. It’s not on the web; it’s a very old text.” The big researcher will seem to want to look for a more comfortable position on the pillows, which evidently fail to contain his overly abundant size.

  “And in my opinion, John,” the overweight researcher will continue, “there may be a connection with that strange report of yours from the medical laboratory in China.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I don’t know, it’s just an idea. But I need the book, do you have it?”

  The blond man dressed in athletic clothing will slap himself on the forehead.

  “Damn, I forgot!” He will look at the clock. “Well, if I pop into the library in half an hour, I can come back, and we’ll talk about it before today’s meeting.”

  “Come on, John, there’s no point. Let’s do it next week,” his colleague will respond, moving his fat hands, which in the holographic image will seem to bump into a flower pot placed on a small table in the room.

  “No problem, I’ll drop by.” The man in the sweater will grab a heavy jacket and bend down to give the little Chinese woman an affectionate kiss on the cheek, whispering, “Come with me, beauty?”

  The woman will look out the window. It will begin drizzling.

  239 days earlier

  That April day will show clear skies above the island of Santorini. The blue of the sky will merge with the blue of the sea, unusually calm, the first beautiful afternoon of a warm spring. The latest generation hydrofoil will approach the port, moved by the six hydrogen turbines, at cruising speeds of almost ninety kilometers per hour, jetting past a white three-level yacht moored at the dock. Standing apart from the tourists, sheltered in the special view rooms on the deck, the thin, elegantly dressed young man, will watch with a half- smile as the sun sparkles on the waves crashing against the raised bow.

  He will stand with his hands in his pockets, as if to hold the jacket flapping in the wind, the silk handkerchief around his neck giving him an old-fashioned, almost aristocratic appearance. The dark blond hair, usually combed with the part on one side, will whip across his face, assaulted by the wind. A pair of dark mirrored sunglasses will be resting on a slightly aquiline nose, under which a well-kept blond mustache will continuously plunge into the glass of light beer that he will sip while gazing at the sea. Soon the buildings will appear on the pier, low houses with square and round shapes, almost timeless, with the prevailing colors of white and yellow visibly blending into the landscape, in that season of already intense greenery. The man will observe the steep cliffs, the sparse clouds in the sky, the buildings with blue roofs, white facades, wide portals, and arches, and the parapets of the houses facing the sea.

  In the prestigious hotel on the bay, the beach next to the pool will still be almost empty in that season, but two men and a woman in sportswear will sit arguing animatedly under large, thatched umbrellas, anchored by white poles. A large wooden walkway will lead to the beach, on which a few couples will stroll in shorts and T-shirts. The wind will occasionally lift some grains of the beach’s artificial white sand. A dog will run on the shoreline barking at the small waves.

  “With this weather?” the Chinese woman will observe. “No thanks, I’ll resist your charms, for today.”

  The man in the sweater will shrug his shoulders, smiling, reaching the exit.

  “John, you forgot your personal display!” Ricky will yell behind him. But the front door will have already slammed.

  “Believe me, Dr. Porter, I don’t know how to thank you,” the Vietnamese woman will say with a smile, touching the black man’s hand on the café table. “I’m sorry to give you all this trouble.”

  “No hassle,” the man will respond, paying the bill. “Come see me for five minutes. I’ll give you the holographic copy of the program and then send the material by mail.”

  The perfectly lined red lips will widen in yet another smile.

  The blond man with the light raincoat will have reached the man with the leather jacket near a kiosk in the street outside the sandstone building, sheltering himself from the rain under the balcony of the old house.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Nielson,” the man in the sweater will say cheerfully, descending the steps two by two, jumping onto the landing. “It’s a great day today. I’m going out the back.”

  The concierge will look at him without smiling. The man will reach the courtyard door, raise his jacket lapels, and run into the rain. He will open a back door and slip into a shortcut, entering an alley.

  “I wouldn’t call it a textbook operation.” The chubby woman with dyed red hair, sitting on the blue deckchair, won’t hide her accusing tone. “I didn’t know what to say to the manager. I had to come up with a lot of bullshit.”

  “That’s your specialty. So, don’t boast about your merits,” the man with the old-fashioned tie, blond mustache, and determined manner will snap.

  “In any case,” the white-haired third man will intervene, rising from his seat and pulling up his pants, which will not be able to retain his protruding belly. “In any case, it was our best option. A fixed explosive was out of the question.”

  The woman will raise her arms. “Oh, and would you be so courteous as to explain the reason to me?”

  “Predictable, evadable, eliminable,” the man with the tie will say. “Place the explosive on the track. Obviously, the route is patrolled before the column crosses it, but let’s also take the case ...”

  The man will draw with a stick in the sand between his feet.

  “... Let us also take the case that the Vatican Gendarmerie, the police or the services, in short, no one finds out. Absurd, I say.”

  The other two will follow the stick making a curved trajectory in the sand between the deck chairs.

  “It cannot fail to be seen by the scanners in a surveillance station, which will certainly send an armored bomb squad to investigate with detectors, and that’s the end of the game,” the overweight man will say, “not to mention, my beauty, another fundamental fact.”

  He will run his hands over his receding hairline, holding his thin, breeze-swept hair.

  “What would that be?” the redhead will ask.

  “A fixed device is not only easier to track with satellites and path scanners, but also, of course, is not moveable. A mobile explosive, which can be directed remotely, can also change course,” the man with the tie will resume, drawing another line in the sand.

  Two young people will embrace in the distance, and the man will kiss the woman, who will lift a leg, laughing.

  The laugh w
ill be carried off by the wind.

  Wednesday, 9:02 a.m.

  It will be a day of leaden sky. That year in Chicago, autumn will already be giving way to windy days, a cold and sharp wind, alternating with wet and rainy days. The black man will ring the bell on the second floor of the old sandstone building and open the door, greeting the girl with raven hair, who will have left the living room with its crackling fireplace to see who entered.

  “Hi, the lady is with me. Come, miss,” he will say, making his way and gesturing the Vietnamese woman into the first door to the left. He will then close the door, before meeting the amused gaze of the raven-haired girl.

  I’d really like her to come, this one.

  “So, miss, just make yourself comfortable for a moment while I’m looking for a copy of the program. We haven’t published it yet, you know; these programs are constantly changing.”

  He will open several sheets in holographic space in front of his desk, turning his back on the Vietnamese woman and speaking a bit too fluently.

  “Then, you know, many outside students like you often ask for changes to the program, but I think it’s right to differentiate the teaching material between the students attending the interactive holographic lessons and those who, like you, unfortunately do not have time to actively participate.”

  He will move his hands in midair, moving folders and opening videos, gesticulating and speaking quickly.

  But most of all, I’d like to come with this one.

  “In any case, the important thing for your essay is that interactive films are considered only a starting point for the intervention. You know, many students don’t understand that these are only support materials for the intervention, and not the intervention itself. Ah, get comfortable, it’s going to take a second.”